Transcribed from the [1828] John Cumberland edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org Many thanks to John Hentges for finding this, providing
a copy for the transcription, and doing the background research.
[Picture: Gwinett. Wretch! heartless ruffian!—Act II. Scene 3]
* * * * *
AMBROSE GWINETT;
OR, A SEA-SIDE STORY:
A MELO-DRAMA,
In Three Acts,
BY D. W. JERROLD,
_Author of The Mutiny at the Nore_, _John Overy_, _The Devil’s Ducat_,
_Golden Calf_,
_Bride of Ludgate_, _&c._
* * * * *
PRINTED FROM THE ACTING COPY, WITH REMARKS,
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL, BY D—G.
To which are added,
A DESCRIPTION OF THE COSTUME,—CAST OF THE CHARACTERS,
ENTRANCES AND EXITS,—RELATIVE POSITIONS OF THE
PERFORMERS ON THE STAGE,—AND THE WHOLE OF
THE STAGE BUSINESS,
As now performed at the
METROPOLITAN MINOR THEATRES.
* * * * *
EMBELLISHED WITH A FINE ENGRAVING.
* * * * *
LONDON:
JOHN CUMBERLAND, 2, CUMBERLAND TERRACE,
CAMDEN NEW TOWN.
REMARKS.
Ambrose Gwinett.
HYPERCRITICISM has presumed to find fault with this drama, which a better
taste has denominated “_the serious domestic historical_,” because,
forsooth, it smacks of the Old Bailey!—and, when justification has been
pleaded by citing _George Barnwell_, we have received the retort
courteous, in the story of the witling who affected to wear glasses
because Pope was near-sighted. But a much better plea may be urged than
the example of a bard so moderately gifted as Lillo! “The Ravens of
Orleans,” “Dog of Montargis,” “Family of Anglade,” and numerous other
public favourites, speak daggers to such hypercriticism.—Ambrose Gwinett
is a strange tale and a true one; and a tale both strange and true what
playwright can afford to let slip through his fingers? A murder or so
may be prudently relinquished, for the season will come round again; but
he cannot expect to see a man hanged and resuscitated for his especial
accommodation every day in the week.
Ambrose Gwinett favoured the world with his autobiography at a period
when autobiography was a rarity. He is unquestionably the only historian
who has written his life after being gibbetted—drawn and quartered we
leave to the autobiographers and dramatists of another generation!
Egotism under such extraordinary circumstances may surely be pardoned;
and if honest Ambrose dwell somewhat complacently on certain events of
deep interest and wonder, he may plead a much better excuse than our
modern autobiographers, who invent much and reveal little but a tedious
catalogue of fictions and vanities; a charge that applies not to the
startling narrative of the poor sweeper of the once insignificant village
of Charing.
The story, which occurred in the reign of Queen Anne, is simple and well
told. Ambrose had a tale to tell—(what autobiographer would not be half
hanged to be entitled to tell a similar one?)—passing strange and
pitiful; therefore, like a skilful dramatist, who depends solely on his
plot, he affected no pomp of speech: of tropes and figures he knew
nothing; but he knew full well that he had been hanged without a trope,
and his figure brought to life again!
“I was born,” says he, “of respectable parents in the city of Canterbury,
where my father dealt in slops. He had but two children, a daughter and
myself; and, having given me a school education, at the age of sixteen he
bound me apprentice to Mr. George Roberts, an attorney in the same town,
with whom I stayed four years and three quarters, to his great content
and my own satisfaction.
“My sister, having come to woman’s estate, had now been married something
more than a twelvemonth to one Sawyer, a seafaring man, who, having got
considerable prizes, my father also giving him 200_l._ with my sister,
quitted his profession, and set up a public-house near the place of his
nativity, which was Deal, in the county of Kent. I had frequent
invitations to pass a short time with them; and, in the autumn of 1709,
having obtained my master’s consent for that purpose, I left the city of
Canterbury on foot, on Wednesday morning, being the 17th day of
September; but, through some unavoidable delays on the road, the evening
was considerably advanced before I reached Deal; and so tired was I,
being unused to that way of travelling, that, had my life depended on it,
I could not have gone so far as my sister’s that night. At this time
there were many of her majesty, Queen Anne’s ships lying in the harbour,
the English being then at war with the French and Spaniards; besides
which, I found this was the day for holding the yearly fair, so that the
town was filled to that degree, that not a bed was to be gotten for love
nor money. I went seeking a lodging from house to house to no purpose;
till, being quite spent, I returned to the public-house, where I had
first made inquiry, desiring leave to sit by their kitchen-fire to rest
myself till morning.
“The publican and his wife where I put up happened, unfortunately for me,
to be acquainted with my brother and sister; and finding by the discourse
that I was a relation of theirs, and going to visit them, the landlady
presently said she would endeavour to get me a bed; and, going out of the
kitchen, she quickly called me into a parlour that led from it. Here I
saw, sitting by the fire, a middle-aged man, in a nightgown and cap, who
was reckoning money at a table. ‘Uncle,’ said the woman, as soon as I
entered, ‘this is a brother of our friend, Mrs. Sawyer; he cannot get a
bed anywhere, and is tired after his journey. You are the only one that
lies in this house alone: will you give him a part of your’s?’ To this
the man answered, that she knew he had been out of order,—that he was
blooded that day, and consequently a bedfellow could not be very
agreeable. ‘However,’ said he, ‘rather than the young man shall sit up,
he is welcome to sleep with me.’ After this, we sat some time together;
when, having put his money in a canvas bag into the pocket of his
nightgown, he took the candle, and I followed him up to bed.”
Having occasion to visit the garden during the night, the landlord lent
him his pen-knife, that he might more easily open the door, the latch
being broken. From this knife a piece of money falls, which Gwinett
pockets. Returning to his room, he finds, to his great surprize, that
his companion is absent. At six o’clock he rises, dresses himself
hastily, and, impatient to see his sister (the reckoning being paid
overnight), lets himself out at the street door.
He has not been above an hour or two with his relations, before three
horsemen arrive, arrest him for robbery and murder, and he is carried
back to Deal, to be dealt with accordingly.
He is taken with the knife in his possession, tried, condemned, and
executed: yet, strange to say, the man yet lived; his groans were heard
from the gibbet, and he was rescued from his frightful situation by his
master’s dairymaid. He took ship, went abroad, and encountered Collins,
the supposed victim, who, it appeared, had been forced from his home by a
press-gang. After enduring many perils, he returned to his native land,
crippled and poor, and subsequently became sweeper of the road at Charing
Cross.
Mr. Jerrold has heightened the interest of his drama by superadding the
passions of love and jealousy. We have no objection to fiction when it
conduces to effect; and three rounds of applause are sufficient to
justify any interpolation. This piece was well acted, and brought ample
receipts to the treasury of the Coburg.
D—G.
Costume.
AMBROSE GWINETT.—_First dress_—Short brown tunic and vest, with full
trunks—hose and half boots.—_Second dress_—Tunic and long cloak—hat and
feathers.
NED GRAYLING.—_First dress_—That of a Blacksmith.—_Second dress_—A short
plain tunic—full trunks—hose, and a small round hat.—_Third dress_—that
of a mere mendicant.
GILBERT.—_First dress_—A short close tunic—shoes and stockings.—_Second
dress_—Suitable to the advanced age of the wearer.
COLLINS.—_First dress_—Short tunic.—_Second dress_—A morning gown.
LABEL.—Barber’s dress—three cornered hat and cane.
WILL ASH and BLACKTHORN.—Short tunics, &c.
GEORGE.—Sailor’s dress.
BOLT.—Dark tunic, &c.
OFFICER.—The usual costume.
REEF.—Blue jacket—white trowsers—straw hat.
LUCY FAIRLOVE.—_First dress_—Plain bodied gown—straw hat.—_Second
dress_—A black open gown with train.
JENNY.—_First dress_—That of a peasant girl.—_Second dress_—Gown—cap—and
apron.
MARY.—Peasant’s dress.
_Villagers_, _Peasants_, _&c. in the usual costume_.
* * * * *
Cast of the Characters
_As sustained at the Coburg Theatre_.
Ambrose Gwinett Mr. Cobham.
Ned Grayling (_The Prison Smith_.) Mr. Davidge.
Gilbert (_Waiter at the Blake’s Head_.) Mr. Sloman.
Collins (_Landlord of the Blake’s Mr. Mortimer.
Head_.)
Label (_an Itinerant Barber Surgeon_.) Mr. E. L. Lewis.
George (_a Smuggler condemned to Die_.) Mr. Gale.
Blackthorn Mr. H. George.
Will Ash Mr. Gann.
Bolt (_a Gaoler_.) Mr. Porteus.
1_st_ Villager Mr. J. George.
2_nd_ Ditto Mr. Waters.
Officer Mr. Worrell.
Reef Mr. Elsgood.
1_st_ Sailor Mr. Saunders.
Lucy Fairlove Miss Watson.
Jenny Mrs. Congreve.
Mary Miss Boden.
Child Master Meyers.
_A Lapse of Eighteen Years is supposed to have taken Place between_
_the Second and Third Acts_.
ACT. I.
SCENE I.—_View of the Country_.
_Enter_ GRAYLING _and_ COLLINS. R.
_Gray_. Softly, master Collins, softly,—come, there is life in you yet,
man.
_Col_. To be thrown from a horse after my experience—
_Gray_. Oh, the best man may be thrown, and the best horse throw too;
but come, you have no bones broken. Had any man but myself, Ned
Grayling, shoed your horse, I should have said something had been amiss
with his irons—but that couldn’t be.
_Col_. No matter, I can now make my way homeward: but, hark’ye, not a
word about this accident, not a syllable, or I shall never be able to sit
in a saddle again, without first hearing a lecture from my wife and Lucy.
_Gray_. Lucy—aye, master Collins, she has a tender heart I warrant—I
could work at my forge all day in the hottest June, so that Lucy would
but smile, when—
_Col_. There must be no more of this. You know I have told you more
than a hundred times that Lucy cannot love you.
_Gray_. How do you know that?
_Col_. She has said so, and do you suppose she would speak any thing but
truth?
_Gray_. Why, perhaps she would, and perhaps she wouldn’t. I tell you,
master Collins, my heart’s set upon the girl—if she refuse me—why I know
the end on’t.—Ned Grayling, once the sober and industrious smith, will
become an outcast and a vagabond.
_Col_. This is all folly—a stout able fellow turning whimperer.
_Gray_. Stout, able,—yes, I was, and might be so again; but thoughts
will sometimes come across me, and I feel—I tell you once more, master
Collins, my heart is set upon the girl.
_Col_. You’ll get the better of this, think no more of her: nothing so
easy.
_Gray_. There are some matters very, _very_ easy. It is easy for you, a
man well in trade, with children flourishing about you, and all the world
looking with a sunny face upon you—it is easy for you to say to a man
like me, “You are poor and friendless—you have placed your affections on
a being, to sweeten the bitterness of your lot, to cheer and bless you on
the road of life, yet she can never be yours—think no more of her,” this
is easy—“nothing so easy.”
_Col_. Farewell, good fellow, I meant not to insult or offend you. If
you can obtain my niece’s consent, why, to prove that I love honesty, for
its own sake, I’ll give you whatever help my means afford. If, however,
the girl refuses, strive to forget her. Believe me, there is scarcely a
more pitiable object than a man following with spaniel-like humility, the
woman who despises him.
[_Exit_ L.
_Gray_. Despises!—did she ever say,—no! no! she couldn’t, yet when I met
her last, though she uttered not a sound, her eyes looked hate—as they
flashed upon me, I felt humbled—a wretch! a very worm.
_Enter_ GILBERT R. (_singing_.) “_A merry little plough Boy_.”
_Gil_. Well, now master’s gone out, I think I have a little time to see
my Jenny—master and mistress have no compassion for us lovers—always
work, work; they think once a week is quite enough for lovers to see one
another, and unfortunately my fellow servant is in love as well as I am;
and being obliged to keep house, I could only get out once a fortnight,
if it wasn’t for Lucy.
_Gray_. (_starting_.) Lucy! who said any thing about Lucy?
_Gil_. I did! It’s a good Christian name, isn’t it? and no treason in
it.
_Gray_. No, no, but you startled me.
_Gil_. I should like to know what right a man has to be startled when I
say Lucy—why one would think you were married, and it was the name of
your wife.
_Gray_. Lucy my wife, no, no.
_Gil_. No, I should think not indeed.
_Gray_. And why should you think? but I’m wrong to be so
passionate—think no more of it, good Gilbert.
_Gil_. A cool way of settling matters: you first fly at a man like a
dragon—make his heart jump like a tennis ball—and then say, think nothing
of it, good Gilbert.
_Gray_. I confess I am very foolish.
_Gil_. Oh, spare your confession: people will judge for themselves.
_Gray_. (_aside_.) I am almost ashamed to do it, yet I will.
_Gil_. Why, what’s the matter? you are looking at me as if, like a
highwayman, you were considering which pocket I carried my money in.
_Gray_. Pray, good Gilbert, tell me, do you know whether Miss Lucy has
any admirers?
_Gil_. Admirers! to be sure she has.
_Gray_. She has!
_Gil_. Hundreds—don’t the whole town admire her? don’t all our customers
say pretty things to her? don’t I admire her? and hav’n’t I seen you
looking at her?
_Gray_. Looking at her!—how?
_Gil_. How, why like a dog that had once been well kicked, and was
afraid of being known a second time.
_Gray_. Villain! do you make mirth of my sufferings? am I sport for
fools? answer my question, or I’ll shake your soul out on the wind—tell
me—
_Gil_. If the fox had never ventured where he had no business, he’d have
kept his tail.
_Gray_. What mean you?
_Gil_. If you had minded your own affairs, you’d not have lost your
temper.
_Gray_. Answer—
_Gil_. Not a word; if you are inclined to ask questions, a little
farther on there’s a finger post—when you have read one side, you know
you can walk round to the other.
_Gray_. I shall but make my agitation the more apparent. Never till
this moment did I feel the fulness of my passion. Come, rouse man, stand
no longer like a coward, eying the game, but take the dice, and at one
bold throw, decide your fate.
[_Exit_ L.
_Gil_. Aye, it’s all no use, master Grayling; Lucy Fairlove is no match
for you. No, no, if I mistake not there’s another, smoother faced young
man has been asking if any body’s at home at the heart of Lucy—but
mum—I’m sworn to secrecy,—and now for Jenny! dear me, I’ve been loitering
so long, and have so much to say to her—then I’ve so much to do—for the
Judges are coming down to-morrow to make a clear place of the prison—and
then there’s—but stop, whilst I am running to Jenny, I can think of these
matters by the way.
[_Exit_ L.