SCENE I--_A Chamber_ in Lady Allworth's _House_.

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THE MIRROR OF TASTE,

AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

Vol. I APRIL 1810. No. 4.

HISTORY OF THE STAGE.

CHAPTER IV.

ORIGIN OF COMEDY--ARISTOPHANES--DEATH OF SOCRATES.

Though the term "tragedy" has from the first productions of AEschylus to

the present time, been exclusively appropriated to actions of a serious

nature and melancholy catastrophe, there is reason to believe that it

originally included also exhibitions of a pleasant, or comic kind. The

rude satires, and gross mummery which occupied the stage, or rather the

cart, of Thespis, were certainly calculated to provoke mirth in the

multitude. By what has already been shown, the reader is apprised that

the word, in its original sense, bore no relation whatever to those

passions and subjects, to the representations of which it is now

applied; but meant simply a dramatic action performed at the feast of

the goat, in honour of Bacchus. Thus the different provinces of the

drama then undistinguished, were confounded under one term, and

constituted the prime trunk from which sprung forth the two branches of

tragedy and comedy separately--the first in point of time usurping the

original title of the parent stock, and retaining it ever after.

Why human creatures should take delight in witnessing fictitious

representations of the anguish and misfortunes of their fellow-beings,

in tragedy, and, in comedy of those follies, foibles and imperfections

which degrade their nature, is a question which many have asked, but few

have been able to answer. The facts are admitted. Towards a solution of

their causes, let us consider what is said on the subject of tragedy in

that invaluable work "A philosophical inquiry into the origin of our

ideas of the SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL."

"It is a common observation," says the author, in the chapter on

sympathy and its effects, "that objects which in the reality would

shock, are, in tragical and such like representations, the source of a

very high species of pleasure. This taken as a fact, has been the cause

of much reasoning. The satisfaction has been commonly attributed, first

to the comfort we receive in considering that so melancholy a story is

no more than a fiction; and next to the contemplation of our own freedom

from the evils which we see represented. I am afraid it is a practice

much too common in inquiries of this nature, to attribute the cause of

feelings, which merely arise from the mechanical structure of our

bodies, or from the natural frame and construction of our minds, to

certain conclusions of the reasoning faculty on the objects presented to

us: for I should imagine that the influence of reason, in producing our

passions, is nothing near so extensive as is commonly believed.

"To examine this point, concerning the effect of tragedy in a proper

manner, we must previously consider how we are affected by the feelings

of our fellow-creatures, in circumstances of _real_ distress. I am

convinced we have a degree of delight, and that no small one, in the

_real_ misfortunes and pains of others; for let the affection be what it

will in appearance, if it does not make us shun such objects, if, on the

contrary, it induces us to approach them, if it makes us dwell upon

them, in this case we must have a delight or pleasure of some species

or other in contemplating objects of this kind.

"Do we not read the authentic histories of scenes of this nature with as

much pleasure as romances or poems, where the incidents are fictitious?

The prosperity of no empire, nor the grandeur of no king, can so

agreeably affect in the reading, as the ruin of the state of Macedon and

the distress of its unhappy prince. Such a catastrophe touches us in

history, as much as the destruction of Troy does in fable. Our delight

in cases of this kind is very greatly heightened if the sufferer be some

excellent person who sinks under an unworthy fortune. Scipio and Cato

are both virtuous characters, but we are more deeply affected by the

violent death of the one, and the ruin of the great cause he adhered to,

than with the deserved triumphs and uninterrupted prosperity of the

other; for terror is a passion which always produces delight when it

does not press too close; and pity is a passion accompanied with

pleasure, because it arises from love and social affection. Whenever we

are formed by nature to any active purpose, the passion which animates

us to it is attended with delight; and as our creator has designed we

should be united by the bond of SYMPATHY, he has strengthened that bond

by a proportionable delight; and there most, where our sympathy is most

wanted, in the distresses of others. If this passion was simply painful

we should shun with the greatest care all persons and places that could

excite such a passion; as some, who are so far gone in indolence as not

to endure any strong impression, actually do. But the case is widely

different with the greater part of mankind; there is no spectacle we so

eagerly pursue as that of some uncommon and grievous calamity; so that

whether the misfortune is before our eyes, or whether they are turned

back to it in history, it always touches with delight. This is not an

unmixed delight, but blended with no small uneasiness. _The delight we

have in such things, hinders us from shunning scenes of misery_; and the

pain we feel _prompts us to relieve ourselves in relieving those who

suffer_; and all this antecedent to any reasoning by an instinct that

works us to its own purposes without our concurrence."

The great author then proceeds to illustrate this position further, and

after some observations says:

"The nearer tragedy approaches the reality, and the further it removes

us from all ideas of fiction, the more perfect is its power. But be its

power what it will, it never approaches to what it represents. Choose a

day to represent the most sublime and affecting tragedy we have; appoint

the most favourite actors; spare no cost upon the scenes and

decorations; unite the greatest efforts of poetry, painting and music;

and when you have collected your audience, just when their minds are

erect with expectation, let it be reported that a state criminal of high

rank is on the point of being executed in the adjoining square; in a

moment the emptiness of the theatre would demonstrate the comparative

weakness of the imitative arts, and proclaim the triumph of the _real_

sympathy. This notion of our having a simple pain in the reality, yet a

delight in the representation, arises hence, that we do not sufficiently

distinguish what we would by no means choose to do, from what we should

be eager enough to see, if it was once done. We delight in seeing things

which so far from doing, our heartiest wishes would be, to see

redressed. This noble capital, the pride of England and of Europe, I

believe no man is so strangely wicked as to desire to see destroyed by a

conflagration or an earthquake, though he should be removed himself to

the greatest distance from the danger. But suppose such a fatal accident

to have happened, what numbers from all parts would crowd to behold the

ruins, and among them many who would have been content never to have

seen London in its glory."

So much for the causes of the pleasure experienced from tragedy. But how

are we to account for the delight received from comedy? Some have

imagined it to arise from a bad pride which men feel at seeing their

fellow-creatures humiliated, and the frailties and follies of their

neighbours exposed. The fact is indubitable, be the cause what it may.

The great moral philosopher quoted above, in another part of his works,

shrewdly observes, "In the disasters of their friends, people are seldom

wanting in a laudable patience. When they are such as do not threaten to

end fatally, they become even matter of pleasantry." The falling of a

person in the street, or his plunging into the gutter, excites the

laughter of those who witness the accident: but let the fall be

dangerous, or let a bone be broke, and then comic feelings give way to

the sympathetic emotions which belong to tragedy. On a superficial

consideration, the delight we feel in tragedy bears the aspect of a

cruel tendency in our hearts, yet it is implanted in us for the purposes

of mutual beneficence. The pleasure we feel in comedy, too, looks like a

malignity in our nature; but why may not it, like the other, be resolved

into an instinct working us to some useful purpose without our

concurrence?

The end of comedy, like that of satire, is to correct the disorders of

mankind by exhibiting their faults and follies in ridiculous and

contemptible attitudes. The tendency we feel to laugh at each other's

foibles, or at those misadventures which denote weakness in us, being

implanted by the hands of Providence, was no doubt given to us for

special purposes of good, and in all probability to make men without the

least intervention of will or reason, moral guides and instructers to

each other. It is allowed by the soundest philosophers that ridicule has

a much better effect in curing the vices and imperfections of men, than

the most illustrious examples of rigid virtue, whose duties are so

sublimed that they rather intimidate the greater part of mankind from

the trial, than allure them to walk in their steps. The following

definition of comedy given by Aristotle and adopted by Horace,

Quintilian, and Boileau, corresponds with these observations: "Comedy,"

says the Stagyrite, "is an imitation of the worst of men; when I say

worst, I don't mean in all sorts of vices, but only in the ridiculous,

which are properly deformities without pain, and which never contribute

to the destruction of the subject in which they exist."

It has been remarked that the most severe satirists have been men of

exemplary goodness of heart. The giant satirist Juvenal, was a

conspicuous illustration of this truth. While his superior intelligence

and sagacity unfolded to him in their full size the vices and follies of

his fellow-creatures, his superior philanthropy heightened his

indignation at them. The same may perhaps be said of the dramatic

satirists, or writers of comedy in general. We could adduce many

instances to corroborate this assertion. That very man who stands

unrivalled at the head of comic poetry, stands not less high in the

estimation of all who know him, for generosity and benevolence. If those

who have traversed the life of the author of the School for Scandal with

the greatest ill will to the man, were put to the question which they

thought, his good-nature or his wit were the greater, they would

probably decide in favour of the former.

The most unamiable form in which comedy has ever appeared, was that it

assumed at its first rise in Greece. The character of the Athenians was

peculiarly favourable to it. The abbe Brumoy who has discussed the

subject with vast labour and talent says, "generally speaking, the

Athenians were vain, hypocritical, captious, interested, slanderous, and

great lovers of novelty." A French author of considerable note, making

use of that people as an object of comparison, says, "_Un peuple aussi

malin et aussi railleur que celui d'Athenes._" They were fond of liberty

to distraction, idolaters of their country, selfish, and vain, and to an

absurd excess scornful of every thing that was not their own. Their

tragic poets laid the unction of flattery in unsparing measure upon this

foible of theirs, representing kings abased as a contrast to their

republican dignity; and with all their greatness, it is easy to detect

through their writings, a lamentable propensity in their muse to play

the parasite with the people. To their gratification of the public

foible, the tragic poets no doubt owed some small part of that idolatry

in which they were held by the Athenian multitude. Yet no sooner did

the comic writers appear, ridiculing those very tragic poets, than they

became still greater favourites with the people. Horace has transmitted

to us the names of three of these comic poets, cotemporaries--Cratinus,

Eupolis and Aristophanes. If there were any before them, their names are

buried in oblivion. Taking the structure of the tragedies of AEschylus

for their model, these commenced the first great era of improvement in

the comic drama. Of the comedies of Cratinus, Quintilian speaks in great

commendation; the little of his poetry, however, that remained is not

thought to justify that praise. Eupolis is related to have composed

seventeen plays at the age of seventeen years. He was put to death by

Alcibiades for defamation, and died unlamented except by a dog, which

was so faithfully attached to him that he refused to take food and

starved to death upon his master's tomb. So that of the three,

Aristophanes alone lays claim here to particular commemoration.

Perhaps there is not one character of antiquity upon which the opinions

of mankind are divided, and so opposite to each other as that of

Aristophanes. St. Chrysostom admired him so much that he always laid his

works under his pillow when he went to bed. Scaliger maintained that no

one could form a just judgment of the true Attic dialect who had not

Aristophanes by heart. Of Madame Dacier's idolatry he seems to be the

god: while the venerable Plutarch objects to him that he carried all his

thoughts beyond nature; that he wrote not to men of character but to the

mob; that his style is at once obscure, licentious, tragical, pompous

and mean--sometimes inflated and serious to bombast--sometimes

ludicrous, even to puerility; that he makes none of his personages speak

in any distinct character, so that in his scenes the son cannot be known

from the father--the citizen from the boor--the hero from the

shopkeeper, or the divine from the servant.

Whatever doubts may exist as to his talents there can be none respecting

his morals. To admit all that his panegyrists have said of his genius is

but to augment his depravity, since by the most wicked and wanton

perversion of that genius, he made it the successful instrument of the

most base and barbarous purposes. Against all that was great and wise

and virtuous he with the most malevolent industry turned the shafts of

his poignant wit, his brilliant imagination, and his solid knowledge.

Corrupting the comic muse from her legitimate duty he seduced her from

the pursuit of her fair game, vice and folly, and made her fasten like a

bloodhound upon those who were most eminent for moral and intellectual

excellence. His caricaturing of Sophocles and Euripides, and turning

their valuable writings into ridicule for the amusement of the mob, may

be forgiven--but the death of Socrates will never cease to draw upon

Aristophanes the execration of every man who has the slightest

pretensions to virtue or honesty.

It is here to be observed that the comedy of Greece is to be ranked

under three distinct heads. The plays composed of ribaldry, defamatory

licentiousness, indecency and loose jokes, which prevailed on the stage

while the supreme power remained in the hands of the multitude,

constitute the first of these; and it goes by the name of the old

comedy. In those pieces no person whatever was spared. Though they were

so modelled and represented as to deserve the name of regular comedy

they were obscene, scurrilous, and defamatory. In them the most

abominable falsehoods were fearlessly charged upon men and women of all

conditions and characters; not under fictitious names, nor by innuendo,

but directly and with the real name of the party, while the execrable

calumniator, protected by the licentious multitude, boldly defied both

the power of the law and the avenging arm of the abused individual.

Among that licentious people, nobody, not even the chief magistrate nor

the very judges themselves, by whose permission the comedians were

permitted to play, received any quarter, but were exposed to public

scorn by any merciless wretch of a libeller who chose to sacrifice them.

Nor were the bad effects of these calumnies confined to public

scorn--they often went to the pecuniary ruin of families; sometimes, as

in the case of Socrates, afterwards to the death of their object. At

length the miscreants proceeded to open impiety, and held up the gods,

no less than men to derision.

These abuses continued to contaminate the people and disgrace the

country with daily augmented profligacy till a change took place in the

government, which took the administration from the multitude and vested

it in a few chosen men. The corruptions of the stage were then attended

to, and the poets were restrained by law from mentioning any man's name

on the stage. With this law terminated that which is called THE OLD

COMEDY.

So far was this law from producing the salutary effect expected from it,

that it rendered the poison more mischievous by depriving it of the

grossness which in some degree operated as an antidote to its baleful

effects. The poets finding that certain limits were prescribed to them,

had recourse to greater ingenuity, and by cunning transgressed the

spirit while they obeyed the letter of the law. They fell to work upon

well known real characters, concealed under fictitious names; thereby

not only exciting in the multitude a keener relish for their slanders,

but giving a more wide and extensive scope to the operation of their

malice. When the name of the object was openly told, the calumny rested

upon him alone--but when a fictitious name was held up, however well

known the real object might be, the slander was applied to many, and

each spectator fixed it upon that particular person whom stupidity,

malice, or personal hatred first suggested to him. Thus the hearts of

the people were more corrupted by the more refined malice of guessing

the persons intended.

This is what has been denominated the MIDDLE COMEDY. In this particular

era it was that Aristophanes flourished, doing more mischief by his

labours than all the wit which was lavished upon the Grecian multitude

in ages could counterbalance. The virulence of the canker, however, at

last enforced the necessity of a resolute cure. The magistrates

interdicted the poets and players not only from using real names but

from representing real subjects. This admirable refinement produced

correspondent effects: comedy assumed a new character, and acquired a

new name. The poets being obliged to bring imaginary subjects and

fictitious names upon the stage, the safety of individuals from those

butcher slanderers was secured, and that safety begat tranquillity--thus

the theatre was gradually purified and enriched; and shortly after

Menander arose to dignify comedy and rescue the drama, and the public

taste of Greece from barbarism. This is the third division alluded to,

and is called the NEW COMEDY. A sad proof of the danger to a nation of

allowing a false or corrupt practice to prevail for any time, arises

from the sequel. The Athenians were so vitiated by the OLD and MIDDLE

comedy that the NEW was disagreeable to them, so that it rose to no

estimation in the world till it was transferred to Rome.

To his poignant wit, and poisonous malignity, Aristophanes joined great

intrepidity of spirit. By the indefatigable exercise of his talents he

proceeded, unrestrained by fear, unchecked by conscience, inaccessible

to shame or pity, and alike regardless of the anger of foes and the

feelings of friends, giving to the middle comedy still more force and

acumen than ever belonged to the old. He cajoled the multitude by a

plausible affectation of a violent love for Athens, and an inveterate

hatred to all on whom he chose to fix the odium of wishing to enslave

her. Though he was a Rhodian by birth, he had the address to persuade

the Athenian multitude that he was a native of Athens. Wit of a much

more obtuse quality than his could not fail of winning the hearts of

such a people, if it were employed as his was in calumniating men of

wisdom, virtue and dignity.

An instance of his intrepidity is worth relating. The very first man he

attacked was a man of vast power in Athens, named CLEO: for the purpose

of exposing this man he wrote his comedy of the EQUITES. He could not,

however prevail upon any of the actors to incur the danger of

personating Cleo, so much were they intimidated by the man's power,

wealth and influence. He therefore resolutely determined to play the

character himself; which he did with such diabolical ability that the

Athenian multitude compelled the object of his defamation to reward him

with no less a sum than five talents; cast flowers upon his head;

carried him through the streets, shouting applause, and made a decree

that he should be honoured with a crown of the sacred olive in the

citadel, as a distinction of the highest kind that could be shown to a

citizen.

The greatest admirer of this mischievous man was Madame Dacier, who

translated from the Greek, and read over no less than two hundred times

his comedy of _The Clouds_. A partiality which no doubt will be allowed

to reflect much credit on that lady's taste, moral as well as critical,

especially when it is considered that it was by that comedy the death of

Socrates was accomplished. Socrates had expressed his disapprobation of

the licentiousness of the comic poets, in their conduct as well as

writings. This exasperated Aristophanes, who, to accomplish his revenge,

conspired with three profligates named Melitus, Lycon, and Anytus,

orators and rhetoricians, to destroy that godlike being. Defended by the

reverence in which the people held him, Socrates was perpetually secured

from the feeble villany of these three associates, till Aristophanes

joining them, broke down by wit the barrier that protected him. In the

comedy of the Clouds he threw the venerable old man into such forcible

ridicule as overset all the respect of the mob for his character, and

all their gratitude for his services, and they no longer paid the least

reverence to the philosopher whom for fifty years Athens had regarded as

a being of a superior order. This accomplished, the conspirators stood

forth to criminate him; and the philosopher was summoned before the

tribunal of five hundred, where he was accused--first, of corrupting the

Athenian youth--secondly, of making innovations in religion--and

thirdly, of ridiculing the gods which the Athenians worshipped. To prove

these evident falsehoods, false witnesses were suborned, upon whose

perjuries and the envy and malice of the judges, the accusers wholly

relied. They were not disappointed. The judges expected from Socrates

that abject submission, that meanness of behaviour, and that servility

of defence which they were accustomed to receive from ordinary

criminals. In this they were deceived; and his firmness and uncomplying

integrity is supposed to have accelerated his fall.

The death of Socrates has always been considered one of the most

interesting and afflicting events in history--interesting as it exhibits

in that illustrious philosopher the highest dignity to which mere human

nature has ever attained, and afflicting as it displays in the Athenians

the lowest depth of baseness to which nations may sink. In the history

of the Grecian drama it is necessarily introduced, as it serves to throw

a light upon the effects produced by the dramatic poetry upon that

people, and because a consideration of the manner of that philosopher's

death is inseparably connected with the character of the first of their

comic poets, Aristophanes: this chapter therefore will conclude with a

circumstantial relation of that event, taken from a celebrated

historian:

"Lysias, one of the most celebrated orators of the age, composed an

oration in the most splendid and pathetic terms, and offered it to

Socrates to be delivered as his defence before the judges. Socrates read

it; but after having praised the eloquence and animation of the whole,

rejected it, as neither manly nor expressive of fortitude; and comparing

it to Sicyonian shoes, which though fitting, were proofs of effeminacy,

he observed that a philosopher ought to be conspicuous for magnanimity,

and for firmness of soul. In his defence he spoke with great animation,

and confessed that while others boasted they knew every thing, he

himself knew nothing. The whole discourse was full of simplicity and

grandeur--the energetic language of offended innocence. He modestly

said, that what he possessed was applied for the service of the

Athenians. It was his wish to make his fellow-citizens happy, and it was

a duty he performed by the special command of the gods, "WHOSE

AUTHORITY," said he emphatically to his judges, "I REGARD MORE THAN

YOURS." This language astonished and irritated the judges, and Socrates

was condemned by a majority of only three votes. When, according to the

spirit of the Athenian laws, he was called upon to pass sentence on

himself, and to choose the mode of his death, he said, "For my attempts

to teach the Athenian youth justice and moderation, and to make the rest

of my countrymen more happy, let me be maintained at the public expense

the remaining years of my life in the Pyrtaneum, an honour, O Athenians

which I deserve more than the victors of the Olympic games: they make

their countrymen more happy in appearance, but I have made you so in

reality." This exasperated the judges still more, and they condemned him

to drink hemlock. Upon this he addressed the court and more particularly

the judges who had decided in his favour, in a pathetic speech. He told

them that to die was a pleasure, since he was going to hold converse

with the greatest heroes of antiquity: he recommended to their paternal

care his defenceless children, and as he returned to the prison, he

exclaimed, "I go to die, you to live; but which is the best the divinity

alone can know.""

The celebration of the Delian festivals suspended his execution for

thirty days, during which he was loaded with irons; his friends,

particularly his disciples, were his constant attendants, he discoursed

with them with his wonted cheerfulness and serenity--one of them

expressing his grief that he should suffer, though innocent, Socrates

replied, "would you then have me die guilty?"--with this composure he

spent his last days, instructing his pupils, and telling them his

opinions in support of the immortality of the soul. And, oh what a

majestic spectacle! disregarded the entreaties of his friends, and when

it was in his power to make his escape from prison refused it. Crito

having bribed the jailor and made his escape certain, urged Socrates to

fly; "where shall I fly," he replied, "to avoid the irrevocable doom

passed on all mankind?" Christians! wonder at this heathen, and profit

by his example! in his last days he enlarged upon the wicked crime of

suicide, which he reprobated with an acrimony not usual with him,

declaring it to be an inexpiable offence to the gods, and degrading to

man because the basest cowardice.

When the hour to drink the poison came, the executioner presented him

the cup, with tears in his eyes. Socrates received it with composure,

and after he had made a libation to the gods, drank it with an unaltered

countenance, and a few moments after expired. Thus did the villanous

libeller Aristophanes occasion the death of a man whom all succeeding

generations have concurred in pronouncing the wisest and best of

mankind, in the seventieth year of his age.

Let justice record the sequel! Socrates was no sooner buried, than the

Athenians repented of their cruelty. His accusers were despised and

shunned; one was put to death; some were banished, and others with their

own hands put an end to a life which their cruelty to the first of

Athenians had rendered insupportable.

BIOGRAPHY--FOR THE MIRROR.

SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE MR. HODGKINSON.

(_Continued from page 212._)

It has been found impossible to ascertain, with any degree of precision,

the year of Mr. Hodgkinson's birth. At the time of his death, which

happened in 1805, he was stated to be thirty-six years of age; but there

are many reasons for believing that he was older. There are few ways in

which human folly and vanity so often display themselves, as in the

concealment of age. The celebrated Charles Macklin clipped from his term

of existence not less than ten years, the obscurity of his early life

inducing him to fancy he could make his age whatever he pleased without

detection. Extremely attached to the sex, he wished to appear youthful

in their eyes as long as possible, and fixed his birth at the year 1700;

but it has, since his death, been ascertained, upon authority which

cannot be controverted, that he was, for safety, carried away from the

field, on the day of the battle of the Boyne, in 1690. Indeed there

exist letters of his to his daughter, dated so far back as 1750, stating

his incapacity to chew solid food, and deploring the necessity of living

upon spoon-meat, on account of the loss of his teeth. From circumstances

which the writer of this remembers to have heard from Mr. Hodgkinson, he

suspected that the age of that gentleman was underrated; and therefore

took some pains to collect the best information respecting it. The

result of his inquiry has justified his suspicion. There are in America

several persons who remember Hodgkinson at different periods of his

theatrical life, from whose united opinions it appears most likely that

he was born in 1765. If this estimate be correct (it cannot be far from

it) it must have been early in the year 1781 when he took his flight

from Manchester, and reached the city of Bristol.

He stopped at a wagon-house in Broad-mead, and was, by the wagoner,

introduced to the landlord, who soon showed, by the conduct of himself

and his family, that he was taught to consider our hero as a curiosity.

They treated him with exemplary kindness, however. The landlord, though

a rough homespun man, bred up in low life, manifested, not only

tenderness and humanity, but a degree of delicacy that could not have

been expected. A grown up young man, a son of his, the very evening he

arrived, took the liberty, upon the wagoner's report, of asking our

adventurer to sing him a song, for which the father reprimanded him, and

turning to John, said "Doant thee, doant thee sing for noabody, unless

thee likest it. If dost, thee'll have enow to do, I can tell thee." This

was one of the little incidents of his life upon which he was accustomed

to advert with pleasure; and often has he, with much good humour,

contrasted it with the rude and indelicate conduct of persons of great

pride and importance. No man that ever lived required less entreaty to

oblige his convivial friends with his charming singing. Of the families

where he was treated with friendship and free hospitality he delighted

to promote the happiness, and to them his song flowed cheerfully: but he

clearly distinguished from those, and has more than once, in the

confidence of friendship, spoken with feeling and considerable asperity,

of the indelicate conduct of some who, aspiring higher, ought to have

known better. "It is indeed," said he to the writer of this, "a trial

which few tempers could stand, but which I have often been obliged to

undergo. A person whom I have met, perhaps at the table of a real

friend, asks me to dine with him: I find a large company assembled upon

the occasion, and hardly is the cloth taken away, when mine host, with

all the freedom of an established acquaintance, without the least

delicacy, or even common feeling, often without the softening

circumstance of asking some other person to begin, or even of beginning

himself, calls upon Mr. Hodgkinson for a song."--"Then why do you

comply? why dont you refuse the invitation? or, if you cannot, why dont

you pretend to be hoarse?" "I will tell you why: because, in a place of

such limited population as this, the hostility of a few would spread

through the whole; and not only mine host, but all those whom he had

invited to Hodgkinson's SONG, would fret at their disappointment, and

their fret would turn to an enmity which I should feel severely in empty

benches at my benefit." "It is not that, Hodge," said this writer; "but,

as Yorick said to corporal Trim, because thou art the very best natured

fellow in the world." It was upon an occasion of this kind Hodgkinson

related to the writer the incident with his Bristol landlord, observing

upon it, that there were many who washed down turtle dinners with

champaigne and burgundy that might derive profit and honour from

imitating the natural politeness and delicacy of that man whom, if they

had seen, they would have called a low fellow or a boor.

To please the honest wagoner, and one or two fellow-travellers, however,

H. did sing several songs in the evening, and as at that time he had not

learned to drink, they thought themselves the more indebted to him, and

the landlord and his wife put him to sleep with their son, who kept him

awake the greater part of the night, asking him the most ridiculous

questions respecting his parentage, where he came from, whither he was

going, &c. and concluded with expressing his firm belief, because Sally,

the housemaid, had told him so, that he, Hodgkinson, was some great

man's son, who had run away from school, for fear of a flogging: "for

you know," said he, "that none but the great volks can afford to be

great singers and musicianers."

Resolved to take leave of his kind friend the wagoner, who was to set

off on his return early in the morning, our young adventurer was up

betimes, and went to the stable to look for him. As he stood at the

door, a tall young stripling, dressed in what they call a smock frock,

with a pitchfork in his hand, came up and, taking his station a little

on one side, began to view him from head to foot, scratching his head

and grinning. Our youth was startled and blushed, but said nothing, and

affected firmness; yet he imagined he had seen the man's face before.

The arrival of the wagoner afforded him a seasonable relief, and he

returned with him into the inn kitchen, where breakfast was got ready

and John was invited to sit down and eat. He had hardly swallowed two

mouthfuls when he of the pitchfork, having left his hat and his

instrument aside, entered, and, taking his station at the dresser,

continued to gaze upon him, still scratching his pate and looking

significantly. Our adventurer was sadly disconcerted, but concealed his

emotions so that they were not observed, till breakfast was over, when

the rustic took an opportunity to beckon to him with an intimation to

follow him. They proceeded to the stable, where after carefully looking

out of the back door to see that nobody was near them, the rustic

without any preface said, "I'll tell thee what--thee art Jacky

Meadowcroft!--I know thee as well as I do that horse that stonds there

before my eyes; so don't you go vor to tell loies about it, or to deny

it." Hodgkinson who, though he might be startled, was not to be

intimidated, asked the fellow sturdily, and with a dash of stage

loftiness, what it was to him who he was, or what his name; upon which

the other rather abashed said, "No harm I assure thee Jack, nor hurt

would I do thee for ever so much: but I fear thee be'est upon no good:

now don't think hard of me, but do thee tell me, what prank art thee

upon here?--where dids't thee get those foin clothes?"--To this our

adventurer gave no answer but a look of haughty resentment, putting his

arms akimbo, elevating his head and neck, and finishing with a

contemptuous sneer of the right barn-buskin kind. "Nay, now," said the

other, "I am sure of it. Yes, Jack Meadowcroft thee hast left thy honest

parents, and mixed with the strolling fellers--the play actors,--a pize

upon them, with their tricks, making honest folks laugh to pick their

pockets."

Our youth now saw that it would be useless to persevere in concealment,

and said to the other with a good-humoured cheerful air, "Who are you

who know me so well, and seem so much concerned about me?" "My name be

Jack as well as thine," replied the honest-hearted bumpkin. Hodgkinson

then discovered that the young man had been for sometime a stable-boy

at Manchester, and was in the habit of going to his mother's house with

the gentlemen of the long whip; but being elder than John had not been

much noticed by him. H. understood from him that his singing at night

was the first thing that raised his suspicions, and that he determined

to know all about it in the morning. "I was pretty sure at the first

sight, said he, that thee wert Jack Meadowcroft; but still I was not

quite certain till I heard thee chattering with the folks at breakfast:

so being ostler, I called thee out to the stable to speak to thee _in

private_: for I'll tell thee what Jack, I will not betray thee."

Hodgkinson then told him that though he loved music and acting, and

should be glad to be a good player (at which the fellow shook his head)

he had not yet mixed with any strollers, nor did he believe any

strollers would let him mix with them; as he was too young and had not a

figure or person fit for their purpose; but his object was to go to sea

to escape from tyranny, hard fare, and oppression.

How often are the intentions of the best heart frustrated by the

blunders of an uninformed head. Who can, without respect and admiration,

contemplate the sturdy integrity, and simple zeal with which this rustic

moralist enforced his laudable though mistaken notions? who can help

reflecting with some surprise upon the fact, that before he ceased to

apothegmatise and advise his young friend against having anything to do

with the actors he was actually the first who put him seriously in the

notion of going directly upon the stage as a public actor? It was a

curious process, and we will endeavour to relate it as nearly as

possible in the way Hodgkinson related it to us:

"A plague upon going to sea," said the honest fellow, "I can't abide it,

thoff it be a hard, honest way of getting one's bread, and for that

reason ought to wear well--but some how or other I never seed a sailor

having anything to the fore; but always poor and dirty, except now and

then for a spurt. There's my two brothers went to sea, and it makes my

hair stand on end to hear what they go through; I would not lead such a

life--no, not for fifty pound a year; evermore some danger or some

trouble. One time a storm, expecting to be drowned--another a battle

with cannon, expecting to be murdered--one time pressed--another time

chased like a hare, that I wonder how they live. No, Jack, doan't thee

go to sea; but stay at home and die on dry land. Why see how happy I am!

and I'll be hong'd if measter within would'nt take thee with all love,

to tend customers and draw the beer: ay, and 'twould be worth his while

too, for thy song would bring custom, let me tell thee. As to being a

play-actor, confound it, I hate the very word; you need not think

anything about your size. Thou'rt very tall and hast a better face to

look at than any on 'un I see; and though thou be'est knock-kneed a bit,

its the way with all growing boys. Lord love thee, Jack, if wert to see

some of them fellows, for all they look so on the stage with paint and

tinsel and silk, when they stop to take a pint of beer, I think they be

the ugliest, conceitedest, foolishest talken fellows I ever ze'ed. Why

there's one feller was here for three days all time quite drunk--went

yesterday to Bath to get place there among them. He's a player, and as

ugly as an old mangy carthorse. But he's an Irishman to be sure, and

they say he won't do at Bath because he wants an eye."

"You have players here at times then," said H. interrogatively.

"Yes! sometimes they comes for their baggage, that is, their trunks and

boxes and women and children. Sometimes the poor souls on 'un come in

the wagon themselves. Sometimes when it's a holliday we 'un, they walk

out to Stapleton and other parts to kill time, being very idle people;

then they stop to take beer here, and they talk such nonsense that I

can't abide the tuoads. Lauk! thee why Jack, thee know'st I would not

flatter thee now--thee art a king to some on 'un that talks ten times as

big as king George could for the life o' him."

This intelligence given by the honest simpleton, in all likelihood for

the purpose of disgusting our adventurer with the stage, communicated

to him the first proud presentiment he felt of what afterwards occurred.

The thought instantly struck him, "If performers, so very despicable as

this man describes, are endured upon a public stage, thought he, why may

not I?--cannot I be as useful as them? besides I can--but these men

sing, I suppose--do not they sing John, much better than me?" "Noa, I

tell thee they doan't: sing better than thee! they can't sing at all. A

tinker's jackass is as good at it as any of them I see here. When they

are on the stage (I went three or four times with our Sall to the play)

od rot 'un--they make a noise by way of a song, and the musicianers sing

for them on their fiddles." The man to whom honest John alluded, arrived

from Bath that very day, execrating the injustice of the Bath and

Bristol managers, who though they could not but be convinced of his

talents, refused to give him even a trial. Our adventurer surveyed him

from head to foot, and from the information of the man's face, voice,

deportment, language, and person, concluded with himself that he had

little to fear; "If, said he, this man has ever been received as an

actor by any audience in this world, I'll offer myself to the first

company I meet." He was precisely such as the ostler had described

him--he wanted an eye, and was frightfully seamed by the small-pox,

which not only had deprived him of that organ, but given him a snuffling

stoppage of the nose. Such as this, was the whole man in every point,

who actually boasted that he was allowed by all judges to play Jaffier

better than any man that ever lived, but Barry, and who, disgusted with

the British managers for their want of taste, took shipping that very

evening for Cork.[A]

Without imparting a hint of his intention to the ostler who vowed, "as

he hoped to be saved" that he would never betray him (a vow which he

religiously fulfilled) Hodgkinson resolved to introduce himself in some

shape or other, to the company of the theatre as soon as they should

return from Bath to Bristol; an event which was to take place according

to the course of their custom, in two days. Meantime he walked

frequently to the theatre, in order to indulge himself with looking at

the outside of it; and he made the fine square before it, his promenade,

where he gave a loose to his imagination, and anticipating his future

success, built castles in the air from morning till night.

He was at this work when the players returned from Bath. He saw the

gates laid open, and having taken his post at the passage to the

stage-door, resolved first to reconnoitre those who entered, and collect

from circumstances as they might occur, some clue to guide him in his

projected enterprise. As this was one of the eras in his life on which

he loved to ruminate and converse, he was more than commonly

circumstantial in his account of it. "There is a long passage," said he,

"that goes up to the stage-door at Bristol. For the first two days I

stood at the outside, but becoming more impatient, and impatience making

me bold, I took my station in the passage, with my hat under my left arm

stood up with my back to the wall, and as the actors and people of the

theatre passed by to rehearsal, I made a bow of my head to those whose

countenances and manners seemed most promising. For several days not one

of them took the least notice of me. There was one of them who looked so

unpromising that I should hardly have given him the honour of my bow, if

it were not for his superior age and venerable aspect; and I believe

when I did give it to him, it was but a mutilated affair. There was a

starched pompous man, too, whose aspect was, to my mind, so forbidding

and repulsive that I never _condescended_ to take much notice of him.

From a loquacious, good-natured and communicative old Irish woman who

sold fruit at the door I gained the intelligence that the former of

these was Mr. Keasberry the manager--the other Mr. Dimond. That Mr. D.

said I to her, seems to be a proud man. "Och, God help your poor head!"

said my informant; "it's little you know about them; by Christ, my dear,

there's more pride in one of these make-games that live by the shilling

of you and me, and the likes of us, than in all the lords in the

parliament house of Dublin, aye and the lord-lieutenant along with them,

though he is an Englishman, and of course you know as proud as the devil

can make him:--not but the old fellow is good enough, and can be very

agreeable to poor people," My first act of extravagance in Bristol was

giving this poor woman three half-pence for an orange, and making her

eat a piece of it; a favour which many years after she had not

forgotten."

"I believe it was on the fourth day of my standing sentinel," continued

H. "that the old gentleman passing by me, I made him a bow of more than

ordinary reverence. The Irishwoman's character of him had great weight

with me, and my opinions and feelings were transferred to my salute. He

walked on a few steps, halted, looked back, muttered something to

himself and went on. I thought he was going to speak, and was so dashed,

I wished myself away; yet when he did not speak, I was more than ever

unhappy. He returned again with two or three people about him in

conversation; his eye glanced upon me, but he went on without speaking

to me, and I left the place--for, said I to myself, if this man does not

notice me, none of them will. Discouraged and chop fallen I returned to

Broad-mead, and on my way began, for the first time, to reflect with

uneasiness upon my situation.

"Next day, however, I returned to the charge, and assumed my wonted post

in the way to the stage-door of the theatre. Instinctively I took my

stand further up the passage, and just at the spot where the old

gentleman had the day before stopped and turned to look at me--after

some minutes I saw him coming--I was ashamed to look towards him as he

advanced, but I scanned his looks through the corner of my eye--my mind

misgiving me at the moment, that I had a mean and guilty look, so that

when he came up, I made my reverence with a very grave, I believe

indeed, a very sad face. The old gentleman stopped, and my heart beat so

with shame and trepidation that I thought I should have sunk. He saw my

confusion, yet addressed me in a manner which, though not unkind nor

positively harsh, was rather abrupt. "I have observed you, boy, for

several days," said he, "standing in this passage, and bow to me as I go

by; do you wish to say anything to me? or do you want anything?" I

hesitated, and was more confused than I remember to have ever been

before or since:--"Speak out, my boy, said he, do not be afraid!" These

words which he uttered in a softened, kinder tone, he accompanied with

an action which gave the most horrible alarm to my pride, and suggested

to my imagination a new and frightful idea. He passed his hand into his

pocket as if feeling for cash. Great God! said I to myself, have I

incurred the suspicion of beggary! the thought roused all of the man

that was within me, and I replied, "No, sir, I am not afraid; nor do I

_want_ anything." He afterwards owned that the words, and still more the

delivery of them, made a strong impression upon him. Well then, my good

boy, what is it you wish for? coming here successively for so many days,

and addressing yourself to me by a salute, you must surely either want

or wish for something. "Sir," replied I, "I wish to go upon the stage."

"Upon the stage," said he emphatically, "how do you mean? oh to look at

the scenery I suppose"--"No, sir--I wish to be an actor.""

Thus far the words of Hodgkinson himself are given. The name of the old

gentleman had entirely escaped the writer of this, who, when he heard

the relation from Hodgkinson, little thought that it would ever devolve

upon him to pay this posthumous tribute to his memory. Upon the facts

being since related, and the description of the person being given to

some gentlemen long and well acquainted with the affairs of the Bath and

Bristol theatres, they have cleared up the point to the writer, whose

recollection, though faint, perfectly coincides with their assurance

that it must have been Mr. Keasberry, who was at that time manager, and

with whose character this account is said to agree accurately.

"I wish to be an actor," said our adventurer. The confidence and

firmness with which the boy spoke, surprised and greatly diverted the

old manager, who after eyeing him attentively a minute or two,

exclaimed, "You an actor, you young rascal!" then laughed heartily, and

continued, "An actor indeed! and what the devil part would you think of

acting?" By this time some of those who attended the theatre,

doorkeepers or supernumeraries, came up, and Mr. K. said to them,

laughing, "Here's a gentleman proposes to be an actor." And again

addressing the boy he said to him with an affected solemnity, "Pray,

sir, what character have you yet thought of enacting?" The jibing manner

in which this was spoken by the manager, and the sneering, scornful

looks of the sycophants about him, who, to curry favour with him,

chuckled at his cleverness, had nearly disconcerted the poor boy;

however, he was naturally resolute, and replied, "If I can do nothing

else I can snuff candles, or deliver a message, or do anything that

young lads do." "You can indeed?" "Yes, sir, and I can do more, I can

play the fiddle and sing a good song." "A good song! I dare say--but

d----d badly I'll answer for it." "Won't you give me a fair trial, sir?"

"Fair trial indeed!" repeated the old man laughing, and walking on a

step--"fair trial! a pretty trial truly--however," said he, turning

round and beckoning to the boy, as he got to the stage-door, "Come this

way, and let's hear what further you have to say for yourself!"

Hodgkinson followed the manager, and for the first time in his life set

his foot on the stage of a public theatre. The actors were rehearsing;

and ensconced behind one of the side scenes he looked on, and "_with the

very comment of my soul I did observe them_," said he, "and not to

conceal anything from you, I thought I could have done a great part of

it much better myself! oh that I were but a little bigger and had a

beard! said I to myself twenty times while the actors were going through

the business." Had they thought of infant Rosciuses at the time, his

bread had been buttered on both sides, as the saying is. The rehearsal

being over, Mr. K. advanced to him and said, "You wish to be an actor,

eh!"--then turning to one of the actors, "Here is a person," continued

he, "who desires to go upon the stage, and is content by the way of a

beginning, to snuff the candles--humble enough you'll say. But he says

he can sing;" then ironically to H. "Now, pray sir, do us the favour to

say what song you _can_ sing--you perceive the gentlemen of the band are

in the orchestra--or perhaps you would rather accompany yourself, as you

say you play the fiddle." Then without giving him time to answer he said

to one of the band, "hand this gentleman a fiddle, as he calls it."

Hodgkinson took the fiddle, and pitching upon the beautiful _Finale_ at

the end of the first act of the farce of the Padlock, he played and sung

it not only to the astonishment of them all, but so much to their

satisfaction and delight, that Mr. K. after asking him whether he

thought he could sing accompanied by the band, and being answered in the

affirmative, spoke to the orchestra to go over the Finale with him, and

desired H. to sing it again. Emboldened by this mark of approbation,

John asked permission to sing another song: Mr. K. assented: the boy

then stepped forward to the orchestra and asked the leader whether it

would suit him to play one of the songs of Lionel? Certainly, he

replied, which of them? "Oh dry those Tears," said our juvenile hero: a

murmur escaped them all, as if they thought his vanity was carrying him

too far. "Try him, by all means try him," said Mr. K.--The boy

sung--their surprise was now raised to astonishment--and Mr. K. patting

him on the head, emphatically said to him, "My boy, you'll never be a

candle snuffer. For the present, however, you may carry a letter--or

something more perhaps." He then interrogated him--"have you ever been

about a theatre:--perhaps your parents are?"--"No sir, I never had the

sole of my foot on a stage till now." "Where then did you first learn

to sing?" "In our church sir." "Your church! where is your church?" Here

finding that he had got into a dilemma, he hesitated and blushed: "a

number of other boys and I practised music together, sir." "But

where?"--then perceiving the boy's distress, Mr. K. shifted the question

and said, "So much for your singing, but where, in God's name, did you

learn to accompany your singing with such action; which I declare, said

he, turning to the people on the stage, wants little to be what I should

call perfect for a singer?" "We boys, sir, acted plays together." "And

you played--" "Several parts, sir." "You surprise me, boy!" "Well," said

he, "call upon this gentleman tomorrow morning betimes, and he will

converse with you." He then turned to the person who was acting as

prompter, and whispered him, when Hodgkinson, after getting the

gentleman's direction, made his bow. As he was going down the passage a

lad followed him and told him the manager had sent to let him know that

if he pleased he might come on the stage that evening during the

performance.

Never before had our adventurer experienced such transporting

sensations. To use his own words, his head whirled and sung again with

delight. Instead of going straight back to Broad-mead, he walked about

the square plunged in a delicious reverie--perfectly insensible of

hunger or fatigue he continued on the stride, up the river side and

down, then about the square again--then here, then there, in short he

knew not whither nor why, wholly forgetful of home, dinner, and every

thing till some time after the playhouse opened, when going to the

stage-door he was admitted, and when he got behind the scenes, was

kindly accosted by some, questioned very impertinently, and curiously by

others, and stared at by all. The after-piece for the night was "the

Contrivances," which he had never seen or heard of before. He was vastly

taken with the song of "Make haste and away my only dear;" and as he

passed down from the stage, hummed it to himself; on which one of the

gentlemen of the band who was near him accosted him, "Hah, master

Henry, is it you?--you have practised every piece on the stage, one

would think--and the Contrivances has not escaped you." "My name is not

Henry, sir--my name is John." "Well, Master John then, I beg your

pardon, but you have been at Rover I see." "No, sir, I never saw or

heard of the Contrivances till this night's performance." "You can't say

so," said the other, "you have learned that song before, assuredly!"

"Upon my word it is a truth, sir; I never heard it before tonight." "Do

me the favour to hum it over again for me," said the musician.

Hodgkinson complied. "Why you have the words of the song as well as the

air." "Of one verse only, sir: but the next time, I shall catch the

whole of it." The musician expressed his astonishment, and asked the boy

where he lodged; to which John replied, "Off this way, sir," and ran

away as fast as he could to Broad-mead, where he was resolved it should

not be known, for sometime, at least, that he had any connexion with the

theatre.

When he reached his hospitable landlord and family, he found that they

had all been in great consternation at his absence. He had that morning

spoken to his friend John the ostler, about selling his silver buckles,

in order to pay his bill, and the generous souls were all afraid that he

was in distress. "Hast thee eat nothing since breakfast," said the good

man; "Lauk! why thee must be famished--what bewitched thee to stay away

from thy meals, child," cried the wife, "tis very bad for a young thing

like thee to fast," said another: and numberless other kind and tender

expostulations were uttered by the good people one and all, while ostler

John who was more frightened about him than any of them, and could not

get the naughty players out of his head, coming in said with

affectionate surliness, "Soh! thee'st come back, be thee?--Ecod thee

deservst to ha thee jacket trimmed, so thee dost--a young tuoad like

thee to stay out, God knows where, to this time o' night?" "Dont be

angry John," replied our adventurer, "dont be angry--and as to trimming,

John, it is not in thy jacket, to trim my jacket John--so go to your

hayloft and dont make a fool of thyself!" In saying this he mimicked

John's clownish lingo so nearly that the family burst out laughing, and

John went off, growling out that he believed the devil or his imps the

player fellers had got possession of the boy.

"John is thy friend," said the landlord, "he was quite down o' the mouth

about thee." "And I love and thank John," said Hodgkinson, "but I could

not help making fun of him for his talking of beating me. I accidentally

met with a friend who offered to bring me to the play, and I was so glad

I never thought of dinner." "Well come now," then said the good man,

"pay away upon that beef--lay in dinner and supper at once, my boy, and

thee shall have a cann of as good _yeal_ as any in Somersetshire, and

moreover than all that it shall cost thee nothing but the trouble of

drinking it--so here's to thee, my boy." The worthy man drank, and his

wife drank, and son and daughter, and all drank, and H. told them all

about the play, and sung, "Make haste and away my only dear," for them,

to their great delight. He was then too innocent and too young to direct

it to the young lady of the house, or it is more than probable that she

would have been more delighted with it, than any of them.

The next morning early he waited on Mr. ----,[B] the prompter, who told

him that Mr. K---- desired that he would keep about the theatre, and

make himself as useful as he could in anything that might occur, till

something could be done for him. He accordingly attended it diligently,

examining and watching every thing done and every body that did it, and

storing his young mind with useful knowledge of the profession. What his

pittance was, he never told this writer, who therefore concludes it must

have been very small, particularly as he sold his buckles, and plumed

himself upon not parting with the silver seal given him by his old

friend at Manchester.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Upon comparing notes with Hodgkinson, and considering his

description, I was convinced that this was no exaggerated picture.

Precisely such a man I remember to have seen, but not playing. He was in

a strolling company in Ireland, and was admired for his miraculous power

of making people merry with tragedy. He was a well-meaning, honest,

simple poor man, but even his performance of Jaffier was hardly as

comical as the compliments he himself lavished upon it.

_Biographer._

[B] The name is entirely forgotten by the biographer.

BARRY, THE PLAYER.

The following description of the person and acting of the

celebrated BARRY the player is introduced here, to accompany

the life of Hodgkinson, because a clear recollection of the

former in a multitude of characters, a long and scrutinous

investigation of the professional powers of the latter, and

an intimate knowledge of both of them, has long established

in our minds the unalterable opinion that of all the

performers who make up the feeble crowd that have followed

the men of Garrick's day in sad procession, not one so

nearly trod in the footsteps of Barry (_sed heu longo

intervallo_) as Hodgkinson. Whatever may have been said of

his comedy, we never could contemplate it with half the

satisfaction we received from some of his tragic

performances. His Osmond, his De Moor, and his Romeo were

infinitely superior to his Belcour, Ranger, and Ollapod. And

his Jaffier unquestionably stood next to Barry's. We know

nothing of Mr. Young, therefore do not mean to include him

in this position, though seeing and hearing what we every

day see and hear, of the present facility of pleasing in

England, we receive the encomiums of the other side of the

Atlantic on their passing favourites _cum grano salis_. In a

word, we are persuaded that Hodgkinson came nearer to Barry

in Barry's line, than any actor now living does to Garrick,

Barry, or Mossop in theirs. In Faulconbridge, and in it

alone he was perhaps equal to Barry.

Spranger Barry was in his person above five feet eleven inches high,

finely formed, and possessing a countenance in which manliness and

sweetness of feature were so happily blended, as formed one of the best

imitations of the Apollo Belvidere. With this fine commanding figure, he

was so much in the free and easy management of his limbs, as never to

look encumbered, or present an ungraceful attitude, in all his various

movements on the stage. Even his _exits_ and _entrances_ had peculiar

graces, from their characteristic ease and simplicity. What must have

greatly assisted Barry in the grace and ease of treading the stage, was

his skill in dancing and fencing; the first of which he was early in

life very fond of; and, on his coming to England, again instructed in,

under the care of the celebrated Denoyer, dancing-master to Frederick

Prince of Wales's family. This was done at the prince's request after he

had seen him play in lord Townley, in the Provoked Husband. In short

when he appeared in the scene, grouped with other actors of ordinary

size, he appeared as much above them in his various qualifications as in

the proud superiority of his figure.

"So, when a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,

All eyes are idly bent on him who follows next."

To this figure he added a voice so peculiarly musical as very early in

life obtained him the character of "the silver-toned Barry," which, in

all his love scenes, lighted up by the smiles of such a countenance, was

persuasion itself. Indeed, so strongly did he communicate his feelings

on these occasions, that whoever observed the expressive countenances of

most of the female part of his audience, each seemed to say, in the

language of Desdemona,

"Would that Heaven had made me such a man."

Yet, with all this softness, it was capable of the fullest extent of

rage, which he often most powerfully exemplified, in several passages of

Alexander, Orestes, Othello, &c.

We are aware of Churchill's criticism in the Rosciad standing against

us, where he says, "his voice comes forth like Echo from her cell." But

however party might have cried up this writer as a poet and a satirist

of the first order, Goldsmith had the sense and manliness to tell them

what they called satires were but tawdry lampoons, whose turbulence aped

the quality of force, whose frenzy that or fire. Beside, Churchill had a

stronger motive than prejudice or whim: the great hero of his poem was

Garrick; and as Barry was his most formidable rival, he had little

scruple to sacrifice him on this occasion.

But to leave the criticisms of this literary drawcansir to that oblivion

to which they seem to be rapidly hastening, let us examine the merits

of Barry in some of those characters in which he was universally allowed

to excel; and on this scale we must give the preference to Othello. This

was the first character he ever appeared in, the first his inclination

prompted him to attempt--and the first without question, that exhibited

his genius in the full force and variety of its powers.

In the outset of Othello, when he speaks but a few short sentences,

there appears a calmness and dignity in his nature, as evidently show

"the noble qualities of the Moor." These sentences we have often heard

spoken (and by actors too who have had considerable reputation) as if

they had been almost totally overlooked; reserving themselves for the

more shining passages with which this tragedy so much abounds: but Barry

knew the value of these introductory traits of character, and in his

first speech, "_'Tis better as it is_," bespoke such a preeminence of

judgment, such a dignified and manly forbearance of temper, as roused

the attention of his audience, and led them to expect the fullest

gratification of their wishes.

His speech to the senate was a piece of oratory worthy the attention of

the critic and the senator. In the recital of his "feats of broils and

battles," the courage of the soldier was seen in all the charms of

gallantry and heroism; but when he came to those tender ejaculations of

Desdemona,

"In faith 'twas strange--'twas passing strange!

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wond'rous pitiful!"

his voice was so melodiously harmonized to the expression, that the sigh

of pity communicated itself to the whole house, and all were advocates

for the sufferings of the fair heroine.

In the second act, when he meets Desdemona at Cyprus, after being

separated in a storm, his rushing into her arms, and repeating that fine

speech,

----"Oh! my soul's joy!

If after every tempest come such calms," &c.

was the voice of love itself; describing that passion in so ecstatic a

manner as seemingly to justify his fears

"That not another comfort like to this

Succeeds in unknown fate."

Through the whole of the third act, where Iago is working him to

jealousy, his breaks of _love_ and _rage_ were masterpieces of nature,

and communicated its first sympathies; but in his conference with

Desdemona, in the fourth act, where he describes the agonizing state of

his mind, and then, looking tenderly on her, exclaims,

"But there, where I had garnered up my heart,

Where either I must live or bear no life,"

the extremes of love and misery were so powerfully painted in his face,

and so impressively given in his tones, that the audience seemed to lose

the _energies of their hands_, and could only thank him _with their

tears_.

We have to lament, that in many of the last acts of some of our best

dramatic writers, there wants that degree of finish and grouping equal

to the rest. Shakspeare sometimes has this want in common with others;

but in this play he has lost none of his force and propriety of

character--here all continue to speak the language of their

conformation, and lose none of their original importance. Barry was an

actor that, in this particular, kept pace with the great poet he

represented--he supported Othello throughout with unabating

splendor--his ravings over the dead body of the _innocent_ Desdemona,

his reconciliation with Cassio, and his dying soliloquy, were all in the

full play of varied excellence, and forced from the severest critic the

most unqualified applause.

That this our opinion is not exaggerated, we refer to that of Colley

Cibber, an unquestionable good judge of his art, and who, with all his

partialities to Betterton, yet gave Barry the preference in Othello. In

short, it was from first to last a gem of the noblest kind, which can be

no otherwise defined than leaving every one at liberty to attach as

much excellence to it as he can conceive, and then suppose Barry to have

reached that point of perfection.

His other favourite characters were, Jaffier, Orestes, Castalio,

Phocias, Varanes, Essex, Alexander, Romeo, &c. In all characters of this

stamp, where the lover or hero was to be exhibited, Barry was _unique_;

insomuch, that when Mrs. Cibber (whose reputation for love and plaintive

tenderness was well known) played with Garrick, she generally

represented his _daughter_ or _sister_--with Barry she was always his

_mistress_.

He likewise excelled in many parts of genteel comedy; such as lord

Townly, Young Belville, &c. &c. The Bastard in King John, was another

fine character of his, which Garrick attempted in vain--having neither

sufficiency of figure, or heroic jocularity. To that may be added Sir

Callaghan O'Brallaghan, in Macklin's farce of Love-a-la-Mode; a part in

which he gave such specimens of the gallant simplicity and integrity of

the _Irish gentleman_, as were sufficient to establish an independent

reputation.

Though his Hamlet, Richard, Lear, Macbeth, &c. were _star height_ above

what we see now, he lost by a comparison with Garrick. Here the latter

showed the _master_ in an uncommon degree; as he did in all the quick

animated parts of tragedy. In the spritely, light kind of gentlemen,

Garrick had likewise the advantage; and in the whole range of low comedy

he blended such a knowledge of his art with the simplicity of nature as

made all the minutiae of the picture complete. Thus his _Abel Drugger_

was as perfect in design and colouring as the miseries and distresses of

_Royal Lear_.

In talking of these actors, it is impossible for the _amateurs_ of the

stage not to regret their loss with some degree of sensibility--not only

as men who contributed to the entertainment and refinement of their

youth, but whose death seem to threaten a decay of the profession

itself. There are periods when the arts and sciences seem to mourn in

sullen silence the departure of those original geniuses, who, for

years, improved, exalted and refined them; and, like widows, whose

hearts were sincerely pledged to their first lords, will not sacrifice

on the altar of affectation to _secondary wooers_. Painting and statuary

suffered such a loss in the deaths of Titian, Raphael, and Michael

Angelo, that more than two centuries have not been able to supply it;

and how long the _present stage_ may want the aid of such powerful

supporters as _Garrick_ and _Barry_, the experience of near thirty years

holds out but very little hopes of encouragement.

To this admirable description as true as it is eloquent, we subjoin the

following extracts from the old Dramatic Censor of England.

* * * * *

Speaking of Castalio in _The Orphan_, he says, "His circumstances give

great scope for the exertion of various capital powers, which were

amazingly well supplied in the elegant figure, bewitching voice, and

excellent acting of Mr. Barry; who, in this part, defied the severest

criticism, and justly claimed what he always obtained, the warmest

applause that enchanted feelings could bestow."

_Antony in Julius Caesar._

Mr. Barry beyond doubt stands foremost in our approbation for this part,

as possessing an adequate figure, an harmonious voice, and all the

plausibility of insinuation that Shakspeare meant; however, we think

that critic an enthusiastic admirer, who, speaking of him in the

Rostrum, exclaimed that Paul never preached so well at Athens.[C] It is

certain, nature in this, as well as in all his dramatic undertakings,

furnished him with irresistible recommendations.

_Varanes in Theodosius, or the Force of Love._

Varanes, who was most the object of our author's attention, is an odd

medley of love and pride; now he will, then will not; tender, impatient;

in short a romantic madman; yet notwithstanding inconsistencies of a

glaring nature, he is a dramatic personage highly interesting. Mr. Barry

must, in imagination, to those who are at all acquainted with his

performance, fill up every idea of excellence in this character: his

love was enchanting, his rage alarming, his grief melting: even now,

though overtaken by time, and impaired in constitution, he has not the

shadow of a competitor. The rheumatic stiffness of his joints has been

industriously trumpeted forth, and every mean art made use of to lower

him in public opinion; yet true it is that _if he hobbled upon stilts_,

he would be better than many persons, in his style, upon their best

legs. A gentleman of acknowledged judgment lately made the following

just and striking similitude: that Mr. Barry was like the time-worn

ruins of Palmyra and Balbec, which even in a fallen state show more

dignity and real beauty, than the most complete productions of modern

architecture.[D]

_In Altamont in The Fair Penitent._

After observing that this character lies a dead weight upon the play,

this great critic says, "We remember Mr. Barry, by exertion of singular

merit, making Altamont as respectable as any other character in the

piece, though Mr. Garrick did _Lothario_ and Mr. Sheridan _Horatio_ on

the same occasion. Indeed he so much outfigured all competitors and

illustrated so beautifully a character scarce known before, that he

appeared to great advantage."

_Othello._

"If any performer ever was born for one part in particular it must have

been Mr. Barry for the Moor: his figure was a good apology for

Desdemona's attachment, and the harmony of his voice to tell such a tale

as he describes, must have raised favourable prejudice in any one who

had an ear, or a heart to feel. There is a length of periods and an

extravagance of passion in this part, not to be found in any other for

so many successive scenes, to which Mr. Barry appeared peculiarly

suitable. He happily exhibited the hero, the lover, and the distracted

husband; he rose through all the passions to the utmost extent of

critical imagination, yet still appeared to leave an unexhausted fund of

expression behind; his rage and tenderness were equally interesting, but

when he uttered the words "rude am I in my speech," in tones as _soft as

feathered snow that melted as they fell_, we could by no means allow the

sound an echo to the sense."

To these extracts we will add one from the life of the celebrated John

Palmer, already mentioned, in the Thespian dictionary.

"The following summer he (Palmer) was engaged at the Haymarket, when Mr.

Barry was also engaged. The part of Iago was given to Mr. Palmer to

study, but at rehearsal he was so awed at the presence of Mr. Barry,

that in spite of all that gentleman's encouragement, he could not subdue

his terrors, and was obliged to resign his part to Mr. Lee."

Yet there was a suavity and familiar frankness in his manner,

particularly if he had a point of interest or pleasure to carry, which

won young and old--man and woman. A British merchant having occasion to

go to Dublin when Barry and Mossop headed the rival theatres, was

commissioned to collect some debts, and among others two owing by those

celebrated men. When he returned to London his constituent asked him,

"Well, have you got the actors to pay you?" "Mossop has paid," he

replied, "Barry, not." "How comes that?" "To tell you the truth,"

answered our merchant, "I called on Mr. Barry several times, but he

delighted me so much with his talk, and his kindness, that I swear, I

could not ask him for money, or do anything to hurt his feelings. When I

went from him to Mossop, he looked so stern, that I was overawed and

cowed, and so told him, that as I wished to _oblige_ him, I would let

the matter lie over; and what do you think was his answer? In a voice

that made me tremble, he said, disdainfully, "_You_ oblige ME, sir!--and

pray sir, who are _you_ that presume to offer to oblige me?--call

tomorrow, sir, on my treasurer, and the pelf shall be paid to you, sir."

And as I went down stairs I could hear him say to himself several times,

"Oblige ME indeed, ha, ha, hah!--_you_ oblige ME!!" In a word I got the

money from him, but never saw him after." "You saw Barry, though?" "Oh

yes, he gave me a general order to the house, introduced me to Mrs.

Barry,--and always smiled and spoke so kindly, squeezed my hand too

whenever I saw him, that I never thought of money. It dont signify

talking, but I verily believe, that he could wheedle the birds off the

trees with that sweet voice of his, and his good-natured look. I would

rather be put off by Barry, than paid by Mossop." In this simple

anecdote, which is a fact, the private characters of Barry and Mossop

are clearly and faithfully illustrated.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] Our readers will partly judge what the powers of that roan must have

been, who could beguile an erudite critic into such an enthusiastic,

rapturous expression of approbation.

[D] The late John Palmer had one of the finest persons and faces in

Great Britain. I remember to have seen him, handsome Brereton, and manly

F. Aitkin, when in the prime of life on the stage at the same time with

Barry, when he was labouring under old age, and so miserably infirm that

he walked with difficulty. Yet neither I nor any one of the spectators

ever noticed the others, so lost were they to the sight under the

towering superiority of Barry. _Editor._

MISCELLANY.

THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS,

OR

SHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE.

NO. III.

_Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, continued._

Marcellus invokes the ghost almost in the words of Charon, who, too

charitable to suffer a man to go to the devil in his own way, thus

addressed the son of Anchises:

Quisquis es armatus qui nostra ad flumina tendis,

Fare age venias: jam isthinc et comprime gressum.

The sybil in Virgil gives a civil answer to a civil question, and

narrates the birth, parentage, and education of her protege. Not so "the

buried majesty of Denmark." Disdaining to be tried by any but his peers,

he withholds all parlance till he commences with his son, and having

entered O. P. (signifying "O Patience," to the inquisitive spectator)

makes his exit P. S. (signifying poor spirit). Marcellus, hereupon,

moralizes after the following fashion:

_Mar._ Thus twice before, and _jump_ at this _dead_ hour,

With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.

Why this dead hour? hours never die. In Ovid they are employed as grooms

in harnessing Apollo's steeds, and if there be any faith in _tempus

fugit_, how can the dead fly? to be sure, Marcellus was a sentinel,

whose duty it is to kill time: but I prefer _dread_ hour! Now for

jump--Mr. Malone says, that in Shakspeare's time, jump and just were

synonimous terms. So they are in our time. Two men of sympathetic

sentiments are said to jump in a judgment. We have also a sect of just

men in Wales called jumpers. Strange that the same motion that carries a

man to heaven should carry a Kangaroo to Botany Bay!

----multi

Committunt eadem diverso crimina fato

Ille crucem pretium sceleris tulit, hic diadema.--_Juv._

I do not think that the modern actors who personate the ghost, pay a

proper attention to the text. It is evident from the above passage, that

the ghost in crossing between the speakers and the audience, should give

a jump, taking special care to avoid both traps and lamps, otherwise he

may "fast in fires," a little too fast. "Gone by our watch," should be

divided thus, "Gone--by our watch;" meaning at this hour, as we compute

the time. Marcellus should here pull out his watch. A man will never

make an actor unless he is particular in these little matters. Horatio

continues thus:

_Hor._ But in the _gross_ and _scope_ of mine opinion,

This bodes some strange _eruption_ to our state.

Johnson will have it that "gross and scope," mean general thoughts and

tendency at large. Alas! that all the scope of his gross frame should

contain so small a meaning! I prefer _guess_ and skip of my opinion;

that is a random notion hastily entertained.

As for the eruption in the state, the reader will bear in mind the jump

of the ghost, and coupling it with the aforesaid eruption, will no

longer wonder that a modern writer couples the word jump with the Norman

invasion:

Hop, step, and jump,

Here they came plump,

And they kick'd up a dust in the island.

O'Keefe has a character in his farce of _The Farmer_, called Jemmy

Jumps, but I cannot with all my diligence, discover that he takes his

name from a love of jumping. Molly Maybush, indeed, gives us a hint of

his fondness for that recreation in the following distich:

Go hop my pretty pet along,

And down the dance lead Bet along.

But if his own evidence is to be believed, (and according to some recent

suggestions, that is the only evidence which ought to be received) he

has no penchant for it. The farmer asks him to join the village dance,

whereupon he indignantly exclaims, "What! I sport a toe among such a set

of rustics!" Upon the whole I am inclined to believe that as a

manufacturer of stays he takes his name from a part of those modish

ligatures called jumps.

A figure of the very first water and magnitude, now makes his

_entre_--the ghost of the late king! and here I must digress awhile, and

like a raw notary's clerk, enter my feeble protest against the tame and

unimpressive manner in which that supernatural personage is permitted to

make his appearance. It should seem that our managers reserve all their

decorations for the inexplicable dumb show of the Wood Daemon (that

diphthong is my delight), the Castle Spectre, &c. &c. The Bleeding Nun

in Raymond and Agnes is ushered in with a pre-_scent_-iment of blue

flame and brimstone. Angela's mother advances in a minuet step, to soft

music, like Goldsmith's bear, and is absolutely enveloped in

flames--none but a salamander, or Messrs. Shadrach and company can enact

the part with safety. But when we are presented with a dead Hamlet,

Banquo, or lady Anne, those impressive non-naturals of the poet of

Nature, they walk in as quiet and unadorned as at a morning rehearsal;

marching like a vender of clumsy Italian images, "with all their

imperfections on their head," and an additional load attributable to the

imperfect head of the manager. Remember the lines of the poet:

Another Eschylus appears--prepare

For new abortions, all ye pregnant fair,

In flame like Semele be brought to bed,

Whilst opening hell spouts wildfire at your head.

And let us in future see Shakspeare's ghosts adorned with the proper

paraphernalia and (impernalia) of thunder, hautboys, and brimstone. But

to return--For "eruption to our state;" some people prefer reading

corruption, alleging that most states are corrupt (England, as one of

the present company, of course excepted) but that eruptions are confined

to the towns that border on Mount Vesuvius. But surely, allowing the

observation its full swing, eruption is here the right reading. The

ghost, in a subsequent scene, expressly informs us that he is "confined

to fast in fires," and from his underground repetition of the word

"swear," it is clear that those fires were immediately under Hamlet's

feet. Yes, sir, this identical ghost was the Guy Faukes of Denmark, and

but for the vent he discovered in a cranny near Elsinore enabling him to

take a peep at the "glimpses of the moon," would doubtless have blown

the crown prince, and all his court into the air, and thus have rendered

unnecessary our late expedition for that purpose.

I find nothing upon which to animadvert till the re-entry of the ghost.

He has evidently something upon his mind, which he wishes to

communicate; but with the heart of a lion shows that he also possesses

the fears of that royal beast, for upon the crowing of the cock (a sound

most injudiciously omitted, since the death of the bantam Roscius) the

spirit evaporates as quickly as from a glass of champagne, in the

drinking of a health.

_Mar._ Shall I strike at it with my _partisan_?

Here performers, who move like blind asses in the manager's mill,

usually raise the right arm, as though partisan meant the instrument in

their grasp. O lame and impotent! As if a little bit of a truncheon

could bruise a ghost! What says Ossian, speaking of a ghost? "The dim

stars twinkled through his form." A plain proof of his want of

substance. So of Pope's sylph:

Fate urg'd the shears and cut the sylph in twain;

But airy substance soon unites again.

Some fanciful persons will have it that partisan signifies companion, as

though Marcellus should say, "shall I strike at it with the assistance

of Bernardo?" Listen to the real original meaning:

_Mar._ Shall I strike at it with my _parmesan_?

In plain English, "shall I throw a cheese at its head?" This agrees with

what was before advanced relative to beef, and shows that the sentinels

of those days antedating the couplet in the Bath Guide,

He that would fortify the mind,

The belly first must fill,--

never mounted guard without a havresack well stuffed with eatables.

* * * * *

_Coffee and Chocolate._

Coffee is the seed of a tree or shrub of the jessamine species,

originally a native of Arabia, but now thriving in the West Indies,

where it is become an important article of English commerce.

The flower is yellow, and the berry juicy, containing two seeds: these

when gathered have a ferinaceous bitter taste, but are wholly without

that peculiar smell and flavour imparted to them by fire, and for which

an infusion or decoction of them is so much admired.

This fashionable beverage, almost a necessary of life to the merchant,

the politician, and the author, on its first introduction in Asia,

caused a violent religious schism among the Mahometan doctors, almost as

early as the thirteenth century, although it was not till towards the

middle of the sixteenth, that a coffee-house properly so called, was

established at Constantinople: its discovery was announced by a

miraculous legend which each sect relates in its own way.

A dervise, says a certain heterodox rational mussulman, if such there

be, "a dervise overflowing with zeal or with bile, was sorely troubled

on observing that his brethren were not animated by a spirit active as

his own: he saw, with concern, that they were listless and drowsy in the

performance of their religious exercises, their ecstasies, their

howlings, their whirlings round, their vertigoes, their bellowings, and

laborious breathings.

"The dissatisfied dervise, taking a solitary walk to sooth his disturbed

spirits, or cool his heated imagination, observed that the cattle became

suddenly and remarkably playsome and lively, after feeding on a certain

leaf; judging, by analogy, that the same effect might be produced on

_other animals_, he gave his companions a strong infusion of it; their

heaviness and torpor were almost instantly removed, and they performed

the parts allotted to them with exemplary activity and vigour; the leaf

so powerful in its effects proved to be the shrub from which coffee

berries afterwards were gathered."

"Listen not to such profane heresies," says an orthodox doctor of Mecca,

"it was in the six hundred and sixty-sixth year of the Hegira (about the

middle of the thirteenth century of the Christian era) that Abouhasan

Scazali, on a pilgrimage to the tomb of our most holy prophet, sinking

under fatigue, extreme heat, and old age, called unto him Omar, a

venerable Scheick, his friend and companion, and thus addressed him:

"Teacher of the faithful! the angel of death hath laid his hand upon me;

cleansed from my corruptions in the waters of Paradise, I hope soon to

be in the presence of our prophet; but I cannot depart in peace, till I

have done justice to thy zeal, thy faith, and thy friendship; persevere

in the path thou hast so long trod, and rely on him, who drove the

infidels like sheep before him, to extricate thee from all thy

difficulties: farewell, sometimes think of Abouhasan, pity his errors,

and do justice to his good name:" he would have spoken further, but his

breath failed, his eyes became dim, and pressing that hand he was to

press no more, he expired without a groan.

"Having performed the last office of friendship, Omar pursued his way:

but, a few days after, lost in devout contemplation, or overwhelmed with

sorrow, he wandered from his associates in the caravan, and was not

sensible of his situation, till involved in one of those whirlwinds,

which, raising into the air the sandy soil of that country, generally

prove destructive. Falling on his face, the fury of the blast, and the

thick cloud of sand passed over him: almost suffocated with dust,

notwithstanding the precaution he had taken, separated from the

companions of his journey, without water to moisten his parched mouth,

and fainting for want of sustenance, he gave himself up for a lost man,

the stream of life was propelled with difficulty, perception and

sensation began to fail, and believing himself in the agonies of death,

he poured forth a mental ejaculation to Allah.

"An angel of light immediately stood before him, waving his hand thrice

towards the holy city, and pronouncing deliberately three mysterious

words; a limpid stream suddenly gushed from the ground, and a luxuriant

shrub sprung forth from the barren sand of the desert; bathing the

temples, the eyes, and the lips of Omar, with the refreshing fluid, the

celestial messenger disappeared.

"The cool stream, and the berries plucked from the miraculous tree, soon

recovered the sinking man; he poured forth his soul in thanksgiving, and

sunk into a deep sleep, from which he awoke in full vigour and spirits.

"Omar, with renewed strength, soon rejoined the caravan, and relating

the supernatural circumstance, a mosque was erected on the spot, by the

zeal and contributions of true believers; coffee, that wonderful shrub,

the peculiar gift of our prophet, and more particularly the produce of

his favourite country, still continues the solace, cordial, and

comforter of his devoted followers."

This singular specimen of Turkish superstition, in which the Mahometan

appears to have encroached on the prerogatives of the Vatican, is taken

from a curious book, which, previous to the Gallic revolution, was in

the library of the king of France, and presented to Louis the fifteenth,

by Said, an ambassador from the Porte to the court of Versailles.

It is called in the title page, Dgihan Numa, that is, a description of

the world, and was printed at Constantinople, in seventeen hundred and

thirty-one, adorned with plates and illustrated by maps; the author, or

rather the compiler, was Keatib Cheleli, a learned doctor of the Turkish

law.

"Coffee," says this enlightened mussulman, who shaking off the stupidity

and indolence of his countrymen, assumes the character of a medical

inquirer, after he had quitted that of an implicit believer, "coffee is

a rejoicer of the heart, an enlivener of conversation, a sovereign

restorative after the fatigues of study, of labour or of love; its

peculiar characteristic is, to comfort the stomach, nourish the nerves,

and to protect the frame against the debilitating effects of a hot

climate and a fiery atmosphere.

"Taken an hour after dinner, it prevents an accumulation of crudities in

the first passages, is an infallible remedy for the horrors of

indigestion, and the megrims."

It was not probable that so wholesome and agreeable an article of diet

would be long confined to Asia; it is said to have been introduced to

the fashionable circles of Paris by Thevenot, in 1669, but had been made

use of in London as an exotic luxury before that time.

The first coffee-house opened in the British metropolis, was in

George-yard, Lombard-street, by Rosqua, the Greek servant of a Turkey

merchant, in the year 1652; its flavour was considered so delicate, and

it was thought by the statesmen of those days (no very reputable

characters) to promote society and political conversation so much, that

a duty of fourpence was laid on every gallon made and sold.

But Anthony Wood earnestly insists, that there was a house, for selling

coffee, at Oxford, two years before Rosqua commenced the trade in

London; "that those who delighted in novelty, drank it at the sign of

the angel, in that university, a house kept by an outlandish Jew."

In another part of his works, he says that Nathaniel Conapius, a native

of Crete, and a fugitive from Constantinople, but residing in the year

1648, at Baliol college, Oxford, made, and drank every morning, a drink

called coffey, the first ever made use of in that ancient university.

This popular beverage is mentioned in a tract published by judge Rumsey,

in 1659, entitled "Organum Salutis, or an instrument to cleanse the

stomach; together with divers new experiments on the virtues of tobacco

and coffee."

It is observed in this work, by a correspondent of the author, "that

apprentices, clerks and others, formerly used to take their morning

draught in ale, beer or wine, which, by the dizziness they cause in the

brain, make many unfit for business; but that now they may safely play

the good fellow, in this wakeful civil drink, for the introduction of

which first in London the respect of the whole nation is due to Mr.

Muddiford."

* * * * *

Chocolate, then, is a preparation from the seeds of a small American

tree, called by botanists _Cacao Guatimalensis_, bearing a large red

fruit in the shape of a cucumber, which generally contains twenty or

thirty of the nuts, boiled and prepared according to art.

This highly nutritious, agreeable, and, to many, wholesome drink, became

on its first introduction, a subject of strong agitation, and warm

contest, with many conscientious and scrupulous catholics.

Approaching in its original form, and in its alimentary properties, so

nearly to solid diet, it was doubted by the timid and the devout,

whether enjoying so delicious and invigorating a luxury in Lent, and

other seasons appointed by the church for fasts, was not violating or

eluding a sacred and indispensable ordinance.

That party which was unwilling to resign their chocolate, quoted the

words of St. Thomas, who repeatedly asserts, that it is by solid food

only that a fast can be properly said to be broken; that if it is

unlawful to drink this liquor on fast days, because of the portion of

solid cocoa contained in it; by the same rule, wine and beer, which on

these occasions have never been interdicted, might be forbidden, as the

first contains a large proportion of the saccharine substance of the

grape, and the latter suspends rather than dissolves the whole of the

farina of the grain.

The chocolate drinkers were opposed by a powerful party of rigid

disciplinarians, and austere devotees; a Spanish physician wrote a Latin

treatise, expressly against what appeared to him so impious a practice

on a fast day; his book, entitled "Tribunal Medico-Magicum," exhibits

much zeal and some learning; that he was strongly attached to the luxury

against which he declaims, is a strong presumption in favour of his

sincerity.

The Spaniard's book was answered, by a cardinal of the catholic church

in a candid and agreeable way; it was the opinion of the ecclesiastic,

supported, indeed by reason and experience, that neither chocolate nor

wine taken in moderation could, strictly speaking, be construed into

breaking a fast; yet, he hoped, that such a concession, would not be

made a pretext by sensuality and wickedness, for using them to excess,

by which some of our greatest blessings are converted into curses; as

whatever tempts or occasions us to overstep the bounds of nature and of

temperance, can never be defended by the canons of the church.

The Roman prelate concludes his rational and truly pious book, written

in Latin, not unworthy of the Augustan age, with the following words,

which ought to be written in letters of gold, in some conspicuous part

of every eating-room in Europe:

"The infidel and voluptuary may ridicule the idea of the Almighty

Creator of the universe, being pleased, or displeased, with a man for

having a full or an empty stomach; but whatever tends directly or

remotely, to subdue rebellious passions, and subject a creature like man

to the restraints of reason and religion, cannot fail being a matter of

the highest importance to our well-doing, and our everlasting destiny

hereafter."

* * * * *

MONUMENT IN HONOUR

OF THE

LATE DUKE OF BEDFORD.

ERECTED IN RUSSELL SQUARE, BY R. WESTMACOTT, ASSOCIATE

OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

This monument consists principally of a colossal statue of the late Duke

of Bedford, habited in his parliamentary robes. At the feet of his

statue, or rather around the fragment of rock on which it stands, are

"the seasons personified by genii, or children in playful attitudes."

"This group surmounts a pedestal composed of granite; the sides of which

are embellished by _bassi-relievi_ of pastoral subjects. On the angles

are bulls heads; the intermediate friezes being occupied by

_bassi-relievi_ of groups of cattle. The whole composition is about

twenty-five feet in height."

The latter part of this general description, which we have marked as

quotation, is taken from Mr. Westmacott's own modest account of his

work, in the 'Academic Annals.'

The whole forms an imposing, and, in some degree, magnificent pile of

sculpture, and seems the worthy ornament of a great metropolis; yet it

has such defects as inform us that it has not fallen from Heaven. The

statue is doubtless meant to be stable, manly, easy, and dignified; yet

it is not perfectly these, though perhaps no other words could be so

nearly used with propriety in describing its first bold impression on

the mind of the beholder, as he approaches from Bloomsbury square along

Bedford-place.

A noble and sedate simplicity characterizes the general style of Mr.

Westmacott's sculpture, and is conspicuous in the _tout ensemble_ of the

pile before us. The proportions of the statue and its ornamental

accompaniments, to the pedestal and double plinth basement, are well

regulated, and are the evident and successful result of study. The

bronze, of which the statue and bas-reliefs are composed, being covered

with a fine green patina (which has apparently been superinduced), would

have assimilated very well with the sort of grave, negative colour of

the Scotch granite, of which the pedestal is formed, had the rock on

which the Duke stands been of bronze, as well as the statue and

personifications of the seasons which are designed to group with it.

This rock ought certainly not to have been of Scotch granite. The

pedestal alone should have been of this material, and all that surmounts

it of bronze. Beside that real rock is almost as unscientific in this

place, as would have been the real ermine on the Duke of Bedford's

robes, or a real wig on his head; it is almost as destructive too of the

chastity of sculpturesque effect. It gives a meager effect to the

seasons, while it mars the simplicity of what would else have appeared a

grand connected mass of imitative art. The granite and green bronze, if

kept in broad and distinct masses, would have harmonized extremely well

with the verdure of the pleasure ground in which it is placed; yet, as

it is, the whole composition, when viewed from any station near the

south end of Bedford-place, detaches with effect from the air-tint of

the distant country, excites a classic and elevated feeling, and invites

the steps of the tasteful to a nearer view.

The figure of the Duke, in allusion, presumptively, to the firmness of

his character, stands on a rock, with his right foot somewhat advanced.

His right hand is also advanced, and rests on the shaft of the plough,

while his left arm, which is somewhat too short for the figure, hangs

perpendicularly, forming a line exactly parallel to the outline of the

drapery on this left side of the statue. One side of the figure is thus

perfectly tranquil, while the other is in gentle action. What the

sculptor may conceive he has gained in effect, by _thus_ contrasting one

side of his statue to the other, he appears to us to have lost, in

losing that more easy contrast and graceful equilibrium which

distinguishes the best single figures of the ancients, and which should

not, we think, be absent from those of the moderns. If, however,

grandeur by these means be substituted for gracefulness, art and the

public are amply compensated, and the sculptor should be honoured for a

successful deviation from ancient authority and established principle.

We are only sorry to add, that in our opinion it is not.

The features of the Duke's face are very judiciously generalised, or

_idealised_ (as is the phrase among artists) to that degree which raises

the mental character of the head, and while it retains all those

peculiarities which are essential to portraiture, renders an individual

countenance more fit for the purpose of the sculptor, and perhaps

impresses a likeness more forcibly than minute finishing, especially at

a height of eighteen or twenty feet from the eye of the spectator. The

neck is increased in thickness, so as to give an Herculean air and

character to the bust: which yet, on the whole, so strongly resembles

that of the original, that it is immediately recognised by all who

remember the Duke of Bedford's person.

Of the drapery, the general style is broad, square, and masterly. The

peculiarities of the English ducal robes are sufficiently attended to,

and sufficiently simplified; but the ermined part we esteem unfortunate

(as much of it at least as is seen in the front view of the figure) as

it disturbs the contour of the folds, and has a clumsy and

unsculpturesque appearance.

Proceeding downward in our remarks, we now arrive at Mr. Westmacott's

personification of the seasons, where we find he has departed in some

measure from former analogies, without, in every instance, substituting

better.

We have already remarked that these genii have a meager effect, and have

endeavoured to account for it by supposing it to be principally owing to

the ill-judged mixture of materials and colours, of which this part of

the pile consists. Yet beside this defect, in every view but that from

the westward, these figures appear to want grouping and connexion.

Seasons, which are blended in their real existence, should probably not

be disconnected, nor thrown out of their natural order, in their

allegorical representation. No man desires to see the backside of

Spring unless Summer follow; and had Summer and Autumn been visible from

the principal approach, an association of ideas would have been excited,

more genial and more appropriate to the agricultural character of the

monument, if not to the _known bounty_ of the late Duke of Bedford, than

by the presence of Winter and Spring. By placing the two former behind

his Grace, and turning one of them away from the eye of the spectator,

the sculptor has even left it so doubtful whether he has or has not

taken the liberty of changing the natural course of the seasons in order

to effect this, or some other purpose, that we have known some persons

mistake--unless we are ourselves mistaken--Summer for Autumn and Autumn

for Summer; and others puzzled between Summer and Spring. It is true,

the seasons in our climate, are sometimes so strangely disordered and

confused, that if Mr. Westmacott should plead that in this part of the

design, he has chosen rather to imitate nature than the antique, and

English nature rather than the nature of any other climate, we should

probably be silenced.

It may also be pleaded with great truth in favour of the artist, that in

consequence of the arrangement which he has adopted, there is in every

view of the monument, something of merit and importance to gratify

public attention. In front, there is the statue itself contrasted by the

plainness and simplicity of the unadorned side of the pedestal. On the

east side there is the most beautiful of the bas-reliefs: on the west,

the most interesting view of the seasons, and what there is behind, God

knows. The public are not yet permitted to walk round it.

We will now endeavour to explain the symbols and metaphors which Mr.

Westmacott has invented or adopted, as well as we are able, in the order

in which they present themselves on the monument. Spring is very

properly represented as rising a wreath of blossoms and other early

flowers, among which the lily is distinguishable; the genius of Autumn

is pouring forth her abundance of English fruits and vegetables (for

there is nothing exotic) from a cornucopia; Summer, as far as can be

seen from without the enclosed area of Russel-square, has a butterfly

perched on his hand, intimating that this is the season when this

beautiful insect bursts from its chrysales into new life; and Winter

sits shrunk and sheltered by drapery from inclemencies of which, to be

strictly correct, it should appear to have been the cause.

The character and style of Mr. Westmacott's boys or genii, are something

between that of Fiamingo, and real life. Those of Summer and Autumn

especially, possess much of infantile grace; but the genius of Winter

appears disproportionably small, and the space left for his chest so

small, when compared with his limbs, that the Hibernian punsters will be

in some danger of thinking it is meant for a personification of--nobody.

What those may be tempted to think of it who are conversant with Dr.

Hunter's principal anatomical work, we shall not presume to say.

The bulls heads on the angles have a new and not unpleasing effect, and

are executed in a grand style; their horns are short and bound for

sacrifice as in the antique. And the frieze which runs round the top of

the pedestal is enriched, the East side with two sheep, a lamb, and an

ox; the West side with two swine and a cow; and the South side, or front

of the monument with a horse, all sculptured in low relief, and in a

style partaking partly of the antique, and partly of English nature.

Immediately above this frieze on the south side, and in the interval

between Winter and Spring, the artist has placed a lamb, which is

perfectly in season.

Of the bas-reliefs which adorn the sides of the pedestal, and which are

in conception and composition, if not of execution, the finest part of

the whole pile, one represents the season of _ploughing_, the other that

of _harvest_; and both are so classical in their appearance, and in

design so abstracted from localities, that could they have been

discovered in Sicily, the cognoscenti would, perhaps, have sworn that

Theocritus had seen and studied them when he wrote his Idyllia.

As associated with, and calculated to call up, ideas of humble, innocent

and laudable occupation, these sculptured pastorals are of high moral

value in such a metropolis as this, where guilty dissimulation and

insidiousness so much abound--independent of their merit, and consequent

value as works of fine art. Why do we contemplate the innocent

occupations of children, and rural life, with sentiments of the purest

complacency? Why, but because the soul is revived as it recognises its

own nature through the disguise of society, and springs back with ardour

toward a state of things on which our ideas of Paradise itself have been

rested.

Perhaps no works of art, and no poetry extant, will more forcibly recall

what we have read and fancied of the golden age, than these bas-reliefs.

They are delightful both in design and execution. To imagine the art as

co-existing with these in such an age of happy innocence as is here

suggested, raises cold criticism itself almost to rhapsody.

In the first, which occupies the western side of the pedestal, peasants

are resting from the labour of the plough; a yoked ox shows the nature

of their employment; a ploughman takes a refreshing draught, from his

wooden bottle, while a youth blows a horn to call his fellow labourers

to an humble repast, which a female is busily engaged in preparing.

----Corydon and Thyrsis met,

Are at their savoury dinner set,

Of herbs, and other country messes,

Which the neat handed Phyllis dresses.

In the other relievo, which decorates the eastern side of the pedestal,

reapers and other peasantry are conversing and reposing from the toils

of the field. The group consists of a mower, a reaper, a harvest man

stooping to bind a sheaf, a shepherd and his dog. The principal and

central figure is that of a young female laden with corn, and holding a

sickle in her right hand, and is a most exquisite, and, we had almost

said, unparalleled piece of sculpture in its kind. In truth, the

unsophisticated, self-willed, easy, rustic, grace, of this figure, is

raised by the art of the sculptor into intellectual existence--

Her form is fresher than the morning rose,

When the dew wets its leaves; a native grace

Sits fair proportion'd on her polish'd limbs,

Veil'd in a simple robe:

and all the characters are simple; yet free from any alloy of grossness,

while the grouping and drawing are excellent in a very high degree.

Modern art, excepting it be in the principal figure of Barry's Grecian

Harvest-home, has produced nothing of the kind, which can be compared

with this reaper, or which is so perfectly the vigorous offspring of

Poetry and Sculpture, generated in their happiest moments.

Mr. Westmacott has wisely chosen to display the most prominent and

distinguished trait of the Duke's character, and to that he has confined

himself. He has not frittered attention as a common-minded statuary

would have done, by endeavouring to make the subject of his chisel

appear to have been every thing that is great and good: he does not

compliment the Duke of Bedford, by surrounding him with various virtues,

and representing him as having been a great statesman, philosopher,

patron of art and literature, orator, agriculturist, &c. &c. but by

seizing the principal feature of his mental character, and representing

him simply as a great agriculturist, or patron of agriculture, he

powerfully impresses one important truth, which no spectator will

forget, and all who possess the means, may learn to emulate.

The Duke of Bedford's agricultural, is probably the most permanent, as

well as honourable and prominent, feature of his character. In his

politics, like a large majority of statesmen, he attached himself too

much to persons, and attended too little to the ascertainment of

principles. As a politician, he might soon have been forgotten, or have

been remembered with little interest, while as an agriculturist,

posterity for many a century, may with pleasure view the seasons playing

round the foot of his statue.

The statue is in fact as much a monument in honour of agriculture as of

the late Duke of Bedford; and, observing the public interest which this

excites, we cannot but think it would be well if our public ways were

adorned with statues to other noblemen and noble propensities.

To agriculture, undoubtedly, in every country, _the first_ of arts, in

point of time, and perhaps of importance, the first honours may be

allowed; but we deem that a sufficient portion of the attention of our

nobility and great landed proprietors has already been attracted toward

this pursuit; and among the various arts and sciences, we should not

forget that though the _iron_ arts are more useful, the _golden_ are

more precious. A taste for _fine_ art, moreover, has a certain grace of

disinterestedness, which does not attach to an agricultural duke or

great landed proprietor, constantly employing himself in endeavours to

increase the produce of his lands.

Wherefore, though the statue to agriculture and the late Duke of

Bedford, be extremely fit and proper in point of moral social influence,

it makes other statues or other moral works of art yet more necessary

than they were. Britain may boast of many a Cornelia, but where is the

monument to the maternal character? Many a Brutus and many a Maecenas,

but where are the public enticements to disinterested patriotism and the

patronage of art?

* * * * *

O! NEVER LET US MARRY.

"We want no change, and least of all,

Such change as you would bring us."--_Pizarro._

TO ROSA.

If in possession passion die,

And when we marry love deny,

'Tis rapture still to tarry:

If that soft breast must cease to warm,

Those speaking eyes no longer charm,

O never let us marry!

If I shall hang not on thy lip,

Like bees on roses when they sip,

And thence less honey carry;

If I must cease to think it bliss

To breathe my soul in every kiss,

O never let us marry!

* * * * *

THE SABLE APPARITION, OR MYSTERIOUS BELL ROPE.

_An extract from a Manuscript Novel._

"'Twas nothing more, indeed my dear uncle! No, indeed, 'twas nothing

more! Dear, dear, how could I suppose it to be any thing more? And yet I

even tremble now," exclaimed Miss Godfrey to her astonished uncle, as he

entered the house. "For heaven's sake, my beloved Frances what has thus

dreadfully alarmed you?" returned the old gentleman. "Tell me I beseech

you! I'm on the rack till I know what could possibly have the power of

alarming you to this dreadful degree. Come my sweet girl, compose

yourself and relate to me this "soul harrowing" tale; for I'm half

inclined (seeing you smile) to suppose it some imaginary evil." It is

indeed, sir, an imaginary evil, and a very foolish fear: I am very, very

angry with myself, and am seriously apprehensive, that in disclosing to

you my weakness, I shall draw down your very just animadversion; but if

you will give me a patient hearing, and not think me too circumstantial

in my narrative, I will give you then the seeming cause for the disorder

in which you found me." Do not fear censure from me my dear Frances, we

all have our weak moments; and I am convinced, a girl with my Fanny's

understanding, could not be so alarmed at a very trifling circumstance;

therefore proceed, my love; I will promise not to fall asleep over the

recital."

"Sitting in my dressing room at work, I was surprised by a very hasty

tap at the door, which I opened, when Monsieur l'Abbe appeared before

me, with his hair erect, his eyes starting from their sockets, and his

whole frame so convulsed with terror, that I momentarily expected the

wax taper which he bore in his hand would make a somerset on my muslin

dress. I begged him to inform me if he was ill? whether any thing had

alarmed him? if I should ring for his servant? He shook his head in

token of disapprobation of my last interrogatory, and in broken and

almost inarticulate accents, begged I would indulge him with a moment's

hearing. He then, with much difficulty, addressed me as follows:----

"You know Miss Godfrey, I am the last man in the world to be frightened

at bugbears, or in other words, superstition and I were ever sworn

enemies: I think, then, after reprobating this weakness in others for

fifty years, I have this evening become its victim; for to that alone

must I ascribe my fears. Listen then to the cause of this weakness in

me. I was deeply immersed in Horace, when I heard a knocking against the

partition that separates the rooms. I paid little or no attention to it

at first, when a second time the knocks were repeated with more

violence. I then arose, and proceeded to the room where the noise

issued; and directing my eyes towards the bed, to my infinite surprise I

perceived the bell-rope making rapid and extensive strides from one side

of the partition to the other. After viewing it for a moment, I thought

I would take the liberty of stopping the marble breasted gentleman's

progress; I grasped the bell-rope, it yielded to my embrace, and became

quiescent; I sat a moment to observe it; it remained quiet, and I

returned to my studies. The instant I was seated, the same noise was

repeated with increased violence; I entered the room a second time, and

a second time saw the bell-rope in rapid motion. I then examined every

corner of the room, without discovering the least trace by which I might

elucidate this singular appearance. I again grasped the rope, and again

it was motionless: I sat two or three minutes in the room, I believe,

during which every thing was perfectly quiet. I returned to my room,

when scarcely had I seated myself, ere the same noise met my ear, with a

sort of hard breathing. This was more than even my philosophy could bear

at that moment, and must plead my excuse for appearing before you in the

disordered state which you have just witnessed." "You must pardon me, my

good sir, for smiling," I remarked, but I really have scarcely had

patience to hear you out, so anxious am I to be introduced to this ghost

in the shape of a bell-rope! lead me to the haunted room, and you will

gratify me beyond measure!"

"Magnanimous courage! exclaimed Monsieur, with such a guide, I'd face

e'en Beelzebub himself;" when each embracing our taper, we proceeded to

the mysterious room. My eager eye sought the bell-rope; but no sooner

did I perceive its motion (for it was moving as Monsieur had described)

than all my boasted philosophy forsook me. Ashamed to confess as much, I

begged my companion to once more stop its progress, and suppressing my

emotions, I assisted Monsieur in searching the room. Nothing, however,

which possessed animation could we discover, (ourselves excepted) and

indeed we could scarcely be said to possess it. Monsieur prevailed on me

to retire to his sitting room, when perhaps, he observed, we should hear

the noise repeated. I acquiesced, when to my inexpressible horror our

ears were assailed by a tremendous knocking, accompanied by a terrific

scream. This was more than human nature could bear. I rang the bell with

unusual violence, which brought up two of the female servants. Without

communicating my fears, I requested that the groom might be called: he

came, and thus, in a body we once more ventured to enter this terror

striking room, every corner of which was searched without success; when

the groom accidentally moving the bed, out sprung our--black cat! She

had so completely concealed herself in the head curtain of the bed, that

all our endeavours to discover anything were fruitless; and each time we

left the room, she amused herself with patting the pull of the bell,

which occasioned its motion to the infinite terror of a French

philosopher, and an heroic maiden.

"The 'terrific scream,' was a faint groan, proceeding from a servant who

was ill in the house."

COMMUNICATIONS.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE DRAMATIC MISCELLANY.

Sir,

I send you herewith the first number of a series of Papers, the

continuance of which will probably depend upon your opinion of their

tendency to amuse or gratify your readers.

That they may not be tried by too rigid rules of criticism--and that

more may not be expected from the writer than he means to perform, I

deem it necessary to premise that the future numbers, like the present,

are intended to consist of such anecdotes respecting the drama and

dramatic writers, as I have heretofore, or hereafter may meet with in

the course of a very desultory course of reading--of such information of

that description, as I have collected in my progress through life--and

of such remarks and reflections as they may excite in my mind.

With sincere wishes for the success of your undertaking, I am,

Yours, &c.

DRAMATICUS.

_Every One has his Fault._

Among the best dramatic performances that have appeared during the last

half of the eighteenth century, I have no hesitation in giving this

admirable comedy, by Mrs. Inchbald, a conspicuous place. For strongly

marked characters, interesting incidents, correct sentiments, and chaste

language, I know none to be preferred to it. It appeared here, at the

opening of the New Theatre in 1793, under as much advantage, as if the

authoress had actually studied the force of the company, and written the

parts for the respective performers. I was somewhat dissatisfied at

first with one particular character, lord Norland. I thought it hardly

possible such a being could have been drawn from nature. A further view

of mankind, has convinced me that I was in error. I annex the dramatis

personae, and leave the reader to judge whether a higher dramatic feast

can probably be found at Covent Garden or Drury Lane.

Lord Norland, Mr. Whitlock,

Capt. Irwin, Mr. Fennel,

Sir Robert Ramble, Mr. Chalmers,

Mr. Placid, Mr. Moreton,

Harmony, Mr. Bates,

Solus, Mr. Morris,

Edward, Mrs. Marshal.

Lady Erwin, Mrs. Whitlock,

Mrs. Placid, Mrs. Shaw,

Miss Woburn, Mrs. Morris,

Miss Spinster, Mrs. Bates.

It may be heresy and schism to institute the most distant comparison

between any modern writer and Shakspeare. But if so, I cannot help being

a heretic and schismatic, for I believe that the scene between lord

Norland, lady Irwin, and Edward, in which the latter abandons his

grandfather, and flies into the arms of his mother, then newly

discovered to him, is actually equal, for pathos and interest, to any

scene ever represented in the English or any other language. Mrs.

Inchbald, it is said, intended this drama for a tragedy, and made

captain Irwin suffer death: but by the advice of her friends converted

it into a comedy.

_Prostitution of the Theatre._

Those who do not look beyond the mere surface of things, are prone to

censure managers with great severity, when Theatres, which ought to be

held sacred for exhibiting the grandest effusions of the human mind, are

prostituted to puppet-shows, rope dancing, pantomimes and exhibitions of

elephants, &c. Whatever of censure is due to this preposterous

perversion, attaches elsewhere. It falls on those who frequent theatres.

Dr. Johnson, in a prologue which he wrote for Garrick, places this idea

in the strongest point of light.

"Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice:

The stage but echoes back the public voice.

The drama's laws the drama's patrons give:

For _those who live to please, must please to live_."

And therefore if Romeo and Juliet, the Clandestine Marriage, the West

Indian, the Gamester, Every one has his fault, and other dramatic works

of this order, fail to afford attractions equal to Mother Goose,

Cinderilla, the Forty thieves, an elephant, or a band of Indians, can it

be a subject of surprise if the managers furnish those bills of fare,

which possess the greatest gratification for that public on whom they

depend?

_Samuel Foote._

It is an old and trite maxim that ridicule is by no means a test of

truth--and yet it is an equally ancient remark, that many a serious

truth has been put out of countenance by ridicule, and that ridicule

unsupported by wit or humour.

In a song sung by Mrs. Cibber, there was this line--

"The roses will bloom when there's peace in the breast."

Of the justice of which no man can entertain a doubt. The wicked wit

Foote parodied the line, thus

"The turtles will coo when there's pease in their craws,"

And actually destroyed the popularity of the song.

_A spirited manager._

The latter part of the following interesting anecdote of Garrick is

unaccountably omitted in his life, by his biographer, Arthur Murphy.

In the year 1755, the English Roscius expended large sums of money in

preparing what he termed a Chinese Festival, a grand spectacle, on a

most magnificent scale. He imported a large number of Swiss and Italians

to appear in it, which excited considerable jealousy among the London

populace, as a French war had then begun, and all foreigners were

indiscriminately regarded as Frenchmen. There was considerable

opposition made the first and second nights of its being exhibited--and

the 3d night, November 18, there was a large party formed, who were

determined to have it suppressed. Violent riots took place--"the rioters

tore up the benches, broke the lustres, threw down the partitions of the

boxes, and mounting the stage, demolished the Chinese scenery." The

injury sustained by the manager was very considerable, and required

several days, and a very large sum of money to repair.

Some nights after, Garrick appeared on the stage in the character of

Archer, and was imperiously and unjustly called upon to beg pardon of

the audience. At this, his indignation was enkindled, and he advanced

resolutely forward, stating the injury his property had sustained, and

assuring them that "he was above want, superior to insult, and unless he

was that night permitted to perform his duty to the best of his

abilities, he would never--never appear upon the stage again." The

audience were struck with the justice and propriety of what he

said--felt ashamed of the vile scenes that had taken place, and of the

indignity that had been offered to an old, a tried, and a deserving

favourite; and by an instantaneous burst of applause, bore a strong

testimony against the rioters and in favour of the respectable manager.

_Moody._

The preceding anecdote leads me to give another of the same description,

respecting Moody, a very valuable performer, one of Garrick's company.

In the beginning of the year 1763, very considerable riots took place in

Drury-Lane, in consequence of an effort on the part of Garrick to

abolish a shabby practice that had prevailed in London from time

immemorial. This was, to admit persons into the theatre after the third

act, at half price. Great devastation was committed on every thing that

could be destroyed in the theatre. A wicked villain took a light, and

was deliberately setting fire to the scenes, which might have caused the

death of a portion of the misguided agents in this disgraceful outrage.

Moody fortunately perceived him, resolutely interposed, and prevented

the perpetration of his nefarious design. The next night that he

appeared, he was instantly called upon to beg pardon, for an act

which merited the highest gratitude. Moody addressed the

audience--"Gentlemen, if by hindering the house from being burned, and

saving many of your lives, I have given you cause of displeasure, I ask

your pardon." This exasperated them still further, and there was an

universal outcry that he should beg pardon on his knees. Moody had too

much spirit, and too high a sense of his own dignity, to comply--and

resolutely addressed them once more--"Gentlemen, I will not degrade

myself so low, even in your opinion. By such an act, I should be an

abject wretch, unfit ever to appear before you again." This said, and

having made his bow, he retired. Garrick "received him with open arms,"

and applauded him for his spirited conduct. The riot still continued,

and the manager being called for, he went before the audience, and a

loud clamour having been made to dismiss Moody for what was unjustly

styled his insolence, Garrick assured them that he should not perform on

that stage while he remained under their displeasure. He then went

behind the scenes; and, once more embracing Moody, pledged himself to

pay his salary, notwithstanding his temporary exile.

_Theatrical Licenses._

Although it is generally known that no new dramatic performance can be

introduced on the stage in England, without the previous license of the

Lord Chamberlain, it is not by any means equally well known to what

cause this regulation owes its origin. Henry Fielding composed a

theatrical representation to which he gave the name of Pasquin, the

object of which was to satirize some of the most conspicuous characters

in England, and among the number were the minister and many of his

friends. This satirical performance became very popular, and was

exhibited to crowded audiences for fifty successive nights. The

exasperated minister, Robert Walpole, was determined to repress the

licentiousness of the stage, and accordingly had a bill brought into

parliament to prohibit the representation of any dramatic performance

whatever, unless it had received the permission of the Lord chamberlain.

This act, which was carried in spite of the utmost opposition, took

from the crown the power of licensing any more theatres, and inflicted

considerable penalties on those who should violate its restrictions.[E]

_Mrs. Centlivre. The Busy Body._

The theatrical history affords numberless instances of the fallacy and

folly of dogmatic decisions, and premature judgments. It were endless to

relate the cases of dramatic performances, which, previous to their

being acted, were regarded by managers and actors as execrable, and

certain of condemnation--and yet have lived a century beyond the

existence of their judges. And the instances are at least as numerous of

managers forming the most flattering anticipations of the success, and

the consequent emoluments of performances which were, to use the

technical term of the theatre, damned by the unanimous consent of the

audience.

The Busy Body, by Mrs. Centlivre, is a very remarkable case in point. It

was decried before its appearance by all the players--Mr. Wilkes, the

Garrick of his day, for a time absolutely refused to take a part in

it--And the audience went to the theatre, so far prejudiced against it,

as to contemplate its condemnation. Yet it was so favourably received,

that it had a run of thirteen nights; and, after a lapse of an entire

century, for it was first represented in 1709, it is still received with

applause, and ranks deservedly high among the stock plays.

_Gay.----Beggar's opera._

There is a still more striking illustration of the position I laid down

in the preceding paragraph, than that afforded by the Busy Body. The

Beggar's opera was offered to Cibber and the other managers of Drurylane

theatre, and after examination was rejected by them, as not likely to

prove successful. The managers of the other theatre had a more correct

anticipation of the issue of this production, and hailed it with joy

and gladness. The event justified their opinion--for never was there a

more extraordinary degree of success than attended this rejected

performance. It had the unprecedented run of fifty three nights, I

believe successively, the first season in London--It spread into every

town in the three kingdoms, where there was a theatre, and was every

where received with unbounded applause. The songs were printed on

ladies' fans--and Miss Fenton, who performed the part of Polly, and who,

previous to her appearance in that character was in an inferior grade,

became a first rate favourite, and was so high in the public opinion,

that she was finally married to a peer of the realm. Gay's profits by

this piece were above two thousand pounds sterling, or nearly nine

thousand dollars.[F]

_A Wine merchant._

Garrick, soon after his arrival in London, went into partnership with

his brother Peter, in the wine trade. Their circumstances were very

moderate. Foote, with whom it was a universal rule, never to spoil a

good story by a scrupulous adherence to truth; very often, at a

subsequent period, excited merriment at the expense of the modern

Roscius, by the narrative of his adventures at that era of his life. He

used to amuse his companions by telling them, that he remembered the

time when little Davy lived in Durham court, with three quarts of

_vinegar_ in his cellar, and took upon himself the style and title of a

wine merchant.

_Garrick once more._

It is mortifying to reflect how the fairest fame may be destroyed, and

the best character be travestied in the public estimation, by a jest, a

bon mot, or an epigram, which contains any very pointed allusion. The

story tells to advantage. It is no diminution of its chance of progress,

that it is in the very last degree void of even the shadow of

foundation. Its wit, its humour, or its malignity embalms it, and saves

it from destruction. It enlivens social circles--It spreads abroad, and

gathers strength as it goes: It is received as complete evidence almost

as if it had been judicially established.

These ideas are excited by the excellent and revered character, whose

name I have prefixed to this sketch. Of his avarice Foote circulated

some droll stories, which have had considerable currency, and found

their way into most of the jest books that have been published for these

thirty years. And it has been in consequence pretty generally believed

that Garrick was a miserable, narrow-souled creature, whom the _auri

sacra fames_ would lead to any kind of meanness, and who was incapable

of a liberal or munificent action. Of him I acknowledge I had formed

this opinion: and such has been the opinion of most of my acquaintances.

It gives me great pleasure to find that the charge is totally

groundless; and that few men ever made a better use of their

wealth--none were more ready with their purse on every occasion where

distress or misfortune petitioned for assistance, or when any public

spirited undertaking had a fair claim upon private liberality.

Malone's sketch of his life, and Boswell's life of Johnson, contain

numberless illustrious instances of his beneficence. Johnson, who was

much in the habit of collecting money among his friends for the relief

of persons in distress or embarrassment, repeatedly declared, that

Garrick was always ready on these occasions, and that his contributions

exceeded those of other persons in equal circumstances.

Garrick's liberality in the establishment of the fund for the relief of

superannuated actors, would alone be sufficient to rescue him from the

charge of avarice. He gave a benefit play yearly for that purpose, in

which he always acted a leading character. He bestowed on the

association two houses for the meetings of the managers;--and when the

latter resolved to sell them, as unnecessary, Garrick bought them at the

valuation which was set upon them. He afterwards bequeathed them by his

will to the increase of the fund.

_As it was damned._

One of Henry Fielding's farces having been hissed from the stage, the

author, when he published it, instead of the usual annunciation, "as it

was performed at the theatre royal," &c. substituted a more correct

reading, "_as it was damned_ at the theatre royal, Drury Lane." This

laudable example of candor has never since been copied by any of the

bards whose performances have experienced the same awful fate.

_Vindication of Lord Rochester._

A miscreant of the name of Fishbourne in the reign of Charles II.

published a vile play, called Sodom, so detestably obscene, that the

earl of Rochester, then in the full career of licentiousness and

debauchery, finding it ascribed to him, thought it necessary publicly to

disclaim the infamy of the authorship. This circumstance, coupled with

the gross tendency of most of even the best plays of that time, must

convey to the reader a tolerably correct idea how far the wretched

author had outstripped his companions in the career of turpitude.

_An elegant translation._

One Gordon (not Thomas Gordon, the translator of Tacitus) translated

Terence in the year 1752, and rendered the words, _ignarum artis

meretricis_, "_quite a stranger to the trade of these b----s._"

_Beware of a too free use of the bottle._

One Henry Higden, a dramatic writer about the close of the seventeenth

century, wrote a comedy, called the _Wary Widow_, in which he introduced

so many drinking scenes, that the actors were completely drunk before

the end of the third act, and being therefore unable to proceed with the

play, they dismissed the audience.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] See Baker's companion to the playhouse. Vol. I, page 21, 2.

[F] See Baker, Vol. I. page 185.

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

I have always considered those combinations which are formed

in the playhouse as acts of fraud or cruelty. He that

applauds him who does not deserve praise, is endeavouring to

deceive the public. He that hisses in malice or in sport is

an oppressor and a robber.

_Dr. Johnson's Idler, No. 25._

_DOMESTIC CRITICISM._

In dramatic criticism the leading characters of the play, and the actors

who perform them, lay claim to the first and most particular

investigation. Those upon whom the more enlightened part of the public

have bestowed the greatest approbation, require the most severe

scrutiny, since they only can affect the public taste. Birds of passage

too who like Mr. Cooper and Master Payne "_come like shadows, so

depart_," are entitled to priority of attention; we therefore in our

last number, travelled with Mr. Cooper through the characters he

performed on his first visit to Philadelphia, without adverting to the

other performers, except in a few instances, in which the sterling merit

of Mr. Wood impressed itself so strongly on our minds, that we could not

resist our desire to do it justice, and his characters were so closely

connected with those of Mr. Cooper, that we thought they could not well

be separated. It would indeed be difficult to discuss Mr. Cooper's

merits in Zanga or Pierre, without dwelling upon the able support he

received in them, from Mr. Wood's _Alonzo_ and _Jaffier_. We cannot,

however, drop Mr. Wood there, since we rather glanced at, than reviewed

his performances. The public no doubt expect something more from us on

that gentleman's subject: the rapid advances he makes to professional

excellence, and the large space he now fills in public estimation, leave

to the critic no discretion. Such as the actor is, he must be shown. It

is a duty which we could not evade if we would; and we should be sorry

to be so deficient in taste, as not to discharge it with pleasure.

Of no actor with whom we are acquainted can it with more truth be said

than it may of Mr. Wood, that he never performs a character positively

ill. A judgment clear, sound, and in general severely correct, with

exemplary labour and industry, secure him completely, even in those

characters for which he is least fitted, from offending the taste of his

auditors, or rendering his performance ridiculous; an assertion we would

hazard on the head of very few if any actors in America. This is to put

our opinion of him at once at the lowest: yet even that would appear

something to any one who could conceive the disgust with which it often

falls to our lot to turn from the scene before us.

There is not in the whole catalogue of acting plays a character more

disadvantageous to an actor, than that of Alonzo. A compound of

imbecility and baseness, yet an object of commiseration: an unmanly,

blubbering, lovesick, querulous creature; a soldier, whining, piping and

besprent with tears, destitute of any good quality to gain esteem, or

any brilliant trait or interesting circumstance to relieve an actor

under the weight of representing him. In addition to this, there are so

many abrupt variations and different transitions that it requires great

talents in an actor to get through it, without incurring a share of the

contempt due to the character. Viewing him in this way, we could not

help regretting that it should devolve upon a young actor, who could

scarcely expect to escape unhurt in it. Our surprise was great, nor was

our pleasure less, to find in Mr. Wood's performance, a pleasing marked

delineation of the best features of Alonzo, with the worst considerably

softened and relieved. Seldom is a character so indebted to the aid of

an actor as this to the judgment of Mr. Wood. Dr. Young's muse flags

most dolefully in this part, and Mr. Wood did more than could be

expected to bear her up. We could not help wishing upon the occasion

that Alonzo could have bartered a portion of his judgment for a share of

the physical powers of Zanga; both would profit by the exchange.

In the Copper Captain Mr. Wood had a character very favourable to the

actor, and well suited to his powers and talents. Michael, however, is

one of those vigorous productions of the old comic muse in which a

player incurs the danger of overshooting the mark in his efforts not to

fall short of it. One in which while the judicious actor luxuriates, and

gives a force to his whole comic powers, he finds it difficult to

observe very strictly the _ne quid nimis_ of the critic. The correct and

chaste judgment of Mr. Wood kept the bridle so firm on his performance

of it, that we do not think he once "o'erstepped the modesty of nature."

In his performance of Iago we thought Mr. Wood inferior to himself. How

could he or any actor be expected to get through his business under the

circumstances of the theatre on that evening. A band of drunken butchers

had got into two of the front boxes, and converted them into a

grog-shop!

In the prince of Wales in Henry IV. Mr. Wood displayed the versatility

of his talents. In the gay, thoughtless, trifling rake, the "madcap"

prince, he was spirited, and playful without puerility; in the serious

parts, whether as the penitent apologizing son, or the martial hero, he

was judicious, impressive, and not deficient in military importance.

Where we see so much merit, merit so entirely his own, we advert to

faults with great reluctance. But it is our duty and we must do it. Of

the contagious nature of the KEMBLE PLAGUE in acting we cannot adduce a

more lamentable proof than that it sometimes taints even this very

judicious performer. How has it been endured by the British public, how

can it be reconciled to common sense, that players who are supposed to

represent human beings, and who assume to speak and act as men in real

existence, speak and act in the commerce of the world, should

constantly utter the lines set down for them, in such a manner as no

rational creature in real life ever yet did utter them, or ever will?

Does it give force, interest or dignity to the lines of a speech to take

up twice or thrice as much time in speaking them as the most formal,

deliberate, or pompous prig of an orator would employ upon them? Why

will not actors condescend to speak "_like the folks of this world_,"

particularly as they pretend to imitate them? We never were at a royal

levee--but we have been at the pains to ask several persons who have

been, whether any king, or prince, or peer spoke there, as Mr. Kemble or

as Mr. Holman, or Mr. Pope after him, speak in Hamlet, Richard, Macbeth,

&c. and the uniform answer has been that the great men at court speak

just like all gentlemen in private society. As to public orators, we can

say that Mr. Kemble and his disciples occupy one third, or at least one

fourth more time in delivering any given number of words than ever the

stately William Pitt in his most slow and solemn exordiums. Yet this

they call speaking naturally--imitating the conduct of men.

We do not allude to proper _pauses_, in the duration of which the actor

may be allowed some little license--and an extension of which is

frequently a beauty. Thus when _Balthazar_ informs _Romeo_ of _Juliet's_

death, Mr. Cooper maintained a pause of great length with the most

felicitous effect. He stood overwhelmed, stupified, and bereft of speech

with horror and astonishment, then said

"Is it even so?--then I defy you stars!"

and paused again. Here like a great artist he filled up the picture of

which Shakspeare only gave the outlines: but when, afterwards he

expostulated with the apothecary, we could see no reason why he should

deliver out the lines syllable by syllable like drops of blood

reluctantly given from the heart.

Art--thou--so--bare--and--full--of--wretchedness

And--fear'st--to--die?

To us the last appeared as ludicrous as the former was beautiful and

affecting. But, "in the name of all the gods at once," why this? Though

Mr. Wood sometimes falls into this error, a few of the first lines of

his Jaffier smacked of it wofully. We should find no apprehension of

laying any sum upon it, if the thing could possibly be ascertained, that

in pronouncing the words

Not hear me! by my sufferings but you shall!

My lord--my lord! I'm not that abject wretch

You think me.

he occupied full double the time that Barry did, or even the late

Hodgkinson, whose good fortune it was not to have studied, or seen, or

drawn one drop of his professional sap from the great root of these

abuses. It is said by some of Mr. Kemble's advocates that he speaks in

that manner from necessity--that he does it to nurse his voice in the

beginning, which else would flag before the end of a long performance.

If this were a sufficient excuse for Mr. K. we should not disallow it in

the case of any other gentleman who labours under the disadvantage of a

weak voice. But we think it is not; it would be infinitely better for

the audience to compound with the actor and allow him resting between

the speech times. The majestic Spranger Barry when we last saw him was

not only so decrepit that he hobbled along the stage, and so bent in the

middle that his body formed an angle with his lower limbs, almost as

acute as that of a mounted telescope, but was so encumbered by infirmity

and high living that upon any violent exertion of the lungs he puffed

very painfully; yet even in that state we have heard him speak the part

of _Rhadamistus_ in _Zenobia_, with all the fire, rapidity, and

animation of youth, his fine person all the time raised erect for the

purpose: but as soon as the speech was over, down he sunk again to his

angle, and puffed and blowed, while the audience, with emotions mixed up

of admiration and grief gazed in a kind of melancholy delight on the

finest ruin that ever time made in the works of nature: thunders and

shouts of plaudits filled the house; every female was seen gazing upon

the wonderful man as if her eyes were nailed upon their axes, and were

melting away with floods of tears, while he, from a face of almost

divine sweetness, gave back their love and their indulgence with

interest. He was allowed to take his own time--not in the speeches, but

between them.

Though these remarks are introduced in a part of our criticism dedicated

to the performances of Mr. Wood, we by no means would have it understood

that it applies exclusively, or even particularly to him. There is no

performer on the American stage, perhaps, to whom they less frequently

apply; but we have started the subject with him purposely to point out

by an instance _a fortiori_ how dangerous it is to a young actor, not to

guard against a great imperfection. When he whose sound judgment and

industry may reasonably be supposed to secure him from such errors,

insensibly falls into them, actors of inferior capacity and less

industry will see, or at least ought to see the necessity of standing

upon a more vigilant guard.

Since the subject is started we will proceed with it, though perhaps to

the exclusion from this number of some other matter originally intended

for it. Can those, who, loving the drama, and feeling its beauties with

a true classic spirit, wish to see the public taste won over to the

tragic muse, hope that it can be accomplished, or can they be surprised

that on the contrary, tragedy so often excites merriment when they

reflect upon the way dramatic poetry is often delivered upon the stage.

Let the first three men who pass by the playhouse door be called in, one

of them taken from the highest order of life, a second from the middle

order, and the third from the very lowest class--let them hear a tragedy

through, or even some parts of a comedy, and let them then give their

verdict as on oath, whether what they heard, resembled anything they had

ever heard before out of a playhouse, or perchance a madhouse, and they

must answer in the negative or perjure themselves.

This was one of the evils which Garrick had the glory of eradicating.

Just before him, actors spoke in the ti-tum-ti monotonous sing-song way

of the new school. Old Macklin some years ago, assured the writer of

this, that except in some few declamatory speeches, or in the ghost of

Hamlet, QUIN would not be endured at that time in tragedy: and what said

this Quin himself when he was prevailed upon to go to Goodman's Fields

to see Garrick for the first time? "I dont know what to say," he replied

to one who asked his opinion of the young actor, "but if he be right,

_we have all been wrong_." Quin's integrity would not let him deny a

truth which his judgment told him in the very teeth of his prejudices.

Absurd and _unnatural_ as this miserable mode of speech is, it is very

difficult to be got rid of, when it once becomes habitual to an actor; a

memorable instance of which was old MR. WIGNELL of Covent garden, the

father of our late manager. He was one of the Quin school, and if now

alive and able to act, would once more hitch in very handsomely with the

recitativers of the new academy of acting, for, says the author of the

Thespian dictionary, "_He possessed the singular talent of imparting

stateliness to comic dialogues, and merriment to tragic scenes._" Of

this gentleman many anecdotes are recorded, curious in themselves, and

well deserving the consideration of young actors.

Upon the revival of the tragedy of Cato in London (Cato by Sheridan) Mr.

Wignell was put forward in his old established part of Portius. In the

first scene he stepped forward in his accustomed strut and began

The dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs

And heavily with clouds brings on the day.

At this moment the audience began to vociferate "prologue, prologue,

prologue," when Wignell finding them resolute without moving from the

spot, without pausing, or changing his tone of voice, but in all the

pomposity of tragedy, went on as if it were part of the play.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there has been no

Prologue spoken to this play these twenty years--

The great, the important day, big with the fate

Of Cato and of Rome."----

This wonderful effusion put the audience in good humour--they laughed

incontinently--clapped and shouted _bravo_, and Wignell proceeded with

his usual stateliness, self-complacency, and composure.

Mr. Wignell's biographer above mentioned relates the following anecdote.

"During a rehearsal of _the suspicious husband_, Mr. Garrick exclaimed

"pray Mr. Wignell, why cannot you enter and say, "_Mr. Strictland, sir,

your coach is ready_", without all the declamatory pomp of Booth or

Quin?"--"Upon my soul, Mr. Garrick," replied poor Wignell, "_I thought I

had kept the sentiment down as much as possible._"" When Macklin

performed _Macbeth_ Wignell played the _doctor_, and in this serious

character provoked loud fits of laughter.

The above facts contain a valuable lesson to actors, some of whom can,

no more than Mr. Wignell, _get the sentiment down_, when they have an

event of such importance to announce as _the coach being ready_. In

serious truth we are persuaded that the fulsome, bombastical ridiculous

stateliness of some actors, tends to bring tragedy into disrepute, to

deprive it of its high preeminence, and must ultimately disgust the

multitude with some of the noblest productions of the human mind.

Two other characters of the tragedies already alluded to, demand from

the justice of criticism the most full and unmixed praise. _Falstaff_ in

Henry IV. and _Cacafogo_ in Rule a Wife and have a Wife, had in Mr.

Warren a most able representative. Having seen several--the select ones

of the last five and thirty years--we can truly say, without entering

into nice comparisons, that if we were to sit to those two plays a

hundred times in America or Great Britain, we could be well contented

with just such a Falstaff and just such a Cacafogo as Mr. Warren.

_The Foundling of the Forest._

In our first number we made a few observations on this comedy. They were

not very favourable to it; and, notwithstanding its great success in

representation, we are not at all disposed to retract any of them,

because our opinion of the intrinsic value of the piece is not in the

least altered. In representation it is all--in the closet nothing. This

arises from the conduct of the plot, which indeed constitutes the whole

of its merit. In Europe, as in America, the judgment of every critic is

at variance with the decision of the multitude upon it, for while at the

Lyceum it has been applauded by "the million," it has been lashed by the

judicious, in various respectable publications.

The time has been, nor has it long passed by, when that body in the

community who decided the fate of every literary performance, far from

being contented with EFFECT upon the stage, condemned it, if it were not

produced by an adequate CAUSE in nature. To that body the Farrago of

Melodrame, written spectacle, and mysterious agency, would have been

objects of ridicule or disapprobation, and the just influence of their

opinions upon the public would have driven back the German muse with all

her paraphernalia of tempests, castles, dungeons, and murderers, to rave

on her native ground: except in their proper place (farce or pantomime)

they would not have been tolerated. To write only to the passions, to

expose human beings to circumstances that cannot in the natural course

of life occur, and release them by means which outrage all probability,

and to those ends to urge vice and virtue beyond all possible bounds,

and fabricate extreme characters such as have rarely or never existed,

characters either better than saints, or worse than devils, for the mere

purpose of producing horror and astonishment, and hanging up the

feelings of the multitude on the tenterhooks of fearful suspense and

painful apprehension--to violate all the rules prescribed by nature and

experience, and place heroes and heroines in situations so far out of

the course of human conduct, that the poet cannot get them out again by

rational, feasible means, but is compelled to leave their fate to the

guess of the spectators by picturesque grouping and dropping the

curtain. What is this but to reverse the very nature of the drama,

"Whose end," says its father Shakspeare, "both at the first and now, was

and is, to hold as 'twere the mirror up to Nature, to show Virtue her

own feature, Scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the Time

his form and pressure."

By such miserable expedients as these, the fascinating effects of the

Foundling of the Forest are produced. But in the management of those

materials, the author has displayed unparalleled skill. The story in its

original outline is certainly interesting, and the plot is not only

skilfully developed but artfully contrived as a vehicle for stage

effect--for such merely, has the author evidently intended it; his

arrangement of the machinery, such as it is, demands warm praise for its

perspicuity and just order, and if the alarming and horrific be

legitimate objects for a dramatist, Mr. Dimond has succeeded most

marvellously.

The sorriest critic, however, knows that horror ought not to be produced

on the stage. The boundary that separates terror from horror, is the

lawful limit--the line not to be broken--the _Rubicon_ which when the

poet passes, he commits treason against the sovereign laws of the drama.

The _mighty magician of Udolpho_, as the author of the pursuits of

Literature calls Mrs. Radcliff, with powers almost beyond human, infused

into the British public a taste for the horrible which has not yet been

palled by the nauseous draughts of it, poured forth by her impotent

successors. One would think that, like Macbeth, the novel and play

reading world had by this time, supped full of horrors; but not

so--every season brings forth a new proof that that taste so far from

being extinguished, has grown to an appetite canine and ravenous which

devours with indiscriminating greediness the elegant cates of the

sumptuous, board and the offal of the shambles; provided only that they

have sufficient of the German haut-gout of the marvellous and horrible.

"_Plot--plot--plot_," says an enlightened British critic, "have been Mr.

Dimond's three studies." But what shall be said of the characters. To

any one who frequents the theatre, the characters of Longueville,

L'Eclair, Gaspard, Rosabelle, and perhaps more, are quite familiar. They

are among the worn out slippers of the modern dramatists. The character

of Bertrand is a moral novelty on the stage, and not less unnatural than

novel. Unnatural, not because he repents with a remorse truly horrible,

but because, while filled with that remorse, he submits to be a murderer

and a villian rather than violate an _oath_ he had made to perpetrate

any crime Longueville should command. This unfortunate wretch is kept in

torments through the whole play, and after having by an act of bold and

resolute virtue expiated his crimes and brought about the happy

catastrophe of the piece, is left to sneak off unrewarded. As to

Florian, though obviously intended for the hero of the tale, he is a

strange nondescript, in whose language the author has given buffoonery

by way of wit, and bombast by way of dignity. The Count De Valmont is a

most interesting personage, and so is the countess Eugenia.

Of the acting we can with truth speak more favourably than of the

writing. The characters throughout were well supported; but Mr. Wood in

De Valmont and Mr. M'Kenzie in Bertrand were so striking and impressive

that the critic's attention was chiefly attracted by them. Mr. Wood's

performance was exquisitely fine even on the first night, and every

repetition disclosed augmented excellence. In the second scene of the

second act, where Bertrand prostrates himself before Eugenia, Mr.

M'Kenzie presented in his posture of supplication, such a natural yet

terrible, picture of the humiliating effects of guilt and consequent

remorse, as could not fail to make an awful impression on the most

hardened and unfeeling sinner. In Longueville Mr. Warren was, as he

always is, correct and respectable, and Mr. Cone made much more of the

ticklish part of Florian than we had a right to expect. In L'Eclair Mr.

Jefferson was, as he seldom fails to be, diverting: But on a future

occasion we propose saying a few words, by way of friendly expostulation

with this powerful actor, who, yielding to the baneful itch for gallery

applause, is gradually sullying some of the finest talents, once the

chastest, too, upon the stage. In his Rosabelle (Mrs. Wilmot) he might

see admirable comic powers, and great histrionic skill, which the public

applause of years has not yet misled into the vulgar track--"the pitiful

ambition of setting on some quantity of _barren_ spectators to laugh" by

buffoonery.

Mrs. Wood maintained her long acknowledged claim upon the respect and

approbation of her audience, and gained for the lovely sufferer Eugenia,

all the sympathy which the author could have hoped to excite. Always

highly interesting, one can't tell why--never incorrect or

indifferent--often extremely impressive in characters of a serious cast,

we think that comedy is her _forte_. In several parts, some too indeed

which verged upon the lower comedy, we have noticed enough to convince

us, that by a studious, and as far as might be, exclusive attention to

the comic muse, Mrs. W. would soon become one of her most distinguished

favourites.

* * * * *

In our next number Mr. COOPER'S second series of performances will be

attended to--particularly his _Orsino_, in which it gives us pleasure to

observe that we could not discover a fault, but all was uniform

excellence. This character we consider as making an era in the history

of Mr. Cooper's acting. ALPHONSO is a tragedy which merits frequent

repetition.

A

NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS,

A COMEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

BY PHILIP MASSINGER, ESQ.

PRINTED FOR BRADFORD AND INSKEEP, NO. 4, SOUTH THIRD-STREET,

PHILADELPHIA; INSKEEP AND BRADFORD, NEW-YORK;

AND WILLIAM M'ILHENNY, BOSTON,

BY SMITH AND M'KENZIE.

1810.

A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Lord Lovell.

Sir Giles Overreach.

Justice Greedy.

Wellborn.

Allworth.

Marall.

Order.

Furnace.

Amble.

Tapwell.

Welldo.

Watchall.

Vintner.

Tailor.

Creditors.

Lady Allworth.

Margaret.

Froth.

Bridget.

Barbara.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--_The Outside of a Village Alehouse._

_Enter_ Wellborn, Tapwell, _and_ Froth, _from the House._

_Wellb._ No liquor? nor no credit?

_Tap._ None, sir, for you;

Not the remainder of a single can,

Left by a drunken porter.

_Froth._ Not the dropping of the tap for your morning's draught, sir:

'Tis verity, I assure you.

_Wellb._ Verity, you brach!

The devil turn'd precisian! Rogue, what am I?

_Tap._ Troth! durst I trust you with a looking-glass,

To let you see your trim shape, you would quit me,

And take the name yourself.

_Wellb._ How? dog!

_Tap._ Even so, sir.

And I must tell you, if you but advance a foot,

There dwells, and within call (if it please your worship,)

A potent monarch, call'd the constable,

That does command a citadel, call'd the stocks;

Such as with great dexterity will haul

Your poor tatter'd----

_Wellb._ Rascal! slave!

_Froth._ No rage, sir.

_Tap._ At his own peril! Do not put yourself

In too much heat; there being no water near

To quench your thirst: and sure, for other liquor,

I take it,

You must no more remember; not in a dream, sir.

_Wellb._ Why, thou unthankful villain, dar'st thou talk thus?

Is not thy house, and all thou hast, my gift?

_Tap._ I find it not in chalk; and Timothy Tapwell

Does keep no other register.

_Wellb._ Am not I he

Whose riots fed and cloth'd thee? Wert thou not

Born on my father's land, and proud to be

A drudge in his house?

_Tap._ What I was, sir, it skills not;

What you are, is apparent. Now, for a farewell:

Since you talk of father, in my hope it will torment you,

I'll briefly tell your story. Your dead father,

My quondam master, was a man of worship;

Old Sir John Wellborn, justice of peace, and quorum;

And stood fair to be custos rotulorum:

Bore the whole sway of the shire; kept a great house:

Reliev'd the poor, and so forth: but he dying,

And the twelve hundred a-year coming to you,

Late Mr. Francis, but now forlorn Wellborn----

_Wellb._ Slave, stop! or I shall lose myself.

_Froth._ Very hardly,

You cannot be out of your way.

_Tap._ But to my story; I shall proceed, sir:

You were then a lord of acres, the prime gallant,

And I your under-butler: note the change now;

You had a merry time of't: Hawks and hounds;

With choice of running horses; mistresses,

And other such extravagancies;

Which your uncle, Sir Giles Overreach, observing,

Resolving not to lose so fair an opportunity,

On foolish mortgages, statutes, and bonds,

For a while supplied your lavishness; and

Having got your land, then left you.

While I, honest Tim Tapwell, with a little stock,

Some forty pounds or so, bought a small cottage;

Humbled myself to marriage with my Froth here;

Gave entertainment----

_Wellb._ Yes, to whores and pickpockets.

_Tap._ True; but they brought in profit;

And had a gift to pay what they call'd for;

And stuck not like your mastership. The poor income

I glean'd from them, hath made me, in my parish,

Thought worthy to be scavenger; and, in time,

May rise to be overseer of the poor:

Which if I do, on your petition, Wellborn,

I may allow you thirteen-pence a quarter;

And you shall thank my worship.

_Wellb._ Thus, you dog-bolt----

And thus---- [_Beats him._

_Tap._ Cry out for help!

_Wellb._ Stir, and thou diest:

Your potent prince, the constable, shall not save you.

Hear me, ungrateful hell-hound! Did not I

Make purses for you? Then you lick'd my boots

And thought your holiday coat too coarse to clean them.

'Twas I, that when I heard thee swear, if ever

Thou couldst arrive at forty pounds, thou wouldst

Live like an emperor; 'twas I that gave it,

In ready gold. Deny this, wretch!

_Tap._ I cannot, sir.

_Wellb._ They are well rewarded

That beggar themselves to make such rascals rich.

Thou viper, thankless viper!

But since you are grown forgetful, I will help

Your memory, and beat thee into remembrance;

Not leave one bone unbroken.

_Tap._ Oh!

_Enter_ Allworth.

_Allw._ Hold; for my sake, hold!

Deny me, Frank? they are not worth your anger?

_Wellb._ For once thou hast redeem'd them from

this sceptre: [_Shaking his Cudgel._

But let them vanish;

For if they grumble, I revoke my pardon.

_Froth._ This comes of your prating, husband! you presum'd

On your ambling wit, and must use your glib tongue,

Though you are beaten lame for't.

_Tap._ Patience, Froth,

There's no law to cure our bruises.

[_They go off into the House._

_Wellb._ Sent for to your mother?

_Allw._ My lady, Frank! my patroness! my all!

She's such a mourner for my father's death,

And, in her love to him, so favours me,

That I cannot pay too much observance to her.

There are few such stepdames.

_Wellb._ 'Tis a noble widow,

And keeps her reputation pure, and clear

From the least taint.

Pr'ythee, tell me

Has she no suitors?

_Allw._ Even the best of the shire, Frank,

My lord excepted: such as sue, and send,

And send, and sue again; but to no purpose.

Their frequent visits have not gain'd her presence;

Yet, she's so far from sullenness and pride,

That, I dare undertake, you shall meet from her

A liberal entertainment.

_Wellb._ I doubt it not: but hear me, Allworth,

And take from me good counsel, I am bound to give it.----

Thy father was my friend; and that affection

I bore to him, in right descends to thee:

Thou art a handsome, and a hopeful youth,

Nor will I have the least affront stick on thee,

If I with any danger can prevent it.

_Allw._ I thank your noble care; but, pray you, in what

Do I run the hazard?

_Wellb._ Art thou not in love?

Put it not off with wonder.

_Allw._ In love?

_Wellb._ You think you walk in clouds, but are transparent.

I have heard all, and the choice that you have made;

And with my finger, can point out the north star,

By which the loadstone of your folly's guided.

And, to confirm this true, what think you of

Fair Margaret, the only child, and heir

Of cormorant Overreach? Dost blush and start,

To hear her only nam'd? Blush at your want

Of wit and reason.

_Allw._ Howe'er you have discovered my intents,

You know my aims are lawful; and if ever

The queen of flowers, the glory of the Spring,

The sweetest comfort to our smell, the rose,

Sprang from an envious briar, I may infer,

There's such disparity in their conditions,

Between the goddess of my soul, the daughter,

And the base churl her father.

_Wellb._ Grant this true,

As I believe it; canst thou ever hope

To enjoy a quiet bed with her, whose father

Ruin'd thy state?

_Allw._ And yours, too.

_Wellb._ I confess it, Allworth. But,

I must tell you as a friend, and freely,

Where impossibilities are apparent.

Canst thou imagine (let not self-love blind thee)

That Sir Giles Overreach (that, to make her great

In swelling titles, without touch of conscience,

Will cut his neighbour's throat, and, I hope, his own too)

Will e'er consent to make her thine? Give o'er,

And think of some course suitable to thy rank,

And prosper in it.

_Allw._ You have well advis'd me.

But, in the meantime, you that are so studious

Of my affairs, wholly neglect your own.

Remember yourself, and in what plight you are.

_Wellb._ No matter! no matter!

_Allw._ Yes, 'tis much material:

You know my fortune, and my means; yet something

I can spare from myself, to help your wants.

_Wellb._ How's this?

_Allw._ Nay, be not angry. There's eight pieces

To put you in better fashion.

_Wellb._ Money from thee?

From a boy? a dependant? one that lives

At the devotion of a step-mother,

And the uncertain favour of a lord?

I'll eat my arms first. Howsoe'er blind Fortune

Hath spent the utmost of her malice on me;

Though I am thrust out of an alehouse,

And thus accoutred; know not where to eat,

Or drink, or sleep, but underneath this canopy;

Although I thank thee, I disdain thy offer.

And as I, in my madness, broke my state,

Without the assistance of another's brain,

In my right wits I'll piece it. At the worst,

Die thus, and be forgotten. [_Exeunt severally._

SCENE II.--_A Chamber in_ Lady Allworth's _House._

_Enter_ Furnace, Amble, Order, _and_ Watchall.

_Order._ Set all things right; or as my name is Order,

Whoever misses in his function,

For one whole week makes forfeiture of his breakfast,

And privilege in the wine-cellar.

_Amble._ You are merry,

Good master steward.

_Fur._ Let him; I'll be angry.

_Amble._ Why, fellow Furnace, 'tis not twelve o'clock yet,

Nor dinner taking up: then 'tis allow'd,

Cooks by their places, may be choleric.

_Fur._ You think you have spoken wisely, goodman Amble,

My lady's go-before.

_Order._ Nay, nay, no wrangling.

_Fur._ Twit me with the authority of the kitchen?

At all hours, and at all places, I'll be angry:

And, thus provok'd, when I am at my prayers

I will be angry.

_Amble._ There was no hurt meant.

_Fur._ I am friends with thee, and yet I will be angry.

_Order._ With whom?

_Fur._ No matter whom: yet, now I think on't,

I'm angry with my lady.

_Amble._ Heaven forbid, man!

_Order._ What cause has she given thee?

_Fur._ Cause enough, master steward:

I was entertained by her to please her palate;

And, till she foreswore eating, I perform'd it.

Now, since our master, noble Allworth, died,

Though I crack'd my brains to find out tempting sauces,

And raise fortifications in the pastry,

When I am three parts roasted,

And the fourth part parboil'd, to prepare her viands,

She keeps her chamber, dines with a panada,

Or water-gruel, my skill never thought on.

_Order._ But your art is seen in the dining room.

_Fur._ By whom?

By such as pretend to love her; but come

To feed upon her. Yet, of all the harpies

That do devour her, I am out of charity

With none so much, as the thin-gutted squire,

That's stolen into commission.

_Order._ Justice Greedy?

_Fur._ The same, the same. Meat's cast away upon him;

It never thrives. He holds this paradox,

Who eats not well, can ne'er do justice well.

His stomach's as insatiate as the grave.

_Watch._ One knocks.

[Allworth _knocks, and enters._

_Order._ Our late young master.

_Amble._ Welcome, sir.

_Fur._ Your hand--

If you have a stomach, a cold bake-meat's ready.

We are all your servants.

_All._ At once, my thanks to all:

This is yet some comfort. Is my lady stirring?

_Enter_ Lady Allworth.

_Order._ Her presence answers for us.

_Lady A._ Sort those silks well.

I'll take the air alone.

_Fur._ You air, and air;

But will never taste but spoon meat more:

To what use serve I?

_Lady A._ Pr'ythee, be not angry,

I shall, ere long: i'th' mean time, there

Is gold for thee.

_Fur._ I am appeas'd--and Furnace now grows cold.

_Lady A._ And, as I gave directions, if this morning

I am visited by any, entertain them

As heretofore: but say, in my excuse,

I am indispos'd.

_Order._ I shall, madam.

_Lady A._ Do, and leave me.

[_Exeunt_ Order, Amble, Watchall _and_ Furnace.

Nay, stay you, Allworth.

_Allw._ I shall gladly grow here,

To wait on your commands.

_Lady A._ So soon turn'd courtier?

_Allw._ Style not that courtship, madam, which is duty,

Purchased on your part.

_Lady A._ Well, you shall o'ercome;

I'll not contend in words. How is it

With your noble master?

_Allw._ Ever like himself.

No scruple lessen'd in the full weight of honour:

He did command me (pardon my presumption),

As his unworthy deputy,

To kiss your ladyship's fair hands.

_Lady A._ I am honour'd in

His favour to me. Does he hold his purpose

For the Low Countries?

_Allw._ Constantly, good madam:

But he will, in person, first present his service.

_Lady A._ And how approve you of his course? You are yet

Like virgin parchment, capable of any

Inscription, vitious or honourable.

I will not force your will, but leave you free

To your own election.

_Allw._ Any form you please

I will put on: but might I make my choice,

With humble emulation, I would follow

The path my lord marks to me.

_Lady A._ 'Tis well answer'd,

And I commend your spirit: you had a father,

(Bless'd be his memory) that some few hours

Before the will of Heaven took him from me,

Did commend you, by the dearest ties

Of perfect love between us, to my charge:

And, therefore, what I speak, you are bound to hear

With such respect, as if he liv'd in me.

_Allw._ I have found you,

Most honour'd madam, the best mother to me;

And with my utmost strength of care and service,

Will labour that you never may repent

Your bounties shower'd upon me.

_Lady A._ I much hope it.

These were your father's words: If e'er my son

Follow the war, tell him it is a school

Where all the principles tending to honour

Are taught, if truly follow'd: But for such

As repair thither, as a place in which

They do presume, they may with license practise

Their lusts and riots, they shall never merit

The noble name of soldiers. To dare boldly

In a fair cause, and for the country's safety,

To run upon the cannon's mouth undaunted;

To obey their leaders, and shun mutinies;

To bear with patience the winter's cold,

And summer's scorching heat--

Are the essential parts make up a soldier;

Not swearing, dice, or drinking.

_Allw._ There's no syllable

You speak, but it is to me an oracle;

Which but to doubt were impious.

_Lady A._ To conclude--

Beware ill company; for, often, men

Are like to those with whom they do converse:

And from one man I warn you, and that's Wellborn:

Not cause he's poor, that rather claims your pity;

But that he's in his manners so debauch'd,

And hath to vitious courses sold himself.

'Tis true your father lov'd him, while he was

Worthy the loving; but, if he had liv'd

To have seen him as he is, he had cast him off,

As you must do.

_Allw._ I shall obey in all things.

_Lady A._ Follow me to my chamber; you shall have gold

To furnish you like my son, and still supplied

As I hear from you. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.--_A Hall in Lady_ Allworth's _House._

_Enter_ Overreach, Greedy, Order, Amble, Furnace, Watchall, _and_

Marall.

_Greedy._ Not to be seen?

_Sir G._ Still cloister'd up?--Her reason,

I hope, assures her, though she makes herself

Close prisoner for ever for her husband's loss,

'Twill not recover him.

_Order._ Sir, it is her will:

Which we, that are her servants, ought to serve,

And not dispute. Howe'er, you are nobly welcome:

And if you please to stay, that you may think so,

There came, not six days since, from Hull, a pipe

Of rich Canary; which shall spend itself

For my lady's honour.

_Greedy._ Is it of the right race?

_Order._ Yes, Mr. Greedy.

_Amble._ How his mouth runs o'er!

_Fur._ I'll make it run, and run. 'Save your good worship!

_Greedy._ Honest Mr. Cook, thy hand; again!--How I love thee!

Are the good dishes still in being? speak, boy.

_Fur._ If you have a mind to feed there is a chine

Of beef, well season'd.

_Greedy._ Good.

_Fur._ A pheasant larded--

_Greedy._ That I might now give thanks for't!

_Fur._ Other kickshaws.

Besides, there came last night, from the forest of Sherwood,

The fattest stag I ever cook'd.

_Greedy._ A stag, man?

_Fur._ A stag, sir; part of it is prepar'd for dinner,

And bak'd in puff-paste.

_Greedy._ Puff-paste too, Sir Giles!

A ponderous chine of beef! a pheasant larded!

And red deer too, Sir Giles, and bak'd in puff-paste!

All business set aside, let us give thanks here.

_Sir G._ You know, we cannot.

_Mar._ Your worships are to sit on a commission,

And if you fail to come, you lose the cause.

_Greedy_ Cause me no causes: I'll prove't, for such a dinner,

We may put off a commission; you shall find it

_Henrici decimo quarto_.

_Sir G._ Fie, Mr. Greedy!

Will you lose me a thousand pounds for a dinner?

No more, for shame! We must forget the belly,

When we think of profit.

_Greedy_ Well, you shall o'er-rule me.

I could even cry now. Do you hear, Mr. Cook?

Send but a corner of that immortal pasty;

And I, in thankfulness, will, by your boy,

Send you a brace of three-pences.

_Fur._ Will you be so prodigal?

_Sir G._ Remember me to your lady.

_Enter_ Wellborn.

Who have we here?

_Wellb._ Don't you know me?

_Sir G._ I did once, but now I will not;

Thou art no blood of mine. Avaunt, thou beggar!

If ever thou presume to own me more,

I'll have thee cag'd and whipt.

_Greedy._ I'll grant the warrant. [_Exit_ Marall.

I do love thee, Furnace,

E'en as I do malmsey in a morning.

Think of pye-corner, Furnace!

[_Exeunt_ Sir Giles _and_ Greedy.

_Watch._ Will you out, sir?

I wonder how you durst creep in.

_Order._ This is rudeness,

And saucy impudence.

_Amble._ Cannot you stay

To be serv'd among your fellows from the basket,

But you must press into the hall?

_Fur._ Pr'ythee, vanish

Into some outhouse, though it be the pigsty;

My scullion shall come to thee.

_Enter_ Allworth.

_Wellb._ This is rare:

Oh, here is Tom Allworth! Tom!

_Allw._ We must be strangers;

Nor would I have seen you here for a million.

[_Exit._

_Wellb._ Better and better. He contemns me too.

_Enter_ Woman _and_ Chambermaid.

_Woman._ Oh! what a smell's here? What thing is this?

_Cham._ Oh! a filthy creature!

Let us hence, for love's sake, or I shall swoon!

_Woman._ I begin to faint, too. [_Exeunt._

_Watch._ Will you know your way?

_Amble._ Or shall we teach it you,

By the head and shoulders?

_Wellb._ No; I will not stir:

Do you mark, I will not. Let me see the wretch

That dares attempt to force me. Why, you slaves

Created only to make legs, and cringe;

To carry in a dish, and shift a trencher;

That have not souls to hope a blessing

Beyond your master's leavings; you that were born

Only to consume meat and drink;

Who advances? Who shows me the way?

_Order._ Here comes my lady.

_Enter_ Lady Allworth.

_Lady A._ What noise is this?

_Wellb._ Madam, my designs bear me to you.

_Lady A._ To me?

_Wellb._ And though I have met with

But ragged entertainment from your groom here,

I hope from you to receive that noble usage,

As may become the true friend of your husband;

And then I shall forget these.

_Lady A._ I am amaz'd,

To see and hear this rudeness. Dar'st thou think,

Though sworn, that it can ever find belief,

That I, who to the best men of this country

Denied my presence since my husband's death,

Can fall so low as to change words with thee?

_Wellb._ Scorn me not, good lady;

But, as in form you are angelical,

Imitate the heavenly natures, and vouchsafe

At least awhile to hear me. You will grant,

The blood that runs in this arm is as noble

As that which fills your veins; your swelling titles,

Equipage and fortune; your men's observance,

And women's flattery, are in you no virtues;

Nor these rags, with my poverty, in me vices.

You have a fair fame, and, I know, deserve it;

Yet, lady, I must say, in nothing more

Than in the pious sorrow you have shown

For your late noble husband.

_Order._ How she starts!

_Wellb._ That husband, madam, was once in his fortune,

Almost as low as I. Want, debts, and quarrels,

Lay heavy on him: let it not be thought

A boast in me, though I say, I reliev'd him.

'Twas I that gave him fashion; mine the sword

That did on all occasions second his;

I brought him on and off with honour, lady:

And when in all men's judgments he was sunk,

And in his own hopes not to be buoyed up;

I stepp'd unto him, took him by the hand,

And brought him to the shore.

_Fur._ Are not we base rogues

That could forget this?

_Wellb._ I confess you made him

Master of your estate; nor could your friends.

Though he brought no wealth with him, blame you for't:

For he had a shape, and to that shape a mind

Made up of all parts, either great or noble,

So winning a behaviour, not to be

Resisted, madam.

_Lady A._ 'Tis most true, he had.

_Wellb._ For his sake then, in that I was his friend,

Do not contemn me.

_Lady A._ For what's past excuse me;

I will redeem it.

Order, give this gentleman an hundred pounds.

_Wellb._ Madam, on no terms:

I will not beg nor borrow sixpence of you;

But be supplied elsewhere, or want thus ever.

Only one suit I make, which you deny not

To strangers; and 'tis this: pray give me leave.

[_Whispers to her._

_Order._ [_Aside._] What means this, I trow?

_Fur._ Mischief to us, if he has malice

To return our favour to him.

_Order._ Be still, and let us mark.

_Lady A._ Fie, nothing else?

_Wellb._ Nothing; unless you please to charge your servants

To throw away a little respect upon me.

_Lady A._ What you demand is yours.

If you have said all,

When you please you may retire.

_Wellb._ I thank you, lady.

[_Exit_ Lady Allworth.

Now what can be wrought out of such a suit,

Is yet in supposition. [Servants _bow_,] Nay, all's forgotten, all

forgiven.

_All._ Good, dear, sweet, merry Mr. Wellborn!

_Exit_ Servants.

_Wellb._ 'Faith, a right worthy and a liberal lady,

Who can, at once, so kindly meet my purposes,

And brave the flouts of censure, to redeem

Her husband's friend! When, by this honest plot,

The world believes she means to heal my wants

With her extensive wealth, each noisy creditor

Will be struck mute, and I be left at large

To practise on my uncle Overreach;

Whose foul, rapacious spirit, (on the hearing

Of my encouragement from this rich lady,)

Again will court me to his house and patronage.

Here I may work the measure to redeem

My mortgag'd fortune, which he stripped me of,

When youth and dissipation quell'd my reason.

The fancy pleases--if the plot succeed,

'Tis a new way to pay old debts indeed!

[_Exit._

ACT II.

SCENE I.--Sir Giles's _House_.

_Enter_ Sir Giles Overreach _and_ Marall.

_Sir G._ He's gone, I warrant thee; this commission crush'd him.

_Mar._ Your worship has the way on't, and ne'er miss

To squeeze these unthrifts into air; and yet

The chap-fallen justice did his part, returning

For your advantage the certificate,

Against his conscience and his knowledge too;

(With your good favour) to the utter ruin

Of the poor farmer.

_Sir G._ 'Twas for these good ends

I made him a justice. He, that bribes his belly,

Is certain to command his soul.

_Mar._ I wonder.

Why, your worship having

The power to put this thin-gut in commission,

You are not in't yourself.

_Sir G._ Thou art a fool:

In being out of office, I am out of danger;

Where, if I were a justice, besides the trouble,

I might, or out of wilfulness, or error,

Run myself finely into a praemunire:

And so become a prey to the informer.

No, I'll have none of't: 'tis enough I keep

Greedy at my devotion: so he serve

My purposes, let him hang, or damn, I care not;

Friendship is but a word.

_Mar._ You are all wisdom.

_Sir G._ I would be worldly wise; for the other wisdom,

That does prescribe us a well-govern'd life,

And to do right to others, as ourselves,

I value not an atom.

_Mar._ What course take you,

(With your good patience) to hedge in the manor

Of your neighbour, Mr. Frugal? As 'tis said,

He will not sell, nor borrow, nor exchange;

And his land lying in the midst of your many lordships,

Is a foul blemish.

_Sir. G._ I have thought on't, Marall;

And it shall take. I must have all men sellers,

And I the only purchaser.

_Mar._ 'Tis most fit, sir.

_Sir G._ I'll, therefore, buy some cottage near his manor;

Which done, I'll make my men break ope' his fences,

Ride o'er his standing corn, and in the night

Set fire to his barns, or break his cattle's legs.

These trespasses draw on suits, and suits, expenses;

Which I can spare, but will soon beggar him.

When I have hurried him thus, two or three years,

Though he was sue forma pauperis, in spite

Of all his thrift and care, he'll grow behind hand.

_Mar._ The best I ever heard! I could adore you!

_Sir G._ Then, with the favour of my man of law,

I will pretend some title; want will force him

To put it to arbitrement; then, if he sell

For half the value, he shall have ready money,

And I possess the land.

_Mar._ Wellborn was apt to sell, and needed not

These fine arts, sir, to hook him in.

_Sir G._ Well thought on.

This varlet, Wellborn, lives too long, to upbraid me

With my close cheat put upon him. Will nor cold

Nor hunger kill him?

_Mar._ I know not what to think on't.

I have us'd all means; and the last night I caus'd

His host, the tapster, to turn him out of doors;

And have been since with all your friends and tenants,

And on the forfeit of your favour, charg'd them,

Tho' a crust of mouldy bread would keep him from starving,

Yet they should not relieve him.

_Sir G._ That was something, Marall, but thou must go farther;

And suddenly, Marall.

_Mar._ Where, and when you please, sir.

_Sir G._ I would have thee seek him out; and, if thou canst,

Persuade him, that 'tis better steal, than beg;

Then, if I prove he has but robb'd a henroost,

Not all the world shall save him from the gallows.

Do anything to work him to despair,

And 'tis thy masterpiece.

_Mar._ I will do my best, sir.

_Sir G._ I am now on my main work, with the Lord Lovell;

The gallant-minded, popular Lord Lovell,

The minion of the people's love. I hear

He's come into the country; and my aims are

To insinuate myself into his knowledge,

And then invite him to my house.

_Mar._ I have you.

This points at my young mistress.

_Sir G._ She must part with

That humble title, and write honourable;

Right honourable, Marall; my right honourable daughter;

If all I have, or e'er shall get, will do it.

I will have her well attended; there are ladies

Of errant knights decay'd, and brought so low,

That, for cast clothes, and meat, will gladly serve her.

And 'tis my glory, though I come from the city,

To have their issue, whom I have undone,

To kneel to mine, as bond slaves.

_Mar._ 'Tis fit state, sir.

_Sir G._ And, therefore, I'll not have a chambermaid

That ties her shoes, or any meaner office,

But such, whose fathers were right worshipful.

'Tis a rich man's pride! there having ever been

More than a feud, a strange antipathy,

Between us, and true gentry.

_Enter_ Wellborn.

_Mar._ See! who's here, sir?

_Sir G._ Hence, monster! prodigy!

_Wellb._ Call me what you will, I am your nephew, sir.

_Sir G._ Avoid my sight! thy breath's infectious, rogue!

I shun thee as a leprosy, or the plague.

Come hither, Marall, this is the time to work him.

_Mar._ I warrant you, sir.

[_Exit_ Sir Giles Overreach.

_Wellb._ By this light, I think he's mad.

_Mar._ Mad! had you took compassion on yourself,

You long since had been mad.

_Wellb._ You have took a course,

Between you and my venerable uncle,

To make me so.

_Mar._ The more pale-spirited you,

That would not be instructed. I swear deeply.

_Wellb._ By what?

_Mar._ By my religion.

_Wellb._ Thy religion!

The devil's creed: but what would you have done?

_Mar._ Before, like you, I had outliv'd my fortunes,

A withe had serv'd my turn to hang myself.

I am zealous in your cause: 'pray you, hang yourself;

And presently, as you love your credit.

_Wellb._ I thank you.

_Mar._ Will you stay till you die in a ditch?

Or, if you dare not do the fate yourself,

But that you'll put the state to charge and trouble,

Is there no purse to be cut? house to be broken?

Or market-woman, with eggs, that you may murder,

And so despatch the business?

_Wellb._ Here's variety,

I must confess; but I'll accept of none

Of all your gentle offers, I assure you.

_Mar._ If you like not hanging, drown yourself; take some course

For your reputation.

_Wellb._ 'Twill not do, dear tempter,

With all the rhetoric the fiend hath taught you.

I am as far as thou art from despair.

Nay, I have confidence, which is more than hope,

To live, and suddenly, better than ever.

_Mar._ Ha! ha! these castles you build in the air

Will not persuade me, or to give, or lend

A token to you.

_Wellb._ I'll be more kind to thee.

Come, thou shalt dine with me.

_Mar._ With you?

_Wellb._ Nay, more, dine gratis.

_Mar._ Under what hedge, I pray you? or, at whose cost?

Are they padders, or gipsies, that are your consorts?

_Wellb._ Thou art incredulous; but thou shalt dine,

Not alone at her house, but with a gallant lady;

With me, and with a lady.

_Mar._ Lady! what lady?

With the lady of the lake, or queen of fairies?

For I know it must be an enchanted dinner.

_Wellb._ With the Lady Allworth, knave.

_Mar._ Nay, now there's hope

Thy brain is crack'd.

_Wellb._ Mark there, with what respect

I am entertain'd.

_Mar._ With choice, no doubt, of dog-whips.

Why, dost thou ever hope to pass her porter?

_Wellb._ 'Tis not far off, go with me: trust thine own eyes.

_Mar._ Troth, in my hope, or my assurance, rather,

To see thee curvet, and mount like a dog in a blanket,

If ever thou presume to pass her threshold,

I will endure thy company.

_Wellb._ Come along. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_A Hall in_ Lady Allworth's _House_.

_Enter_ Allworth, Order, Amble, _and_ Watchall.

_Allw._ Your courtesies overwhelm me: I much grieve

To part from this house, and yet, I find comfort;

My attendance on my honourable lord,

Whose resolution holds to visit my lady,

Will speedily bring me back.

[_Knocking at the Gate._ Marall _and_ Wellborn _within_.

_Mar._ Dar'st thou venture farther?

_Wellb._ Yes, yes, and knock again.

_Order._ 'Tis he; disperse; 'tis Mr. Wellborn.

_Fur._ I know my cue, ne'er doubt me.

[_Exeunt_ Amble _and_ Furnice.

_Enter_ Marall _and_ Wellborn.

_Order._ You were long since expected.

Most welcome, sir.

_Wellb._ Say so much

To my friend, I pray you.

_Order._ For your sake, I will, sir. [_Exit._

_Mar._ For his sake!

_Wellb._ Mum! this is nothing.

_Mar._ More than ever

I would have believed, though I had found it in my primer.

_Allw._ When I have given you reasons for my late harshness,

You'll pardon, and excuse me: for, believe me;

Tho' now I part abruptly in my service,

I will deserve it.

_Mar._ Service! with a vengeance!

_Wellb._ I am satisfied: farewell, Tom.

_Allw._ All joy stay with you.

[_Exit_ Allworth.

_Enter_ Amble.

_Amble._ You are happily encounter'd: I never yet

Presented one so welcome, as I know

You will be to my lady.

_Mar._ This is some vision;

Or, sure, these men are mad, to worship a dung-hill;

It cannot be a truth.

_Wellb._ Be still a pagan,

An unbelieving infidel; be so, miscreant,

And meditate on blankets, and on dog-whips.

_Enter_ Furnace.

_Fur._ I am glad you are come; until I know your pleasure,

I knew not how to serve up my lady's dinner.

_Mar._ His pleasure! is it possible? [_Aside._

_Wellb._ What's thy will?

_Fur._ Marry, sir, I have some growse and turkey chicken,

Some rails and quails; and my lady will'd me to ask you,

What kind of sauces best affect your palate,

That I may use my utmost skill to please it.

_Mar._ The devil's enter'd this cook: sauce for his palate!

That on my knowledge, for a most this twelve-month,

Durst wish but cheese-parings, and brown bread on Sundays.

_Wellb._ That way I like them best.

_Fur._ It shall be done, sir. [_Exit_ Furnace.

_Wellb._ What think you of the hedge we shall dine under?

Shall we feed gratis?

_Mar._ I know not what to think:

Pray you, make me not mad.

_Enter_ Order.

_Order._ This place becomes you not:

'Pray you, walk sir, to the dining room.

_Wellb._ I am well here,

Till her ladyship quits her chamber.

_Mar._ Well here, say you!

'Tis a rare change! but yesterday, you thought

Yourself well in a barn, wrapp'd up in pease-straw.

_Enter_ Woman _and_ Chambermaid.

_Wom._ O sir, you are wish'd for.

_Chamb._ My lady dreamt, sir, of you.

_Wom._ And the first command she gave

After she rose, was to give her notice

When you approached here.

_Order._ Sir, my lady.

_Exit._

_Enter_ Lady Allworth.--_Salutes him._

_Lady A._ I come to meet you, and languished till I saw you.

This first kiss for form: I allow a second,

As token of my friendship.

_Mar._ Heaven bless me!

_Wellb._ I am wholly yours; yet, madam, if you please

To grace this gentleman with a salute----

_Mar._ Salute me at his bidding!

_Wellb._ I shall receive it

As a most high favour. [_To_ Marall.

_Lady A._ Sir, your friends are welcome to me.

_Wellb._ Run backward from a lady! and such a lady!

_Mar._ To kiss her foot, is to poor me, a favour

I am unworthy of. [_Offers to kiss her Foot._

_Lady A._ Nay, pray you rise;

And since you are so humble, I'll exalt you:

You shall dine with me to-day at mine own table.

_Mar._ Your ladyship's table! I am not good enough

To sit at your steward's.

_Lady A._ You are too modest:

I will not be denied.

_Enter_ Order.

_Order._ Dinner is ready for your ladyship.

_Lady A._ Your arm, Mr. Wellborn:

Nay, keep us company.

_Mar._ I was never so grac'd. Mercy on me!

[_Exeunt_ Wellborn, Lady Allworth, Amble, _and_ Marall.

_Enter_ Furnace.

_Order._ So, we have play'd our parts, and are come off well.

But if I know the mystery, why my lady

Consented to it, or why Mr. Wellborn

Desir'd it, may I perish!

_Fur._ 'Would I had

The roasting of his heart, that cheated him,

And forces the poor gentleman to these shifts!

Of all the griping and extorting tyrants

I ever heard or read of, I never met

A match to Sir Giles Overreach.

_Watch._ What will you take

To tell him so, fellow Furnace?

_Fur._ Just as much

As my throat is worth, for that would be the price on't.

To have a usurer that starves himself,

And wears a cloak of one and twenty years

On a suit of fourteen groats, bought of the hangman,

To grow rich, is too common:

But this Sir Giles feeds high, keeps many servants,

Who must at his command do any outrage;

Rich in his habit; vast in his expenses;

Yet he to admiration still increases

In wealth and lordships.

_Order._ He frights men out of their estates,

And breaks through all law-nets, made to curb ill men,

As they were cobwebs. No man dares reprove him.

Such a spirit to dare, and power to do, were never

Lodg'd so unluckily.

_Enter_ Amble.

_Amble._ Ha! ha! I shall burst.

_Order._ Contain thyself, man.

_Fur._ Or make us partakers

Of your sudden mirth.

_Amble._ Ha! ha! my lady has got

Such a guest at her table, this term-driver, Marall,

This snip of an attorney.

_Fur._ What of him, man?

_Amble._ The knave stinks, and feeds so slovenly!

_Fur._ Is this all?

_Amble._ My lady

Drank to him for fashion's sake, or to please Mr. Wellborn,

As I live, he rises, and takes up a dish,

In which there were some remnants of a boil'd capon,

And pledges her in white broth.

And when I brought him wine,

He leaves his chair, and after a leg or two,

Most humbly thanks my worship.

_Order._ Rose already!

_Amble._ I shall be chid.

_Enter_ Lady Allworth, Wellborn, _and_ Marall.

_Fur._ My lady frowns.

_Lady A._ You attended us well.

Let me have no more of this: I observ'd your leering.

Sirrah, I'll have you know, whom I think worthy

To sit at my table, be he ne'er so mean,

When I am present, is not your companion.

_Order._ Nay, she'll preserve what's due to her.

_Lady A._ You are master

Of your own will. I know so much of manners

As not to inquire your purposes; in a word,

To me you are ever welcome, as to a house

That is your own.

_Wellb._ Mark that.

_Mar._ With reverence, sir,

And it like your worship.

_Wellb._ Trouble yourself no farther,

Dear madam; my heart's full of zeal and service.

However in my language I am sparing.

Come, Mr. Marall.

_Mar._ I attend your worship.

[_Exeunt_ Wellborn _and_ Marall.

_Lady A._ I see in your looks you are sorry, and you know me

An easy mistress: be merry! I have forgot all.

Order and Furnace, come with me; I must give you

Farther directions. [_Exit._

_Order._ What you please.

_Fur._ We are ready. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.--_The Country._

_Enter_ Wellborn _and_ Marall.

_Wellb._ I think I am in a good way.

_Mar._ Good sir, the best way;

The certain best way.

_Wellb._ There are casualties

That men are subject to.

_Mar._ You are above 'em:

As you are already worshipful,

I hope, ere long, you will increase in worship,

And be right worshipful.

_Wellb._ Pr'thee do not flout me,

What I shall be, I shall be. Is't for your ease,

You keep your hat off.

_Mar._ Ease, and it like your worship!

I hope Jack Marall shall not live so long,

To prove himself such an unmannerly beast,

Though it hail hazel nuts, as to be covered,

When your worship's present.

_Wellb._ Is not this a true rogue, [_Aside._

That out of mere hope of a future coz'nage

Can turn thus suddenly? 'tis rank already.

_Mar._ I know your worship's wise, and needs no counsel:

Yet if in my desire to do you service,

I humbly offer my advice (but still

Under correction), I hope I shall not

Incur your high displeasure.

_Wellb._ No; speak freely.

_Mar._ Then in my judgment, sir, my simple judgment,

(Still with your worship's favour) I could wish you

A better habit, for this cannot be

But much distasteful to the noble lady

That loves you: I have twenty pounds here,

Which, out of my true love, I presently

Lay down at your worship's feet; 'twill serve to buy you

A riding suit.

_Wellb._ But Where's the horse?

_Mar._ My gelding

Is at your service: nay, you shall ride me,

Before your worship shall be put to the trouble

To walk a-foot. Alas! when you are lord

Of this lady's manor (as I know you will be),

You may with the lease of glebe land,

Requite your vassal.

_Wellb._ I thank thy love; but must make no use of it.

What's twenty pounds?

_Mar._ 'Tis all that I can make, sir.

_Wellb._ Dost thou think, though I want clothes, I could not have 'em,

For one word to my lady?

_Mar._ As I know not that--

_Wellb._ Come, I'll tell thee a secret, and so leave thee.

I'll not give her the advantage, tho' she be

A gallant-minded lady, after we are married

To hit me in the teeth, and say she was forc'd

To buy my wedding clothes,

Or took me with a plain suit, and an ambling nag,

No, I'll be furnish'd something like myself.

And so farewell; for thy suit touching the glebe land,

When it is mine, 'tis thine.

_Mar._ I thank your worship. [_Exit_ Wellborn.

How was I cozen'd in the calculation

Of this man's fortune! my master cozen'd too,

Whose pupil I am in the art of undoing men;

For that is our profession. Well, well, Mr. Wellborn,

You are of a sweet nature, and fit again to be cheated:

Which, if the fates please, when you are possess'd

Of the land and lady, you, sans question, shall be.

I'll presently think of the means.

[_Walks by, musing._

_Enter_ Sir Giles Overreach.

_Sir G._ Sirrah, take my horse;

I'll walk to get me an appetite. 'Tis but a mile;

And exercise will keep me from being pursy.

Ha! Marall! is he conjuring? Perhaps

The knave has wrought the prodigal to do

Some outrage on himself, and now he feels

Compunction in his conscience for't: no matter,

So it be done. Marall!

_Mar._ Sir!

_Sir G._ How succeed we

In our plot on Wellborn?

_Mar._ Never better, sir.

_Sir G._ Has he hang'd, or drown'd himself?

_Mar._ No sir, he lives,

Lives once more to be made a prey to you:

And greater prey than ever.

_Sir G._ Art thou in thy wits?

If thou art, reveal this miracle, and briefly.

_Mar._ A lady, sir, has fall'n in love with him.

_Sir G._ With him! What lady?

_Mar._ The rich Lady Allworth.

_Sir G._ Thou dolt! how darst thou speak this?

_Mar._ I speak true;

And I do so but once a year: unless

It be to you, sir. We din'd with her ladyship:

I thank his worship.

_Sir G._ His worship!

_Mar._ As I live, sir,

I din'd with him, at the great lady's table,

Simple as I stand here; and saw when she kiss'd him;

And, at his request, welcom'd me too.

_Sir G._ Why, thou rascal,

To tell me these impossibilities:

Dine at her table! and kiss him!

Impudent varlet! Have not I myself,

To whom great countesses' doors have oft flown open,

Ten times attempted, since her husband's death,

In vain to see her, tho' I came--a suitor?

And yet your good solicitorship, and rogue Wellborn,

Were brought into her presence, feasted with her.

But that I know thee a dog that cannot blush,

This most incredible lie would call up one into

Thy cheeks.

_Mar._ Shall I not trust my eyes, sir?

Or taste? I feel her good cheer in my belly.

_Sir G._ You shall feel me, if you give not over, sirrah!

Recover your brains again, and be no more gull'd

With a beggar's plot, assisted by the aids

Of serving men; and chambermaids; for, beyond these,

Thou never saw'st a woman; or, I'll quit you

From my employments.

_Mar._ Will you credit this, yet?

On my confidence of their marriage, I offered Wellborn

(I would give a crown now, I durst say his worship [_Aside._

My nag, and twenty pounds.

_Sir G._ Did you so? [_Strikes him down._

Was this the way to work him to despair,

Or rather to cross me?

_Mar._ Will your worship kill me?

_Sir G._ No, no; but drive the lying spirit out of you.

_Mar._ He's gone.

_Sir G._ I have done, then. Now forgetting

Your late imaginary feast and lady,

Know, my Lord Lovell dines with me tomorrow:

Be careful, not be wanting to receive him;

And bid my daughter's women trim her up,

Tho' they paint her, so she catch the lord, I'll thank 'em.

There's a piece for my late blows.

_Mar._ I must yet suffer:

But there may be a time-- [_Aside._

_Sir G._ Do you grumble?

_Mar._ O no, sir. [_Exeunt._

ACT. III.

SCENE I.--_The Country._

_Enter_ Lovell _and_ Allworth.

_Lov._ Drive the carriage down the hill: something in private

I must impart to Allworth.

_Allw._ O, my lord!

What sacrifice of reverence, duty, watching;

Although I could put off the use of sleep,

And ever wait on your commands to serve 'em.

What danger, tho' in ne'er so horrid shapes,

Nay death itself, though I should run to meet it,

Can I, and with a thankful willingness, suffer:

But still the retribution will fall short

Of your bounties shower'd upon me.

_Lov._ Loving youth,

Till what I purpose be put into act,

Do not o'erprize it: since you have trusted me

With your soul's nearest, nay, her dearest secret,

Rest confident, 'tis in a cabinet lock'd,

Treachery shall never open. I have found you

More zealous in your love and service to me

Than I have been in my rewards.

_Allw._ Still great ones,

Above my merit. You have been

More like a father to me than a master.

'Pray you pardon the comparison.

_Lov._ I allow it;

And give you assurance I'm pleas'd in't.

My carriage and demeanour to your mistress.

Fair Margaret shall truly witness for me,

I can command my passion.

_Allw._ 'Tis a conquest

Few lords can boast of when they are tempted--Oh!

_Lov._ So young, and jealous!

_Allw._ Were you to encounter with a single foe,

The victory were certain: but to stand

The charge of two such potent enemies,

At once assaulting you, as wealth and beauty,

And those two seconded with power, is odds

Too great for Hurcules.

Hippolitus himself would leave Diana,

To follow such a Venus.

_Lov._ Love hath made you

Poetical, Allworth.

How far is it

To Overreach's?

_Allw._ At the most, some half hour's riding;

You'll soon be there.

_Lov._ And you the sooner freed

From your jealous fears.

_Allw._ Oh that I durst but hope it! [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_A Hall in Sir Giles's house._

_Enter_ Sir Giles Overreach, Greedy _and_ Marall.

_Sir G._ Spare for no cost, let my dressers crack with the weight

Of curious viands.

_Greedy._ Store indeed's no sore, sir.

_Sir G._ That proverb fits your stomach, Mr. Greedy.

_Greedy._ It does indeed, Sir Giles.

I do not like to see a table ill spread,

Poor, meager, just sprinkled o'er with salads,

Slic'd beef, giblets, and pigs' pettitoes.

But the substantials--Oh! Sir Giles the substantials!

The state of a fat Turkey now,

The decorum, the grandeur he marches in with.

Then his sauce, with oranges and onions,

O, I declare, I do much honour a chine of beef!

O lord! I do reverence a loin of veal!

_Sir G._ You shall have your will, Mr. Greedy.

And let no plate be seen, but what's pure gold,

Or such, whose workmanship exceeds the matter

That it is made of; let my choicest linen

Perfume the room; and when we wash, the water

With precious powders mix, to please my lord,

That he may with envy wish to bathe so ever.

_Mar._ 'Twill be very chargeable.

_Sir G._ Avaunt, you drudge!

Now all my labour'd ends are at the stake,

Is't time to think of thrift? Call in my daughter.

_Exit_ Marall.

And, master of justice, since you love choice dishes,

And plenty of 'em----

_Greedy._ As I do indeed, sir.

Almost as much as to give thanks for 'em--

_Sir G._ I do confer that province, with my power

Of absolute command, to have abundance,

To your best care.

_Greedy._ I'll punctually discharge it,

And give the best direction. [Sir Giles _retires_.]--Now am I,

In mine own conceit, a monarch, at the least,

Arch president of the boil'd, the roast, the baked;

I would not change my empire for the great Mogul's,

Mercy on me, how I lack food! my belly

Is grown together like an empty satchell.

What an excellent thing did Heaven bestow on man,

When she did give him a good stomach!

It is of all blessings much the greatest.

I will eat often and give thanks

When my belly's brac'd up like a drum, and that's pure justice.

_Exit._

_Sir G._ It must be so. Should the foolish girl prove modest,

She may spoil all; she had it not from me,

But from her mother: I was ever forward,

As she must be, and therefore I'll prepare her. Margaret!

_Enter_ Margaret.

_Marg._ Your pleasure, sir?

_Sir G._ Ha! this is a neat dressing!

These orient pearls, and diamonds well plac'd too!

The gown affects me not; it should have been

Embroider'd o'er and o'er with flowers of gold;

But these rich jewels and quaint fashion help it.

How like you your new woman, the Lady Downfall'n!

_Marg._ Well for a companion:

Not as a servant.

_Sir G._ Is she humble, Meg?

And careful too, her ladyship forgotten?

_Marg._ I pity her fortune.

_Sir G._ Pity her! trample on her.

I took her up in an old tatter'd gown

(E'en starv'd for want of food), to serve thee;

And if I understand she but repines

To do thee any duty, though ne'er so servile,

I'll pack her to her knight, where I have lodg'd him,

In the country, and there let them howl together.

_Marg._ You know your own ways; but for me, I blush

When I command her that was once attended

With persons not inferior to myself

In birth.

_Sir G._ In birth! Why, art thou not my daughter,

The blest child of my industry and wealth?

Why, foolish girl, was't not to make thee great,

That I have run, and still pursue those ways

That hale down curses on me, which I mind not?

Part with these humble thoughts, and apt thyself

To the noble state I labour to advance thee;

Or, by my hopes to see thee honourable,

I will adopt a stranger to my heir,

And throw thee from my care; do not provoke me.

_Marg._ I will not, sir; mould me which way

you please.

_Enter_ Greedy.

_Sir G._ How! interrupted?

_Greedy._ 'Tis matter of importance.

The cook, sir, is self-will'd, and will not learn

From my experience. There's a fawn brought in, sir,

And for my life, I cannot make him roast it

With a Norfolk dumpling in the belly of it:

And, sir, we wise men know, without the dumpling

'Tis not worth three pence.

_Sir G._ 'Would it were whole in thy belly,

To stuff it out; cook it any way--pr'ythee, leave me.

_Greedy._ Without order for the dumpling?

_Sir. G._ Let it be dumpled

Which way thou wilt: or, tell him I will scald him

In his own cauldron.

_Greedy._ I had lost my stomach,

Had I lost my mistress's dumpling; I'll give ye thanks for't.

_Exit._

_Sir G._ But to our business, Meg; you have heard who dines here?

_Marg._ I have, sir.

_Sir G._ 'Tis an honourable man.

A lord, Meg, and commands a regiment

Of soldiers; and what's rare, is one himself;

A bold and understanding one; and to be

A lord, and a good leader in one volume,

Is granted unto few, but such as rise up,

The kingdom's glory.

_Enter_ Greedy.

_Greedy._ I'll resign my office,

If I be not better obey'd.

_Sir G._ 'Slight, art thou frantic?

_Greedy._ Frantic! 'twould make me frantic and stark mad,

Were I not a justice of peace and quorum too,

Which this rebellious cook cares not a straw for.

There are a dozen of woodcocks,

For which he has found out

A new device for sauce, and will not dish 'em

With toast and butter.

_Sir G._ Cook, rogue, obey him.

I have given the word, pray you, now, remove yourself

To a collar of brawn, and trouble me no farther.

_Greedy._ I will; and meditate what to eat at dinner,

For my guts have been in the kitchen this half hour. [_Exit._

_Sir G._ And, as I said, Meg, when this gull disturb'd us,

This honourable lord, this colonel,

I would have thy husband.

_Marg._ There's too much disparity

Between his quality and mine, to hope it.

_Sir G._ I more than hope it, and doubt not to effect it.

Be thou no enemy to thyself; my wealth

Shall weigh his titles down, and make you equals.

Now for the means to assure him thine, observe me;

Remember he's a courtier, and a soldier,

And not to be trifled with; and therefore, when

He comes to woo you, see you do not coy it.

This mincing modesty hath spoil'd many a match

By a first refusal, in vain after hop't for.

_Marg._ You'll have me, sir, preserve the distance that

Confines a virgin?

_Sir G._ Virgin me no virgins.

I will have you lose that name, or you lose me;

I will have you private; start not, I say, private.

_Marg._ Though you can dispense

With your honour, I must guard my own.

This is not the way to make me his wife.

My modest breeding yielded up so soon,

Cannot but assure him,

I, that am light to him, will not hold weight

When tempted by others: so in judgment,

When to his will I have given up my honour,

He must, and will, forsake me.

_Sir G._ How! forsake thee?

Do I wear a sword for fashion? or is this arm

Shrunk up, or wither'd? Does there live a man

Of that large list I have encounter'd with,

Can truly say I e'er gave inch of ground,

Not purchas'd with his blood that did oppose me?

Forsake thee when the thing is done! he dares not.

Though all his captains, echoes to his will,

Stood arm'd by his side, to justify the wrong,

Spite of his lordship, I will make him render

A bloody and a strict account; and force him,

By marrying thee, to cure thy wounded honour;

I have said it.

_Enter_ Marall.

_Mar._ Sir, the man of honour's come,

Newly alighted.

_Sir G._ In, without reply,

And do as I command, or thou art lost.

_Exit_ Margaret.

Is the loud music, I gave order for,

Ready to receive him?

_Mar._ 'Tis, sir.

_Sir G._ Let 'em sound

A princely welcome. [_Exit_ Marall.) Roughness awhile leave me;

For fawning now, a stranger to my nature,

Must make way for me.

_Enter_ Lovell, Allworth, Marall, _and_ Greedy.

_Lov._ Sir, you meet your trouble.

_Sir G._ What you are pleased to style so is an honour

Above my worth and fortunes.

_Allw._ Strange! so humble.

_Sir G._ A justice of peace, my lord.

[_Presents_ Greedy to _him_.

_Lov._ Your hand, good sir.

_Greedy._ This is a lord; and some think this is a favour;

But I had rather have my hand in my dumpling. [_Aside._

_Sir G._ Room for my lord.

_Lov._ I miss, sir, your fair daughter,

To crown my welcome.

_Sir G._ May it please my lord

To taste a glass of Greek wine first; and suddenly

She shall attend my lord.

_Lov._ You'll be obey'd, sir.

[_Exeunt all but_ Sir Giles.

_Sir G._ 'Tis to my wish; as soon as come, ask for her!

Why, Meg! Meg Overreach!

_Enter_ Margaret.

How! Tears in your eyes?

Hah! dry 'em quickly, or I'll dig 'em out.

Is this a time to whimper? Meet that greatness

That flies into thy bosom; think what tis

For me to say, my honourable daughter:

No more but be instructed, or expect--

He comes.

_Enter_ Lovell _and_ Greedy.

A black-brow'd girl, my lord.

_Lov._ As I live, a rare one!

_Sir G._ That kiss

Came twanging off, I like it: quit the room.

_Exit_ Greedy.

A little bashful, my good lord: but you,

I hope, will teach her boldness.

_Lov._ I am happy

In such a scholar: but----

_Sir G._ I am past learning,

And therefore leave you to yourselves: remember--

_Exit_ Sir Giles.

_Lov._ You see, fair lady, your father is solicitous

To have you change the barren name of virgin

Into a hopeful wife.

_Marg._ His haste, my lord,

Holds no power o'er my will.

_Lov._ But o'er your duty----

_Marg._ Which forc'd too much may break.

_Lov._ Bend rather, sweetest:

Think of your years.

_Marg._ Too few to match with yours:

_Lov._ Do you think I am old?

_Marg._ I am sure, I am too young.

_Lov._ I can advance you.

_Marg._ To a hill of sorrow;

Where every hour I may expect to fall,

But never hope firm footing. You are noble;

I of low descent, however rich.

O my good lord, I could say more, but that

I dare not trust these walls.

_Lov._ 'Pray you, trust my ear, then.

_Enter_ Sir Giles Overreach, _listening_.

_Sir G._ Close at it! whispering! this is excellent!

And, by their postures, a consent on both parts.

_Enter_ Greedy.

_Greedy._ Sir Giles! Sir Giles!

_Sir G._ The great fiend stop that clapper!

_Greedy._ It must ring out, sir, when my belly rings noon.

The bak'd meats are ran out, the roast turn'd powder.

_Sir G._ Stop your insatiate jaws, or

I shall powder you.

_Greedy._ Beat me to dust, I care not;

In such a cause as this I'll die martyr.

_Sir G._ Disturb my lord, when he is in discourse?

_Greedy._ Is't a time to talk

When we should have been munching?

_Sir G._ Peace, villain! peace! shall we break a bargain

Almost made up? Vanish I say.

_Thrusts_ Greedy _off_.

_Lov._ Lady, I understand you: Overreach.

Rest most happy in your choice. Believe it,

I'll be a careful pilot to direct

Your yet uncertain bark to a port of safety.

_Marg._ So shall your honour save two lives, and bind us

Your slaves forever.

_Lov._ I am in the act rewarded,

Since it is good; howe'er you must put on

An amorous carriage towards me, to delude

Your subtle father.

_Marg._ I am bound to that.

_Lov._ Now break off our conference,--Sir Giles

Where is Sir Giles?

_Enter_ Sir Giles Overreach, Greedy, Allworth, _and_ Marall.

_Sir G._ My noble lord; and how

Does your lordship find her?

_Lov._ Apt, Sir Giles, and coming,

And I like her the better.

_Sir G._ So do I too.

_Lov._ Yet, should we take forts at the first assault,

'Twere poor in the defendant. I must confirm her?

With a love-letter or two, which I must have

Deliver'd by my page, and you give way to't.

_Sir G._ With all my soul.--A towardly gentleman!

Your hand, good Mr. Allworth; know my house

Is ever open to you.

_Allw._ 'Twas still shut till now. [_Aside._

_Sir G._ Well done, well done, my honourable daughter,

Thou'rt so already: know this gentle youth,

And cherish him, my honourable daughter.

_Sir G._ What noise?

_Greedy._ More stops

Before we go to dinner! O my guts!

_Enter_ Lady Allworth _and_ Wellborn.

_Lady. A._ If I find welcome,

You share in it; if not, I'll back again,

Now I know your ends! for I come arm'd for all

Can be objected.

_Lov._ How! the Lady Allworth?

_Sir G._ And thus attended!

_Mar._ No, I am a dolt;

the spirit of lies had entered me!

Lovell _salutes_ Lady Allworth, _who salutes_ Margaret.

_Sir G._ Peace, patch,

'Tis more than wonder, an astonishment

That does possess me wholly.

_Lov._ Noble Lady,

This is a favour to prevent my visit,

The service of my life can never equal.

_Lady A._ My lord, I laid wait for you, and much hop'd

You would have made my poor house your first inn:

And therefore, doubting that you might forget me,

Or too long dwell here, having such ample cause,

In this unequal beauty, for your stay;

And fearing to trust any but myself

With the relation of my service to you,

I borrow'd so much from my long restraint,

And took the air in person to invite you.

_Lov._ Your bounties are so great, they rob me, madam,

Of words to give you thanks.

_Lady A._ Good Sir Giles Overreach! [_Salutes him._

How dost thou, Marall? Lik'd you my meat so ill,

You'll dine no more with me?

_Greedy._ I will when you please,

And it like your ladyship.

_Lady A._ When you please, Mr. Greedy;

If meat can do it, you shall be satisfied;

And now, my lord, pray take into your knowledge

This gentleman; howe'er his outside's coarse,

_Presents_ Wellborn.

His inward linings are as fine and fair

As any man's. Wonder not I speak at large:

And howsoe'er his humour carries him

To be thus accoutr'd; or what taint soe'er,

For his wild life has stuck upon his fame;

He may, ere long, with boldness rank himself

With some that have condemn'd him. Sir Giles Overreach,

If I am Welcome, bid him so.

_Sir G._ My nephew!

He hath been too long a stranger: 'faith you have.

Pray let it be mended.

[Lovell _conferring with_ Wellborn.

_Mar._ Why, sir, what do you mean?

This is rogue Wellborn, monster, prodigy,

That should hang or drown himself, no man of worship,

Much less your nephew.

_Sir G._ Well, sirrah, we shall reckon

For this hereafter.

_Mar._ I'll not lose my jeer,

Though I be beaten dead for it.

_Wellb._ Let my silence plead

In my excuse, my lord, till better leisure

Offer itself, to hear a full relation

Of my poor fortunes.

_Lov._ I would hear and help them. [_Bell rings._

_Sir G._ Your dinner waits you.

_Lov._ 'Pray you, lead, we follow.

_Lady A._ Nay, you are my guest? Come, dear

Mr. Wellborn. [_Exeunt all but Greedy._

_Greedy._ Dear Mr. Wellborn! so she said; Heav'n! aven!

If my belly would give me leave, I could ruminate

All day on this: I have granted twenty warrants

To have him committed, from all prisons in the shire,

To Nottingham jail! and now, dear Mr. Wellborn!

And my good nephew!--But I play the fool

To stand here prating, and forget my dinner.

_Enter_ Marall.

Are they set, Marall?

_Mar._ Long since; pray you a word, sir.

_Greedy._ No wording now.

_Mar._ In troth, I must: my master,

Knowing you are his good friend, makes bold with you,

And does entreat you, more guests being come in

Than he expected, especially his nephew,

The table being too full, you would excuse him,

And sup with him on the cold meat.

_Greedy._ How! no dinner

After all my care?

_Mar._ 'Tis but a penance for

A meal; besides, you have broke your fast.

_Greedy._ That was

But a bit to stay my stomach. A man in commission

Give place to a tatterdemallion!

_Mar._ No big words, sir.

Should his worship hear you----

_Greedy._ Loose my dumpling too;

And butter'd toasts and woodcocks?

_Mar._ Come, have patience,

If you will dispense a little with your justiceship,

And sit with the waiting woman, you'll have dumpling,

Woodcock, and butter'd toasts too.

_Greedy._ This revives me:

I will gorge there sufficiently.

_Enter_ Sir Giles Overreach, _as from dinner._

_Sir G._ She's caught! O woman! she neglect my lord,

And all her compliments apply to Wellborn!

The garment of her widowhood laid by,

She now appears as glorious as the spring.

Her eyes fix'd on him; in the wine she drinks,

He being her pledge, she sends him burning kisses,

She leaves my meat to feed upon his looks;

And, if in our discourse he be but nam'd,

From her a deep sigh follows. But why grieve I

At this? It makes for me; if she prove his,

All that is hers, is mine, as I will work him.

_Enter_ Marall.

_Mar._ Sir, the whole board is troubled at your rising.

_Sir G._ No matter, I'll excuse it; pr'ythee, Marall,

watch an occasion to invite my nephew

To speak with me in private.

_Mar._ Who, the rogue,

The lady scorn'd to look on?

_Sir G._ Hold your peace!

My good lord,

Excuse my manners.

_Enter_ Lovell, Margaret, _and_ Allworth.

_Lov._ There needs none, Sir Giles;

I may ere long say father, when it please

My dearest mistress to give warrant to it.

_Sir G._ She shall seal to it my lord, and make me happy.

_Marg._ My lady--

_Enter_ Wellborn _and_ Lady Allworth.

_Lady A._ My thanks, Sir Giles,

for my entertainment.

_Sir G._ 'Tis your nobleness

To think it such.

_Lady A._ I must do you a farther wrong,

In taking away your honourable guest.

_Lov._ I wait on you, madam: farewell good Sir Giles.

_Lady A._ Nay, come, Mr. Wellborn,

I must not leave you behind, in sooth, I must not.

_Sir G._ Rob me not, madam, of all joys at once.

Let my nephew stay behind: he shall have my coach,

And, after some small conference between us,

Soon overtake your ladyship.

_Lady A._ Stay not long, sir.

_Lov._ You shall every day hear from me,

By my faithful page. [_To_ Margaret.

_Allw._'Tis a service I am proud of.

[_Exeunt_ Lovell, Lady Allworth, Allworth, _and_ Marall.

_Sir G._ Daughter, to your chamber.

[_Exit_ Margaret.

You may wonder, nephew,

After so long an enmity between us,

I shall desire your friendship.

_Wellb._ So I do, sir:

Tis strange to me.

_Sir G._ But I'll make it no wonder;

And, what is more, unfold my nature to you.

We worldly men, when we see friends and kinsmen,

Past hope, sunk in their fortunes, lend no hand

To lift 'em up, but rather set our feet

Upon their heads, to press 'em to the bottom;

As I must yield, with you I practis'd it:

But now I see you in a way to rise,

I can and will, assist you. This rich lady

(And I am glad of't) is enamour'd of you.

_Wellb._ No such thing:

Compassion, rather, sir.

_Sir G._ Well, in a word,

Because your stay is short, I'll have you seen

No more in this base shape; nor shall she say,

She married you like a beggar, or in debt.

_Wellb._ He'll run into the noose, and save my labour! [_Aside._

_Sir G._ You have a trunk of rich clothes, not far hence,

In pawn; I will redeem 'em: and, that no clamour

May taint your credit for your debts,

You shall have a thousand pounds to cut 'em off,

And go a freeman to the wealthy lady.

_Wellb._ This done, sir, out of love, and no ends else--

_Sir G._ As it is, nephew.

_Wellb._ Binds me still your servant.

_Sir G._ No compliments; you are staid for: ere you've supp'd,

You shall hear from me. My coach, knaves! for my nephew:

Tomorrow I will visit you.

_Wellb._ Here's an uncle

In a man's extremes? how much they do belie you,

That say you are hard hearted!

_Sir G._ My deeds, nephew,

Shall speak my love; what men report, I weigh not.

[_Exeunt._

ACT IV.

SCENE I--_A Chamber_ in Lady Allworth's _House_.

Lovell _and_ Allworth _discovered_.

_Lov._ 'Tis well. I now discharge you

From farther service. Mind your own affairs;

I hope they will prove successful.

_Allw._ What is blest

With your good wish, my lord, cannot but prosper.

Let after-times report, and to your honour,

How much I stand engag'd; for I want language

To speak my debt: yet if a tear or two

Of joy, for your much goodness, can supply

My tongue's defects, I could----

_Lov._ Nay, do not melt:

This ceremonial of thanks to me's superfluous.

_Sir G._ [_Within._] Is my lord stirring?

_Lov._ 'Tis he! Oh, here's your letter; let him in.

_Enter_ Sir Giles, Greedy, _and_ Marall.

_Sir G._ A good day to my lord.

_Lov._ You are an early riser, Sir Giles.

_Sir G._ And reason, to attend to your lordship.

_Lov._ And you too, Mr. Greedy, up so soon?

_Greedy._ In troth, my lord, after the sun is up

I cannot sleep; for I have a foolish stomach,

That croaks for breakfast. With your lordship's favour,

I have a serious question to demand

Of my worthy friend, Sir Giles.

_Lov._ Pray you, use your pleasure.

_Greedy._ How far, Sir Giles, and 'pray you, answer me

Upon your credit, hold you it to be,

From your manor-house, to this of my Lady Allworth's?

_Sir G._ Why, some four miles.

_Greedy._ How! four miles, good Sir Giles?

Upon your reputation think better;

For four miles riding

Could not have rais'd so huge an appetite

As I feel gnawing on me.

_Mar._ Whether you ride

Or go a-foot, you are that way still provided,

And it please your worship.

_Sir G._ How now, sirrah! prating

Before my lord! no difference? go to my nephew,

See all his debts discharged, and help his worship

To fit on his rich suit.

_Mar._ I may fit you too. [_Exit_ Marall.

_Lov._ I have writ this morning

A few lines to my mistress, your fair daughter.

_Sir G._ Twill fire her, for she's wholly yours already.

Sweet Mr. Allworth, take my ring; 'twill carry

To her presence, I warrant you; and there plead

For my good lord, if you shall find occasion.

That done, pray ride to Nottingham; get a license,

Still, by this token. I'll have it despatch'd,

And suddenly, my lord: that I may say,

My honourable, nay, right honourable daughter.

_Greedy._ Take my advice, young gentleman; get your breakfast.

'Tis unwholesome to ride fasting. I'll eat with you;

And that abundantly.

_Sir G._ Some fury's in that gut:

Hungry again? Did you not devour this morning

A shield of brawn, and a barrel of Colchester oysters?

_Greedy._ Why, that was, sir, only to scour my stomach,

A kind of preparative.

I am no camelion, to feed on air; but love

To see the board well spread,

Groaning under the heavy burden of the beast

That cheweth the cud, and the fowl

That cleaveth the air. Come, young gentleman,

I will not have you feed alone, while I am here.

_Lov._ Haste your return.

_Allw._ I will not fail, my lord.

_Greedy._ Nor I, to line

My Christmas coffer.

[_Exeunt_ Greedy _and_ Allworth.

_Sir G._ To my wish, we're private,

I come not to make offer with my daughter

A certain portion; that were poor and trivial:

In one word, I pronounce all that is mine,

In lands, or leases, ready coin, or goods,

With her, my lord, comes to you; nor shall you have

One motive to induce you to believe

I live too long, since every year I'll add

Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too.

_Lov._ You are a right kind father.

_Sir G._ You shall have reason

To think me such. How do you like this seat?

It is well wooded, and well water'd, the acres

Fertile and rich; would it not serve for change,

To entertain your friends in a summer's progress?

What thinks my noble lord?

_Lov._ 'Tis a wholesome air,

And well built; and she, that's mistress of it,

Worthy the large revenue.

_Sir G._ She the mistress?

It may be so for a time; but let my lord

Say only, that he but like it, and would have it,

I say, ere long 'tis his.

_Lov._ Impossible!

_Sir G._ You do conclude too fast, not knowing me,

Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone

The lady Allworth's lands; for those, once Wellborn's

(As by her dotage on him I know they will be,)

Shall soon be mine. But point out any man's

In all the shire, and say they lie convenient,

And useful for your lordship, and once more

I say aloud, they are yours.

_Lov._ I dare not own

What's by unjust and cruel means extorted.

My fame and credit are more dear to me,

Than to expose 'em to be censur'd by

The public voice.

_Sir G._ You run, my lord, no hazard;

Your reputation, shall stand as fair

In all good men's opinions, as now:

Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill,

Cast any foul aspersion upon yours.

For though I do contemn report myself,

As a mere sound; I still will be so tender

Of what concerns you in all points of honour,

That the immaculate whiteness of your fame,

Nor your unquestioned integrity,

Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot;

All my ambition is to have my daughter

Right honourable, which my lord can make her:

And might I live to dance upon my knee

A young Lord Lovell, born by her unto you,

I write _nil ultra_ to my proudest hopes.

_Lov._ Are you not frightened with the imprecations

And curses of whole families, made wretched

By such practices?

_Sir G._ Yes, as rocks are,

When foamy billows split themselves against

Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is mov'd,

When wolves, with hunger pin'd, howl at her brightness.

I am of a solid temper, and like these

Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword,

If called into the field, I can make that right,

Which fearful enemies murmur'd at as wrong.

Nay, when my ears are pierc'd with widow's cries.

And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold,

I only think what 'tis, to have my daughter

Right Honourable; and 'tis a powerful charm,

Makes me insensible of remorse, or pity,

Or the least sting of conscience.

In one word, therefore,

Is it a match my lord?

_Lov._ I hope that is past doubt now.

_Sir G._ Then rest secure; not the hate of all mankind here,

Nor fear of what can fall on me hereafter,

Shall make me study aught but your advancement

One story higher. An earl! if gold can do it.

Dispute not my religion, nor my faith,

Though I am borne thus headlong to my will;

You may make choice of what belief you please,

To me thy are equal; so, my lord, good morrow.

[_Exit._

_Lov._ He's gone; I wonder how the earth can bear

Such a monster! I, that have liv'd a soldier,

And stood the enemy's violent charge undaunted,

To hear this horrid beast, I'm bath'd all over

In a cold sweat; yet, like a mountain, he

Is no more shaken than Olympus is,

When angry Boreas loads his double head

With sudden drifts of snow.

_Enter_ Lady Allworth.

_Lady A._ 'Save you, my lord.

Disturb I not your privacy?

_Lov._ No, good madam;

For your own sake, I am glad you came no sooner.

Since this bold, bad man, Sir Giles Overreach,

Made such a plain discovery of himself,

And read this morning such a devilish mattins.

That I should think it a sin, next to his,

But to repeat it.

_Lady A._ I ne'er press'd, my lord,

On others privacies; yet, against my will,

Walking, for health's sake, in the gallery

Adjoining to our lodgings, I was made

(So loud and vehement he was) partaker

Of his tempting offers. But,

My good lord, If I may use my freedom,

As to an honour'd friend----

_Lov._ You lessen else

Your favour to me.

_Lady A._ I dare then say thus:

(However common men

Make sordid wealth the object and sole end

Of their industrious aims), 'twill not agree

With those of noble blood, of fame and honour.

_Lov._ Madam, 'tis confess'd;

But what infer you from it?

_Lady A._ This, my lord: I allow

The heir of Sir Giles Overreach, Margaret,

A maid well qualified, and the richest match

Our north part can boast of; yet she cannot,

With all she brings with her fill their mouths,

That never will forget who was her father;

Or that my husband Allworth's lands, and Wellborn's,

(How wrung from both needs no repetition,)

Were real motives, that more work'd your lordship

To join your families, than her form and virtues.

You may conceive the rest.

_Lov._ I do, sweet madam;

And long since have consider'd it.

And this my resolution, mark me, madam;

Were Overreach's 'states thrice centupled; his daughter

Millions of degrees much fairer than she is,

I would not so adulterate my blood

By marrying Margaret. In my own tomb

I will inter my name first.

_Lady A._ Why then, my lord, pretend you marriage to her?

Dissimulation but ties false knots

On that straight line, by which you hitherto

Have measured all your actions.

_Lov._ I make answer,

And aptly, with a question. Wherefore have you,

That since your husband's death have liv'd a strict

And chaste nun's life, on the sudden given yourself

To visits and entertainments? Think you, madam,

'Tis not grown public conference? or the favours

Which you too prodigally have thrown on Wellborn,

Incur not censure?

_Lady A._ I am innocent here; and, on my life, I swear

My ends are good.

_Lov._ On my soul, so are mine

To Margaret; but leave both to the event:

And now this friendly privacy does serve

But as an offer'd means unto ourselves

To search each other farther; you have shown

Your care of me, I my respect to you.

Deny me not, but still in chaste words, madam,

An afternoon's discourse.

_Lady A._ Affected modesty might deny your suit,

But such your honour; I accept it, lord.

My tongue unworthy can't belie my heart.

I shall attend your lordship. [_Exeunt._