SCENE I.--_Covent Garden._

THE COMPLETE PLAYS OF RICHARD STEELE.

_EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES,_

BY G. A. AITKEN.

_THE MERMAID SERIES._

_THE BEST PLAYS OF THE OLD DRAMATISTS._

LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN.

NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

1894.

CONTENTS

RICHARD STEELE.

THE FUNERAL.

THE LYING LOVER.

THE TENDER HUSBAND.

THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS.

THE SCHOOL OF ACTION (A FRAGMENT).

THE GENTLEMAN (A FRAGMENT).

APPENDIX.

NOTES.

_RICHARD STEELE._

I.

It is as an essayist rather than a dramatist that men now think of

Steele; and this is rightly so, for his best work is to be found in

the periodical papers which he edited. There is, however, in his

plays the same wit and humour that is to be found in the _Tatler_ and

_Spectator_, and his four comedies occupy an important position in the

history of the English drama.

In this Introduction it will be sufficient to give a brief sketch

of Steele's life, with especial reference to his relations with the

theatre, which were intimate and varied.[1]

Richard Steele was born in Dublin in 1672; his father was an attorney

who married a widow named Elinor Symes, but both his parents died

while he was a child, and Steele passed into the care of a kind uncle,

Henry Gascoigne, private secretary to the Duke of Ormond, and by his

influence was placed upon the foundation of the Charterhouse in 1684.

Two years later Joseph Addison, who was only a few weeks younger than

Steele, entered that famous school, and the two boys formed the closest

of friendships. In 1689 Steele followed Addison to Oxford, entering

at Christ Church; but in 1691 he was made a post-master of Merton

College. He would have many introductions, for his uncle was well known

at the University, and his friend Addison was a distinguished scholar

at Magdalen. We are told that he wrote a comedy while at college, but

burned it on being told by a friend that it was worthless. When he left

Oxford he took with him the love of "the whole society."

Steele enlisted in 1694 as a private in the Duke of Ormond's regiment

of Guards. Private soldiers in the Guards were often gentlemen's sons,

and Steele was in reality a cadet, looking forward to the position

of ensign. When Queen Mary died in the following year he published

an anonymous poem, _The Procession_, the work of "a gentleman of the

army," and dedicated it to Lord Cutts, Colonel of the Coldstream

Guards. He was rewarded by being made a confidential agent to Lord

Cutts, who also obtained for him an ensign's commission in his own

regiment. By 1700 we find Steele referred to as "Captain Steele," and

in friendly intercourse with Sir Charles Sedley, Vanbrugh, Garth,

Congreve, and other wits. In that year, too, he fought a duel with a

Captain Kelly, "one or two of his acquaintances having," as he says,

"thought fit to misuse him, and try their valour upon him." The event

made a serious impression upon Steele, who, much in advance of his

age, never ceased to remonstrate in his after writings against the

"barbarous custom of duelling."

The life of a soldier stationed at the Tower was certain to lead a

young man of Steele's sociable, hearty nature, into excesses. It was,

as he says, "a life exposed to much irregularity"; and as he often did

things of which he repented, he wrote, for his own use, a little book

called _The Christian Hero_; and finding that this secret admonition

was too weak he published the volume in 1701, with his name on the

title-page. It was "an argument proving that no principles but those

of religion are sufficient to make a great man." A second edition was

called for in three months, but the only effect of the publication in

the regiment was "that from being reckoned no undelightful companion

he was soon reckoned a disagreeable fellow." Under these circumstances

he says he felt it to be "incumbent upon him to enliven his character,

for which reason he wrote the comedy called _The Funeral_, in which

(though full of incidents that move laughter) virtue and vice appear

just as they ought to do. Nothing can make the town so fond of a man as

a successful play." Let us look for a moment at the condition of the

drama at the opening of the eighteenth century.

II.

Dryden had died in 1700, and Congreve produced his last important play

in that year. Wycherley, though still living, had long ceased to write,

but Farquhar and Vanbrugh were busy about this time with their best

work. Of other dramatists who were then writing there are none more

important than Rowe, Dennis, Cibber, Gildon, D'Urfey, Mrs. Manley, and

Mrs. Centlivre. The licentiousness of the Restoration plays had been

fully equalled by the coarseness of many of those written under William

III.; and at the end of the seventeenth century a determined protest

had been made by men who realised the evil effect of what was acted for

the amusement of the people. Jeremy Collier, a nonjuring clergyman, led

the attack by publishing, in 1698, _A Short View of the Profaneness

and Immorality of the English Stage_. Collier was intemperate, and

there were numerous replies; but his main position was not shaken. In

the meantime proclamations were issued against the acting of anything

immoral or irreligious, and a Society for the Reformation of Manners

was founded, which was soon followed by similar societies in various

parts of the country.

In October, 1701, Steele, who says that he was "a great admirer" of

Collier's work, arranged with Christopher Rich, of the Theatre Royal,

Drury Lane, for the production of his comedy, _The Funeral, or Grief

à-la-Mode_, as soon as they could conveniently.[2] The play was acted

shortly afterwards, and it was printed in December. In the prologue

Steele said that he knew he had numerous friends present, and that

they would show it, "and for the fellow-soldier save the poet." The

very frankness of this half-serious appeal shows that the play did not

need artificial support, and Cibber says that it met with "more than

expected success." It is very sprightly, but Steele did not omit, by

the legitimate use of satire, to attack the mockery of grief by his

ridicule of the undertaker, and the mockery of justice in the person of

Puzzle, the lawyer. As in all his writings, he shows, by the characters

of Lady Sharlot and Lady Harriot, the respect he felt for true women.

"He was," says Thackeray, in words which are certainly true of Steele's

immediate predecessors, "the first of our writers who really seemed to

admire and respect them." The contrast between virtue and vice, to the

advantage of the former--an object which had not usually been aimed at

by the preceding writers of comedies--was furnished by the character

of Lady Brumpton, the widow, whose husband was not really dead. The

description of her schemes, and her conversations with her woman

Tattleaid and her lady friends, are admirable, and were not forgotten

by Sheridan when writing the _School for Scandal_. Tattleaid says to

the widow, "I warrant you, madam, I'll manage 'em all; and indeed,

madam, the men are really very silly creatures, 'tis no such hard

matter. They rulers! They governors! I warrant you, indeed!" Whereupon

the widow observes, "Ay, Tattleaid, they imagine themselves mighty

things, but government founded on force only is a brutal power. We rule

them by their affections, which blinds them into belief that they rule

us, or at least are in the government with us. But in this nation our

power is absolute." The conversation in the last act, when the widow is

preparing for the funeral, and Tattleaid has her mouth full of pins, is

equally clever.

It would be difficult to find better comedy than the instructions of

Sable, the undertaker, to his men: "Let's have no laughing, now, on

any provocation [_makes faces_]. Look yonder, that hale, well-looking

puppy! You ungrateful scoundrel, did not I pity you, take you out of

a great man's service, and show you the pleasure of receiving wages?

Did not I give you ten, then fifteen, now twenty shillings a week, to

be sorrowful? and the more I give you, I think, the gladder you are."

And again, "Look you, now, you are all upon the sneer; let me have none

but downright stupid countenances.... Ye stupid rogues, whom I have

picked out of all the rubbish of mankind, and fed for your eminent

worthlessness, attend, and know that I speak you this moment stiff and

immutable to all sense of noise, mirth, or laughter [_makes mouths at

them as they pass by him to bring them to a constant countenance_].

So, they are pretty well--pretty well." Excellent, too, is the talk of

the lawyer and his clerk: "I hope to see the day when the indenture

shall be the exact measure of the land that passes by it; for 'tis a

discouragement to the gown that every ignorant rogue of an heir should

in a word or two understand his father's meaning, and hold ten acres

of land by half an acre of parchment." There is an admirable dialogue

about their lovers between Lady Sharlot and Lady Harriot, in the second

act, and in the fourth act Steele's comrades would be delighted with

the talk of the soldiers, one of whom had saved an officer's life,

but had now been whipped from constable to constable all the way from

Cornwall to London. "That's due by the courtesy of England to all that

want in red coats; besides, there's an Act that makes us free of all

Corporations, and that's the ceremony of it." When Tatter says, "In our

last clothing in the regiment I served in afore, the colonel had one

shirt afore, the agent one behind, and every captain of the regiment

a button," Lord Hardy, smiling, replies, "Hush, you rogue, you talk

mutiny," and his Lordship's man at once gives the soldier a blow on the

head: "Ay, sirrah, what have you to do with more knowledge than that of

your right hand from your left?" But later on Trim remarks that "after

all, 'tis upon the neck of such scoundrels as these gentlemen that we

great captains build our renown."

There are obvious weak points in the plot, notably the introduction of

bigamy on Lady Brumpton's part, in order to remove the difficulty about

the will made by Lord Brumpton in her favour. There was, of course,

nothing to prevent the Earl executing a fresh will when he again came

to life, after finding out his wife's true character. For the rest, we

may refer to an interesting contemporary criticism in Charles Gildon's

little book, _A Comparison between the Two Stages_, published in April,

1702, in the form of a dialogue between Ramble, Sullen, and Chagrin, a

critic. When Ramble proposes to speak of _The Funeral_, Sullen says,

"'Tis a dangerous matter to talk of this play; the Town has given

it such applause, 'twill be an ungrateful undertaking to call their

judgments in question." He agrees that it is diverting, and written

with noble intentions. Ramble remarks, "I hear the gentleman is a

fine companion, and passes for a wit of the first rank;" but Sullen

and the Critic agree that _The Funeral_ is not a just comedy, the

principle being much amiss. They argue that Lord Brumpton could not,

as was supposed, have lain dead in the house so long, and no one see

him; while intrigues and amours were going on in the meantime in the

house of death. It is farce, not comedy. Look at the manner of Lady

Sharlot's escape in the coffin--a forced situation which was quite

unnecessary. Is it likely that a man of Cabinet's wickedness would have

been frightened into a confession by a ghost? The undertaker is not

adequately punished; for he was paid anyhow. Nevertheless, the satire

on some widows, and on undertakers, is happy. The Critic thinks the

language "too concise and stiff" for comedy; see, for example, the

scene between Lord Brumpton and Trusty in Act I., and that between

Trusty and Cabinet in Act IV. There are difficult lines in the Preface,

and long parentheses in the play. Ramble turns round and asks, "Did

you ever read _The Christian Hero_?" The Critic says, "Yes; what do

you mean by asking me?" Ramble replies, "Pray don't be angry. Is it

not an extraordinary thing?" The answer is, "Look ye, Sir--to answer

you dogmatically, and in a few words--No." Critic gives reasons:

"Thus, then, briefly: 'Tis a chaos, 'tis a confusion of thoughts, rude

and undigested; though he had the advice of an ingenious man to put

it into method. 'Tis dated from the Tower-guard, as a present to his

Colonel, that his Colonel might think him, even in time of duty, a very

contemplative soldier, and, I suppose, by the roughness of the style,

he writ it there, on the butt-end of a musket." Sullen replies, "Hush!

no reproaches; the gentleman has done very well, and chose a worthy

subject," and Ramble adds, "It bore two editions." The Critic rejoins,

"It did not; it was but once printed, nor is all that impression sold;

'tis a trick of the booksellers to get it off."[3] Ramble, however,

maintains his good opinion of the author. The discussion of _The

Funeral_ is then resumed; and Ramble suggests that, in the opening of

Act III., Mademoiselle's "promises" is a mistake for "premises." The

Critic objects, among other things, to the use of the word "bagatelle."

And then Sullen turns to the merits of the play--the characters, the

visiting scene, the incidents, all flowing naturally, and the moral,

which is the true result of the piece. Ramble adds warm praises of the

author--who is described as "indued with singular honesty, a noble

disposition, and a conformity of good manners"--and his works, and the

Critic hopes, if he will divert the town with another play, that it may

be more "correct." The author does not want understanding.

III.

Steele says that _The Funeral_, "with some particulars enlarged upon

to his advantage," had obtained for him the notice of the king, and

that "his name, to be provided for, was in the last table-book ever

worn by the glorious and immortal William the Third." He was, however,

disappointed, for King William died in March, 1702. But about that time

Steele was made a Captain of Foot in a new regiment whose Colonel was

Lord Lucas, whom Steele had known at the Tower. Each officer raised a

company, and Steele was sent to Landguard Fort, opposite Harwich, where

he did everything in his power for the good of the men under him. At

the end of the year, or at the beginning of 1703, he agreed to sell

to Christopher Rich a comedy, which was nearly finished, called _The

Election of Gotham_. Of that play nothing further is known; but Steele

obtained £72 from Rich, to be repaid in March.[4] Rich said that Steele

was in want of money and in danger of arrest, and it is a fact that the

first of a long series of actions for debt had some time before been

commenced against him. Steele, however, said that the money was paid to

induce him to write more, and upon condition that he should bring his

next play to Rich, whom he charged with oppression and extortion. We

shall hear more of this quarrel.

Complaints against the immorality of the stage increased in number. In

1702 Queen Anne directed that certain actors at Lincoln's Inn Fields

should be prosecuted, and they were found guilty of "uttering impious,

lewd, and immoral expressions." Collier wrote _A Dissuasive from the

Play House_, which was answered by Dennis, and the Lord Chamberlain

ordered that all plays must be licensed by the Master of the Revels,

who was not to pass anything not strictly agreeable to religion and

good manners. At that time, it should be remembered, the play began

about five, and ended at eight, "for the convenience of the Qualities

resorting to the Park after." Such was the condition of affairs when

Steele's second comedy, _The Lying Lover, or the Ladies' Friendship_,

was produced, in December, 1703, to run for six nights.

In his _Apology_ Steele afterwards wrote of the _Lying Lover_:--"Mr.

Collier had, about the time wherein this was published, written against

the immorality of the stage. I was (as far as I durst for fear of witty

men, upon whom he had been too severe) a great admirer of his work,

and took it into my head to write a comedy in the severity he required.

In this play I make the spark or hero kill a man in his drink, and

finding himself in prison the next morning, I give him the contrition

which he ought to have on that occasion.... I can't tell, sir, what

they would have me do to prove me a Churchman; but I think I have

appeared one even in so trifling a thing as a comedy; and considering

me as a comic poet, I have been a martyr and confessor for the Church;

for this play was damned for its piety." In the Dedication of the play

to the Duke of Ormond, he says, "The design of it is to banish out of

conversation all entertainment which does not proceed from simplicity

of mind, good nature, friendship, and honour;" and in the Preface he

again refers to the manner in which the English stage had offended

against the laws of morals and religion; "I thought, therefore, it

would be an honest ambition to attempt a comedy which might be no

improper entertainment in a Christian commonwealth." He admits that

the anguish and sorrow in the prison scene "are, perhaps, an injury

to the rules of comedy; but I am sure they are a justice to those of

morality." It was to be hoped that wit would now recover from its

apostacy, for the Queen had "taken the stage under her consideration."

The play was based upon Corneille's _Le Menteur_, but the latter

and more serious portion is entirely Steele's. Alarcon, from whom

Corneille borrowed, made his liar marry a girl he did not care for

instead of the one he loved; Corneille made the liar's love change, so

that his marriage met his wishes; while Steele represents Bookwit's

inveterate love of romancing, generally in self-glorification, as

leading to a duel with Penelope's lover, and to his own imprisonment

in Newgate. This trouble teaches him the necessary lesson, and the

hope is held out to him, at the end, of the hand of Penelope's friend,

Victoria. "There is no gallantry in love but truth," are his last words.

There are many amusing passages in the _Lying Lover_, and young

Bookwit is very entertaining in the earlier acts, especially in his

boastful account to the ladies of his imaginary campaigns:--"There's

an intimate of mine, a general officer, who has often said, 'Tom,

if thou would'st but stick to any one application, thou might'st be

anything.' 'Tis my misfortune, madam, to have a mind too extensive."

In the second act there is a pleasant account of "the pretty merchants

and their dealers" at the New Exchange, where Bookwit was bewildered

by the darts and glances against which he was not impregnable; and in

the third act, Penelope and Victoria, who are both fascinated by the

young liar, be-patch and be-powder each other in the hope of making

their rival ugly, while they profess--like their maids--to be on the

closest terms of friendship. In the fourth act, after the duel, the

constable remarks, "Sir, what were you running so fast for? There's

a man killed in the garden, and you're a fine gentleman, and it must

be you--for good honest people only beat one another." And there is

an admirable scene in Newgate, where Bookwit is received with respect

by highwaymen and others because he is supposed to have killed a

man. An alchemist--"the ignorant will needs call it coining"--who is

about to be hung, says, "Yet let me tell you, sir, because by secret

sympathy I'm yours, I must acquaint you, if you can obtain the favour

of an opportunity and a crucible, I can show projection--directly Sol,

sir, Sol, sir, more bright than that high luminary the Latins called

so--wealth shall be yours; we'll turn every bar about us into golden

ingots.--Sir, can you lend me half-a-crown?"

It is only in the last act that art is sacrificed to the moral purpose

that Steele had in his view. The ladies repent of their mutual

plottings; and Bookwit, who believes that he has killed his opponent,

looks forward to death, and makes many solemn speeches, printed in

blank verse, which will to a great extent account for the failure of

the piece. Bookwit's father is broken-hearted; and a friend heroically

declares that it was he, and not Bookwit, who killed Lovemore;

whereupon Lovemore says, "I can hold out no longer," and brings matters

to a happy ending by explaining that he had in reality been only

slightly wounded. Hazlitt's words respecting Steele's plays are truer

of the _Lying Lover_ than of the rest: "It is almost a misnomer to

call them comedies; they are rather homilies in dialogues." But even

in this piece there is, as we have seen, nothing that can properly

be called homily except at the close. Ward has described the play

more accurately, as "the first instance of sentimental comedy proper.

It is attempted to produce an effect, not by making vice and folly

ridiculous, but by moving compassion."

It was Steele, rather than young Bookwit, who says in the first scene,

"I don't know how to express myself--but a woman, methinks, is a being

between us and angels. She has something in her that at the same time

gives awe and invitation; and I swear to you, I was never out in't yet,

but I always judged of men as I observed they judged of women: there is

nothing shows a man so much as the object of his affections."

IV.

The battle of Blenheim was won in August, 1704, and in December Addison

obtained fame and office by his poem _The Campaign_. Steele, who was

in constant intercourse with him, said in after years that Addison,

in spite of his bashfulness and modesty, "was above all men in that

talent we call humour." At the various coffee-houses, and especially

at the Kitcat Club, the friends met all the famous wits of the day.

Steele endeavoured, in 1704, without success, to increase his income by

obtaining a troop in a regiment of Dragoons, which the Duke of Ormond

was about to raise. Next year Lord Lucas died, and Steele's connection

with the army appears to have been severed not long afterwards.

In March, 1705, Steele's third play, _The Tender Husband; or, the

Accomplished Fools_, was given to Rich, and it was acted in April and

published in May. The early writers on the subject constantly stated

that _The Tender Husband_ appeared in 1703, and was followed by _The

Lying Lover_, and they then explained that the failure of the latter

piece caused Steele to abandon play-writing for many years. In reality,

however, _The Lying Lover_ was the earlier play of the two by more than

a year.[5]

_The Tender Husband_ ran for five nights, but was not a financial

success. Addison wrote the Prologue and assisted in the play itself,

and to Addison it was dedicated, though, as Steele said, his friend

would "be surprised, in the midst of a daily and familiar conversation,

with an address which bears so distant an air as a public Dedication."

"My purpose in this application is only to show the esteem I have

for you, and that I look upon my intimacy with you as one of the

most valuable enjoyments of my life." The reception given to the

play was such "as to make me think it no improper Memorial of an

inviolable friendship." In the last number of the original series of

the _Spectator_, Steele afterwards wrote:--"I remember when I finished

_The Tender Husband_, I told him there was nothing I so ardently

wished as that we might sometime or other publish a work written by us

both, which should bear the name of _The Monument_, in memory of our

friendship. I heartily wish what I have done here were as honorary to

that sacred name, as learning, wit, and humanity render those pieces

which I have taught the reader how to distinguish for his. When the

play above-mentioned was last acted, there were so many applauded

strokes in it which I had from the same hand, that I thought very

meanly of myself that I had never publicly acknowledged them."

Warned by the fate of _The Lying Lover_, Steele seems to have

determined that there must be less sermonising in the new play. The

result is that _The Tender Husband_ is, as a whole, very amusing; but

unfortunately a second plot--alluded to in the title--is woven into

the story which gives to the play its interest; and as this account

of the manner in which the "tender husband" tries the faithfulness

of a foolish wife by means of his mistress, disguised as a man, is

unwholesome in tone and unnatural, it spoils what would otherwise be an

excellent farcical comedy, and at the same time has no real connection

with the rest of the play. Fortunately, however, Mrs. Clerimont's

weaknesses are hardly brought before the spectator except in the first

scene and the last act. The rest of the piece describes the love

affairs of Biddy Tipkin, a banker's niece--acted by the charming Mrs.

Oldfield--whose head has been so completely filled with the romances

which she has read that she begs to be called Parthenissa:--"If you

ask my name, I must confess you put me upon revealing what I always

keep as the greatest secret I have--for, would you believe it, they

have called me--I don't know how to own it, but they have called

me--Bridget." To her aunt she says, "Do you think that I can ever

marry a man that's true and hearty? What a peasant-like amour do these

coarse words impart?... Good madam, don't upbraid me with my mother

Bridget, and an excellent housewife." She longs for a lover who will

be associated with disguise, serenade, and adventure; and as she is

an heiress, Captain Clerimont--the usual gentlemanly adventurer of

seventeenth century comedy--is willing to humour her whims, and he is

so successful that, though she is of opinion that "a lover should sigh

in private, and languish whole years before he reveals his passion;

he should retire into some solitary grove, and make the woods and wild

beasts his confidants," yet she is soon able to admit "I am almost of

opinion that had Oroondates been as pressing as Clerimont, _Cassandra_

had been but a pocket-book: but it looks so ordinary to go out at a

door to be married--indeed I ought to be taken out of a window, and

run away with." Biddy Tipkin is the direct prototype of Sheridan's

Lydia Languish, and Goldsmith was equally indebted to Biddy's cousin,

Humphry Gubbin, for the idea of Tony Lumpkin. This booby son of an

old-fashioned squire--the forerunner of Fielding's Squire Western--is

as amusing as Biddy, whom his father wishes him to marry. Humphry,

however, had scruples, and "boggled a little" at marrying so near a

relation as a cousin. His father had been in the habit of beating him

like a child, and it was not till he came to town that he knew he was

of age, or what was his fortune. Mr. Pounce, a lawyer, anxious to

secure Biddy for Captain Clerimont, advises Humphry not to be fooled

any longer; and when Humphry remarks, "To tell you truly, I took an

antipathy to my cousin ever since my father proposed her to me; and

since everybody knows I came up to be married, I don't care to go down

and look baulked," Pounce seizes the opportunity of providing for his

sister Mrs. Fairlove, the mistress of the elder Clerimont. Biddy and

Humphry having explained their feelings to each other, Humphry says,

"I'll find out a way for us to get rid of one another, and deceive the

old folks that would couple us;" but when Biddy replies, "This wears

the face of an amour--there is something in that thought which makes

thy presence less insupportable," he exclaims, "Nay, nay, now you're

growing fond; if you come with these maids' tricks to say you hate at

first and afterwards like me, you'll spoil the whole design."

Other characters, such as Biddy's "Urganda of an Aunt," who is not free

from notions of romance on her own account, Pounce the disreputable

lawyer, Sir Harry Gubbin, and Captain Clerimont, who obtains access

to Biddy by disguising himself as a painter--an idea borrowed from

Molière's _Le Sicilien_--add to the amusement of the piece; and then

there are smart sayings in abundance, such as the elder Clerimont's: "I

don't design you to personate a real man, but only a pretty gentleman;"

or Pounce's: "Oh, dear sir, a fine lady's clothes are not old by being

worn, but by being seen." These merits render the weakness of the

ending the more regrettable. The moral is obvious: wife or son should

be restrained only by generous bonds, for "wives to obey must love,

children revere." If any one, after reading the episode of the elder

Clerimont and his wife, is surprised at Steele's statement that he had

"been very careful to avoid everything that might look ill-natured,

immoral, or prejudicial to what the better part of mankind hold sacred

and honourable," it should be remembered that in Steele's play a

repentant wife is forgiven by her husband, whose own conduct was far

from blameless, while in the comedies of his predecessors it was common

for the wife to hoodwink her steadygoing husband triumphantly. Compared

with such plays Steele's work is harmless, and even moral, in its

intention.

It is impossible to say which were the "applauded strokes" contributed

by Addison to _The Tender Husband_. Some writers, bearing in mind the

Tory Foxhunter of the _Freeholder_, have attributed to Addison the

character of Sir Harry Gubbin; others, remembering the description of

a lady's library in the _Spectator_, have suggested that his hand is

to be found in the description of Biddy Tipkin; and some, again, have

thought that he was concerned rather in the serious portions of the

play. Perhaps Addison's help consisted more in general hints given

while the piece was under revision than in the contribution of any

special portion. But speculation is vain in this matter. Addison and

Steele were friends who were wont to work together without any jealous

thought as to the exact share which each of them contributed.

It will be convenient to notice here a Chancery suit which arose out of

Steele's arrangement with Christopher Rich, of the Drury Lane Theatre,

respecting the production of his plays. Steele was the complainant, and

in his bill, dated 1707, he said that about December, 1702, Rich paid

him £72 on the understanding that Steele would write for him another

play. Steele gave a bond of £144; and in 1705 furnished Rich with _The

Tender Husband_, which was acted on the condition that the author was

to have the profits of two days' acting in the autumn. The profits

exceeded £72, but Rich would not pay over the balance, and commenced an

action for the £144. Steele, therefore prayed that these proceedings

might be stayed by injunction.

Rich, in his reply, said that the terms of the agreement for the

production of _The Funeral_ having been carried out to Steele's

satisfaction, Steele agreed, in January, 1703, to give Rich a new play,

and at the same time borrowed £72, to be repaid with interest in March,

upon pain of the forfeiture of £144. Steele did not pay; but in 1705

he produced _The Tender Husband_. The profits, however, were so small

that £10 8s. 2d. was all that, according to the agreement, Rich was

called upon to pay as the result of the first four days' acting. Steele

agreed that this sum should go to the use of the company, and that the

play should be acted for his benefit once in the following winter. The

performance took place in November, though Steele at the last objected

that there would not be a sufficiently good audience. The treasurer

was told to give Steele the balance £2 17s. 6d., which resulted from

this performance, together with the £10 8s. 2d. already mentioned; but

Steele neglected or refused to take the money. Rich added that the

play had been acted several times at the Haymarket Theatre without his

consent--which was quite true; and he prayed that this action might be

dismissed, with costs.

There is no further record of the case until April 29, 1710, when

Rich's counsel showed that his client had submitted an answer to the

plaintiff's bill on January 27, 1708, and that Steele had since then

taken no action. The Court thereupon ordered that the bill should be

dismissed, with costs, which were to be taxed.[6] The pleadings, which

contain much that is of interest to the student of theatrical history,

are given in full in the Appendix.

V.

In the earlier part of 1705, probably soon after the production of _The

Tender Husband_, Steele married a widow, Margaret Stretch, whose maiden

name was Ford. This lady belonged to a good family in Barbados; and

her brother, Major Robert Ford, who made his will in December, 1704,

left to her the residue of his property. He was then about to sail

for England, and within a few weeks he was taken prisoner by a French

privateer, and died on the high seas. In March, 1705, his sister took

out letters of administration, and soon afterwards she was married to

Steele, who subsequently wrote to the mother of the lady who was to be

his second wife: "My late wife had so extreme a value for me that she,

by fine, conveyed to me her whole estate situate in Barbados, which,

with the stock and slaves (proper security being given for the rent),

is let at £850 per annum, at half yearly payments, that is to say, £425

each first of May, and £425 each first of December. This estate came

to her encumbered with a debt of £3,000, by legacies and debts of her

brother, whose executrix she was as well as heiress."

In January, 1707, we find Steele administering to the property of his

wife, who had died in December. Mary Scurlock, of whom we shall hear

immediately, was at the funeral. There is no source of information

respecting the deceased lady, except the writings of the scandalous

Mrs. Manley, who had quarrelled with Steele, but certainly knew

something of the facts, if she chose to speak the truth. Her statement

is that Steele had embarked in alchemy, and had been ruined by a

rogue who cheated him, when he found an opportunity of repairing his

fortunes by marrying a rich but elderly lady. Hints are thrown out

that an odd misfortune, occasioned by Steele's sister, was the cause of

his wife's death; and that he found consolation in "a younger wife, and

a cry'd up beauty." It is true that Steele had a sister who was mad;

but his second wife, who knew the facts, was willing to marry him in

a few months, which she would hardly have done if there had been any

suspicious circumstances connected with her friend's death. Possibly,

however, the end was accelerated by some fright. There can be no doubt

that Steele's sanguine nature had led him, at a period not exactly

defined, to experiment with the crucible, in the hope of discovering

the oft-sought-for _aurum potabile_. When he wrote the scene in the

_Lying Lover_, in which Charcoal appears, he would seem to have

discovered the absurdity of his study of occult science.

In a prologue to Vanbrugh's _The Mistake_, acted at the new theatre

in the Haymarket on December 27, 1705, Steele satirised the popular

demand for dresses, music, and dancing: "If 'tis a comedy, you ask--Who

dance?" In August, 1706, he was appointed gentleman-writer to Prince

George of Denmark, with a salary of £100 a year, "not subject to

taxes." In the course of the following year he contributed verses to

a new monthly paper called _The Muses' Mercury_, and the first number

(January, 1707) contained a reference to Mrs. Steele:--"Had not the

death of a dear friend hindered Captain Steele from finishing a comedy

of his, it would also have been acted this season." We shall see that

in the years that followed Steele often contemplated the production

of another play, but was no doubt prevented by his numerous other

occupations. He was appointed Gazetteer by Robert Harley, on Arthur

Maynwaring's recommendation, in April or May, with a salary of £300,

liable to a tax of £45, and he endeavoured to obey "the rule observed

by all Ministries, to keep that paper very innocent and very insipid";

but, inevitably, there were often complaints either about what was

inserted or what was omitted.

_The Muses' Mercury_ for September contained the following

paragraph:--"As for comedies, there's no great expectation of anything

of that kind since Mr. Farquhar's death: the two gentlemen who could

probably always succeed in the comic vein, Mr. Congreve and Captain

Steele, having affairs of much greater importance to take up their time

and thoughts." In that month Steele married Mary Scurlock, a lady of

twenty-eight years of age, and heiress to the late Jonathan Scurlock,

of Carmarthen, who was descended from an ancient Irish family. Her

estate was worth £400 a year, but there was a demand upon it of £1,400.

Mary Scurlock had, as we have seen, known her husband's first wife, but

the courtship does not seem to have begun until August. The lady saved

all Steele's letters, both then and during her married life. He begged

that they might be shown to no man, as others could not judge of "so

delicate a circumstance as the commerce between man and wife"; but half

a century after his death the whole were published, and these letters

form one of the most interesting studies in existence. The charming

notes to "dear Prue"--often sent daily, and sometimes more frequently,

from wherever he might happen to be engaged--show us the writer's

inmost feelings, and in spite of his obvious weaknesses he comes well

out of the ordeal. He loved his wife and children to the end, and if he

was careless and constantly in debt, "Prue" was somewhat strait-laced

and exacting. It should never be forgotten that we have but two or

three of her replies. The letters written during the love-making are

delightful, and Steele himself printed some of them in the _Tatler_

and _Spectator_. The young lady was not without experience, for three

years earlier a "wretched impudence," named Henry Owen, had brought an

unsuccessful suit against her for breach of contract of marriage. That

she was much in love with Steele is evident from a letter of hers to

her mother, in which she praised his richly-endowed mind, his person,

his temper, his understanding, and his morals. It was her "first and

only inclination," and she was sure that she should "never meet with

a prospect of happiness if this should vanish." Miss Scurlock, who

had something of the prude in her, desired that the marriage should

be secret, and would not have it known until her mother's consent had

been received. Before the end of the year Steele had taken a house in

Bury Street, which was conveniently near to St. James's church, whither

his wife frequently resorted. Steele's own prayers, written before and

after marriage for his private use, show the manly religion which was

the foundation of his character.

Apologies for absence from home were soon necessitated by engagements

of one kind or another. This was the kind of note which Steele often

sent to his "absolute governess":--

"Devil Tavern, Temple Bar,

_Jan._ 3_d._ 1708.

"DEAR PRUE,

"I have partly succeeded in my business to-day, and enclose two

guineas as an earnest of more. Dear Prue, I can't come home to dinner.

I languish for your welfare, and will never be a moment careless more.

"Your faithful husband,

"R. STEELE.

"Send me word you have received this."

The Barbados property, which was necessarily left to the care of an

agent, gave much trouble, and it is clear that Steele's views as to

the probable income to be derived from that and other sources was very

rose-coloured. He was frequently embarrassed, but one debt usually

arose from a habit of borrowing money to pay off another creditor,

and the actual amount owing at any time seems never to have been very

large. Mrs. Steele was not always on good terms with her mother, and on

one occasion that lady proposed to settle a portion of her property on

Steele and his wife jointly, and to make the whole estate liable to a

charge in his favour in case he outlived his wife without issue. This

Steele declined, begging that the whole of whatever was left to them

might be fixed on his wife and her posterity.

VI.

Swift returned to England in November, 1707, and was soon in frequent

intercourse with Steele and Addison. In March, 1708, he published his

famous "Predictions for the year 1708, by Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq.," an

attack on an astrologer and almanack-maker, John Partridge. In this

pamphlet Swift declared that he, unlike others, was a real astrologer,

and prophesied that Partridge would die on March 29. On the 30th of

that month another pamphlet appeared, giving a circumstantial account

of Partridge's death. The almanack-maker protested that he was as well

as ever; but Swift replied that it was evident that the man was dead,

because no man living could write such rubbish as was contained in the

new almanack for 1709. Other wits joined in the controversy, and when

Steele began _The Tatler_ he adopted the name of "Isaac Bickerstaff,"

which, he said, Swift had made famous through all parts of Europe.

Steele obtained a house at Hampton Wick, and there his "dear ruler"

was established in 1708, with a chariot and two or four horses, a

saddle-horse, a footman, a gardener, a boy Will, her own woman, and a

boy who could speak Welsh. "I shall make it the business of my life,"

wrote Steele, "to make you easy and happy: consult your cool thoughts

and you'll know that 'tis the glory of a woman to be her husband's

friend and companion, and not his sovereign director." In another

letter he said, "It is not in your power to make me otherwise than your

affectionate, faithful, and tender husband." With yet another note he

sent "seven pen'orth of walnuts at five a penny, which is the greatest

proof I can give you at present of my being, with my whole heart,

yours," &c. Outside the letter he added, below the address, "There

are but 29 walnuts." In October he lost a place through the death of

Prince George, but the Queen gave him a pension of £100 a-year. Debts,

however, were numerous, and an execution was put in on account of

arrears of rent for the house in Bury Street. When Addison was made

Secretary to Lord Wharton, the new Viceroy of Ireland, Steele hoped to

get an Under-secretaryship, but was disappointed. In March, 1709, his

eldest daughter, Elizabeth, was born, and had for godfathers Addison

and Mr. Wortley Montagu. In the following month Steele began the great

work of his life.

The periodical literature of the day was of little value. The few

papers that existed were either brief news-sheets, or were repositories

for questions and answers, supplied by the readers, and of feeble

verse. The only periodical which was in any sense a forerunner of the

_Tatler_ was Defoe's _Review_, in which part of the space was set

apart for "Advice from the Scandalous Club," where men, not parties,

and things rather than persons, were censured. When the quantity of

matter was too great for the available space, a monthly "Supplementary

Journal" was published. Afterwards Defoe gave a friendly greeting to

Steele's new work, which dealt with the social questions and follies of

the day in a style that was more thorough, and at the same time more

genial, than his own.

The first number of the _Tatler_ was published on April 22, 1709, and

it appeared three times a week. It was a single folio sheet, price one

penny, and four numbers were given away gratuitously. The reader found

there items of news, accounts of popular entertainments, poetry, and

learning. As time went on the news articles were dropped, and each

number was gradually confined to one subject. Isaac Bickerstaff was

described as "an old man, a philosopher, a humourist, an astrologer,

and a censor." The other characters described from time to time are not

essential to the general plan of the paper. "The general purpose of the

whole," as Steele wrote at the close, "has been to recommend truth,

innocence, honour, and virtue, as the chief ornaments of life." He was

satisfied if one vice had been destroyed, or a morning's cheerfulness

given to an honest mind. As censor he thought fit to speak under a

mask, because he knew that his own life was "at best but pardonable."

Addison rendered much valuable aid, which Steele acknowledged in such

generous terms that some writers have represented that all that was

valuable in the paper was by his friend. The fact, however, is that of

the 271 numbers that appeared about 188 were by Steele, and only 42

by Addison, while 36 were written by them jointly. Steele started the

paper, and Addison knew nothing of the authorship until six numbers had

appeared, and did not render any material assistance during the early

months of publication. The aid given by Swift and others is too slight

to need mention. Steele had to write, whether he was prepared or not,

whenever he had no paper by anyone else ready; but his most careless

contributions are interesting, because he wrote from the heart, and was

a man full of kindly impulse. It is sufficient to remark here that in

the articles on public amusements he provided admirable criticisms,

and was always ready to assist a good actor. Years afterwards Cibber

wrote that during a season of depression excellent audiences had often

been drawn together at a day's notice by the influence of a single

_Tatler_. Steele was much in advance of his time in the way in which he

quoted and appreciated Shakespeare and Milton. As Gay said, he rescued

learning "out of the hands of pedants and fools, and discovered the

true method of making it amiable and lovely to all mankind."

Steele's income was increased by £300 a year in January, 1710, when

he was appointed a Commissioner of the Stamp Office. At that time

there was great excitement about the pending trial of the Tory, Dr.

Sacheverell, two of whose sermons were condemned as seditious libels,

reflecting on the Queen, the Revolution, and the Protestant succession.

Sacheverell was found guilty in March and forbidden to preach for three

years, but the sentence was nominal, and the Tories were in reality

triumphant. In June Sunderland, the Duke of Marlborough's son-in-law,

was dismissed, and in August Godolphin was called upon to give up the

seals, and Harley became Chancellor of the Exchequer, and practically

head of the Government. Papers satirising Harley had appeared in the

_Tatler_ in July, and on September 10 Swift, who had just returned to

England, wrote to Esther Johnson, "Steele will certainly lose his

Gazetteer's place, all the world detesting his engaging in politics." A

few days later Whig statesmen were turned out in favour of the Earl of

Rochester, the Duke of Buckingham, and Henry St. John, and in October

Steele was deprived of his place, or, as Swift afterwards stated,

resigned to avoid being discarded.

The Tory _Examiner_ had been established in August; in November Swift

contributed his first paper. He still met Addison and Steele as

friends, but not so often as formerly, and he says he intervened with

Harley in favour of Steele's retention of his office of Commissioner.

The Ministry were by no means desirous of quarrelling with a popular

writer, and Steele kept this post until 1713. The _Tatler_ came to a

sudden end on January 2, 1711, perhaps as the result of a compact with

the Government. Even Addison appears not to have been consulted when

this step was taken.

VII.

It was commonly said that Steele had given up the _Tatler_ through

want of matter. How entirely erroneous this statement was is shown by

the appearance, two months later (March 1, 1711), of the first number

of the _Spectator_, which was issued daily until December 6, 1712.

Addison commenced it with a description of the Spectator himself; in

the second number Steele gave an account of the club where the plan

of the work was supposed to be arranged, and drew the first sketch of

its members--Sir Roger de Coverley, the country gentleman; Sir Andrew

Freeport, the merchant; Captain Sentry, the soldier; Will Honeycomb,

the fine gentleman about town; and the clergyman. The most important

of the papers relating to Sir Roger de Coverley are by Addison, who

was at his best in the _Spectator_, of which he wrote 274 numbers,

while Steele was responsible for 236. The world, however, owes Addison

to Steele, who rightly said, "I claim to myself the merit of having

extorted excellent productions from a person of the greatest abilities,

who would not have let them appear by any other means." Even Swift

wrote that Steele seemed to have gathered new life, and to have a new

fund of wit. Until the passing of the Stamp Act in August, 1712, when

the price was necessarily raised, the circulation seems to have been

nearly 4,000.

Among many other subjects Steele again wrote numerous excellent papers

on the stage. There is the well-known account of Estcourt's death,

and there are admirable criticisms. Of Etherege's popular play, _Sir

Foppling Flutter_, he said that it was "a perfect contradiction to

good manners, good sense, and common honesty"; and of Beaumont and

Fletcher's _Scornful Lady_, that no beauty would atone for the

meanness of giving "a scandalous representation of what is reputable

among men, that is to say, what is sacred." Elsewhere he remarked that

"it is not to be imagined what effect a well-regulated stage would have

upon men's manners," and that it is in the people themselves "to raise

this entertainment to the greatest height."

Swift was now quite estranged from Addison and Steele, though of

course they were civil when they met. In June, 1711, Steele appears

to have become acquainted with Pope, and Addison wrote a flattering

notice of the young poet's _Art of Criticism_ in the _Spectator_.

Party pamphleteering was now being carried to a hitherto unprecedented

extent, and Swift wrote constantly himself, and supplied hints to

others. Marlborough was dismissed, and the object of the Government

was to bring the war to an end by persuading the people to agree to

a treaty whose terms were less satisfactory than might have been

expected. At the same time some of the party were secretly plotting

for the restoration of the Stuarts, and among these appears to to have

been Harley, now Earl of Oxford. Steele wrote a pamphlet in praise of

Marlborough, for whom he always showed great admiration.

A son, Eugene, was born in March, 1712; Steele was then living in

Brownlow Street, Holborn. In June he had a cottage on Haverstock Hill,

and there the members of the Kitcat Club called for him on their

way to the Upper Flask at Hampstead, where they met in the summer.

In July he had taken a house in Bloomsbury Square, and next month he

felt relieved by the renewal of his employments, and lived "in the

handsomest manner." But all the time actions for debt were hanging over

him, and he had hastily to withdraw a scheme which was found to be

illegal, for "getting money" by means of a "Multiplication Table," to

be worked in connection with the State Lottery.

The _Spectator_ was brought to a close in December, 1712, and in the

following month George Berkeley, afterwards Bishop of Cloyne, but then

a young man just arrived in London, wrote that Steele, who had been

among the first to welcome him, was ill with gout, but was, "as I am

informed, writing a play, since he gave over the _Spectators_." Steele

was very hospitable to the young philosopher, and Berkeley remarks that

there appeared "in his natural temper something very generous, and a

great benevolence to mankind." By the death of Mrs. Scurlock, Steele

had come into £500 a year, which made it more justifiable for him to

maintain his "handsome and neatly furnished house," where the table,

servants, coach, &c., were "very genteel."

A new periodical, _The Guardian_, was begun on March 12, 1713, and was

issued daily until October. Steele wrote 82 of the 175 numbers, and

Addison, Berkeley and Pope were among the contributors. The periodical

was written on the same lines as the _Spectator_, and many of the

papers are excellent, but with the fortieth number Steele was drawn

into a political quarrel with the _Examiner_, and the _Guardian_ lost

its value as literature. Politics ran so high that the representatives

of each party applied to themselves the noble sentiments in Addison's

tragedy, _Cato_, which was produced on April 14, and thus united in

applauding the piece. Steele had undertaken to fill the house, and he

wrote verses, afterwards prefixed to the play, in which he alluded to

the fact that he had once inscribed Addison's name to his own "light

scenes"; they, however, would soon die, and he therefore wished to

"live, joined to a work of thine."

Attacks in the _Examiner_ led Steele to complain of articles by

"an estranged friend or an exasperated mistress," _i.e._ Swift or

Mrs. Manley. Swift denied that he had at this time any hand in the

_Examiner_, and a bitter quarrel arose between the two men. In June

Steele resigned his position as Commissioner of the Stamp Office, and

soon afterwards gave up his pension as a servant of the late Prince.

On August 25 he was elected M.P. for the borough of Stockbridge,

Hampshire. In the _Guardian_ Steele had insisted that as one of the

conditions of the peace the nation expected the demolition of Dunkirk;

and this was dwelt upon at greater length in a pamphlet called _The

Importance of Dunkirk considered._ A storm of controversial literature

followed these declarations, and, in October the _Guardian_ gave place

to the _Englishman_, which was devoted almost entirely to politics.

Addison said he was "in a thousand troubles for poor Dick," and hoped

that his zeal for the public would not be ruinous to himself. Swift

wrote bitter attacks--_The Importance of the Guardian considered_ and

_The First Ode of the Second Book of Horace Paraphrased and addressed

to Richard St--le, Esq._, in the latter of which he suggested that when

Steele had settled the affairs of Europe he might turn to Drury Lane,

and produce the play with which he had long threatened the town, and

which had for plot--

"To make a pair of jolly fellows,

The son and father, join to tell us

How sons may safely disobey,

And fathers never should say nay;

By which wise conduct they grow friends

At last--and so the story ends."

In January, 1714, Steele brought out _The Crisis_, a widely read

pamphlet which set forth the facts relating to the Hanoverian

Succession, and among the replies was Swift's _The Public Spirit of the

Whigs_. Steele defended himself in the last number of the _Englishman_,

and next day Parliament met, and Steele spoke in support of the motion

that Sir Thomas Hanmer should be Speaker. Complaint was soon made that

his writings were seditious, and, in spite of the aid of Walpole,

Stanhope, Addison, and others, a motion for his expulsion was carried

by the Tory House, on March 18, after several debates. In the meantime,

the Whig House of Lords had taken measures against the printer and

publisher of Swift's _Public Spirit of the Whigs_, and had insisted

upon a reward being offered for the discovery of the author.

About this time Steele produced short-lived periodicals called _The

Lover_ and _The Reader_, and several political pamphlets. Although

£3,000 had been given him by some unknown friends, he was involved in

money difficulties, and the house in Bloomsbury Square was given up.

But with the end of July came the serious illness of Queen Anne, who

died on August 1st. The hopes of Bolingbroke and others were thrown

to the ground, and George I. was peacefully proclaimed king. Bothmar

at once acquainted his royal master with Steele's services, and soon

after the king's arrival in England Steele was made Deputy-Lieutenant

for the County of Middlesex, Surveyor of the Royal Stables at Hampton

Court, a Justice of the Peace, and Supervisor of the Theatre Royal. He

found time to publish, in October, an important pamphlet, _Mr. Steele's

Apology for Himself and his Writings_, and _The Ladies' Library_, a

compilation which he had revised, and which contained an admirable

Dedication to his wife, concluding thus: "But I offend; and forget that

what I say to you is to appear in public. You are so great a lover

of home, that I know it will be irksome to you to go into the world

even in an applause. I will end this without so much as mentioning

your little flock, or your own amiable figure at the head of it. That

I think them preferable to all other children, I know is the effect of

passion and instinct. That I believe you to be the best of wives, I

know proceeds from experience and reason."

VIII.

Until the death of the Queen, William Collier, M.P., who held a licence

to act, in conjunction with Wilks, Cibber, Doggett, and Booth, had

received a pension from those actors of £700 a year. At the accession

of King George, as the pension could not be wholly got rid of, the

four actors, as Colley Cibber tells us in his _Apology_, "imagined the

merit of a Whig might now have as good a chance of getting into it, as

that of a Tory had for being continued in it: having no obligations,

therefore, to Collier, who had made the last penny of them, they

applied themselves" to Steele, who had many pretensions to favour at

Court. "We knew, too, the obligations the stage had to his writings;

there being scarce a comedian of merit, in our whole company, whom his

_Tatlers_ had not made better by his public recommendation of them.

And many days had our House been particularly filled by the influence

and credit of his pen.... We therefore begged him to use his interest

for the renewal of our licence, and that he would do us the honour of

getting our names to stand with his, in the same Commission. This,

we told him, would put it still further into his power of supporting

the stage in that reputation to which his Lucubrations had already

so much contributed; and that therefore we thought no man had better

pretences to partake of its success." Steele was, of course, delighted

at the offer. "It surprised him into an acknowledgment, that people,

who are shy of obligations, are cautious of confessing. His spirits

took such a lively turn upon it, that had we been all his own sons, no

unexpected act of filial duty could have more endeared us to him." A

new licence, upon the first mention of it, was obtained by Steele of

the King, through the Duke of Marlborough, "the hero of his heart," who

was now again Captain-General. According to a memorandum of Steele's he

received a message from the King, "to know whether I was in earnest in

desiring the Playhouse or that others thought of it for me. If I liked

it I should have it as an earnest of His future favour."

The prosperity of the early part of the season of 1714-5 was checked

by a renewal of the licence to the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields

and by the desertion to that house of seven or eight actors. The

other managers of Drury Lane Theatre found it necessary to point out

to Steele that he stood in the same position as Collier, and that

his pension of £700 was liable to the same conditions as Collier's,

namely, that it was to be paid only so long as there was but one

company allowed to act, and that if a second company were set up, the

pension was to be changed from a fixed payment to an equal share of

the profits. To this Steele at once agreed. "While we were offering to

proceed," says Cibber, "Sir Richard stopped us short by assuring us,

that as he came among us by our own invitation, he should always think

himself obliged to come into any measures for our ease and service;

that to be a burden to our industry would be more disagreeable to him

than it could be to us, and as he had always taken a delight in his

endeavours for our prosperity, he should be still ready, on our own

terms, to continue them." Every one who knew Steele in his prosperity,

Cibber remarks, "knew that this was his manner of dealing with his

friends in business." Steele, however, told Cibber and the others that

he was advised to get their licence during pleasure enlarged into a

more durable authority, and with this object he proposed that he should

obtain a Patent for himself, for his life and three years after, which

he would then assign over to them. To this the managers were only too

glad to agree, for, among other benefits, it would free them from

too great a dependency upon the Lord Chamberlain, or the officers

under him, who, not having "the hearts of noblemen," often showed

that insolence of office to which narrow minds are liable. Steele

accordingly applied for a Patent, and his request was complied with on

January 19, 1715. A week earlier he had received a gift of £500 from

the King.

On the 20th of January, Steele left London for Boroughbridge, a place

for which he was to be elected Member of Parliament on the 2nd of the

following month. The Patent was only received on the 19th of January,

and, therefore, as Cibber says, "We were forced that very night to draw

up in a hurry (till our counsel might more advisably perfect it) his

assignment to us of equal shares in the Patent, with farther conditions

of partnership.... This assignment (which I had myself the hasty

penning of) was so worded, that it gave Sir Richard as equal a title

to our property as it had given us to his authority in the Patent.

But Sir Richard, notwithstanding, when he returned to town, took no

advantage of the mistake." Cibber adds that Steele's equity and honour

proved as advantageous to himself as to them, for instead of £700, his

income from the theatre, by his accepting a share instead of the fixed

pension, was about £1,000 a year.

Steele was knighted, in company with two other Deputy-Lieutenants,

in April, and in May he celebrated the King's birthday by a grand

entertainment in the great room at York Buildings. This room he

called the "Censorium," and it was intended for select assemblies of

two hundred persons, "leaders in politeness, wit, and learning." The

undertaking appears to have been successful, and it was carried on for

some time.

The _Englishman_ was revived in July, with the object of making good

the accusations which had been levelled long before against Oxford,

Bolingbroke, and other members of the late Government. Steele appears

to have asked for £1,000 a year before undertaking this work,[7] and

from the fact that he continued the paper after threatening to drop it

when the third number had been published, it would seem that he was

paid at least £500 by Walpole. Soon afterwards he applied, but without

success, for the vacant Mastership of the Charterhouse. Of Steele's

various publications in 1715-6 it is impossible to speak here; it will

be enough to notice that Addison's comedy, _The Drummer_, was published

by Steele on March 21, 1716, with a preface in which he said that the

play had for some years been in the hands of the author, who had been

persuaded by him to allow of its representation on the stage. In June

he was appointed one of the thirteen Commissioners who were to deal

with the estates forfeited by noblemen and gentlemen, chiefly Scottish,

who had taken up arms on the side of the Pretender during the late

rising. The salary was £1,000 a year.

Money difficulties made it necessary, in July, 1716, for Steele to

mortgage his interest in the theatre to an Edward Minshull, M.P., who

had on previous occasions lent him money. In January, 1717, further

money was raised upon Steele's share of the scenery, clothes, and

profits. This led to much trouble, and ultimately to a Chancery

action, in 1722, which is described in the Appendix. In that same

year, Minshull, who was a gambler, was found guilty of fraud, but he

succeeded in escaping to Holland.

Lady Steele went to Carmarthenshire in November, 1716, and remained

there till the end of the following year. When she left London one of

her children was sickening for the smallpox, and, according to her

husband, there was not "an inch of candle, a pound of coal, or a bit of

meat in the house." The little girl recovered, however, and money came

in; and, during the following weeks, Steele wrote some charming letters

about his "dear innocents," full of good resolves for the future, which

did not meet with any very hearty response from his ailing wife. In

one letter he spoke of turning all his thoughts to finish his comedy,

but he also had great hopes from a "Fish-pool scheme," the object

of which was to bring fish alive to London. When his "dear little

peevish, beautiful, wise governess" called him "good Dick," he said he

was so enraptured that he could forget his miserable lameness--he was

suffering from gout--and walk down to Wales.

After many delays, Steele set out, in October, to attend the meetings

of the Forfeited Estates Commission at Edinburgh, where he was very

well received. He was, however, soon back in London, and, in June,

1718, obtained Letters Patent for the Fish-pool, which was followed by

much litigation on the part of a man named Sansome, who said he had

rendered valuable aid in developing the scheme. In the autumn, Steele

was again in Scotland, and in December he lost his "dear and honoured

wife." She was buried in the south transept of Westminster Abbey.

The Peerage Bill was introduced by the Government in 1719, with a view

of limiting the power of creating new peers. The real object was to

prevent a growth of the influence either of king or people, in both

of which the aristocratic Whigs saw danger to themselves. Steele did

not agree on this question with the party leaders, and he was honest

and bold enough to oppose their bill in a paper called the _Plebeian_.

Addison replied in the _Old Whig_, and unfortunately the controversy

led to the estrangement of the two friends. There was no opportunity

for reconciliation, for Addison died shortly after the appearance of

these pamphlets. The Peerage Bill was revived in November, but was

thrown out in December, immediately after the publication of another

pamphlet by Steele.

The Government at once took steps to punish their candid friend. As

early as 1717, the Duke of Newcastle, who then became Lord Chamberlain,

had requested the managers of the theatre to accept a licence in

place of their patent. This Steele declined to do, and the matter

dropped; but in the following year there was further friction, owing

to the claim of the managers that they were exempt from the Duke's

authority. The Attorney-General was consulted on this point, and upon

the question whether Steele had power to sell or alienate his interest

in the patent; but the result is not recorded. The first act of

revenge was an order, on December 19, 1719, forbidding Cibber--who had

dedicated his _Ximena_ to Steele--to act or take part in the management

of the theatre. Steele remonstrated, and commenced an interesting

periodical called the _Theatre_, in vindication of himself and his

fellow-managers. On January 23, 1720, the licence was revoked, and

the Lord Chamberlain threatened to obtain a sign manual to silence

the theatre. Steele petitioned the King, but on the 25th a warrant

was issued forbidding any acting at Drury Lane until further order.

On the 27th a licence, to be held during pleasure, was granted to

Wilks, Cibber, and Booth; and on March 4, in spite of every effort

of Steele's to obtain justice, the King's Company of Comedians were

sworn at the office of the Lord Chamberlain, to whom they agreed to be

subservient. Next month, in the last number of the _Theatre_, Steele

alluded to the loss he had sustained in not being able to produce his

own pieces advantageously, and stated that he would forthwith publish

a new comedy, called _Sir John Edgar_. This agrees with letters from

Dr. Rundle, who wrote that it was said that a most excellent comedy of

Steele's was prevented being acted at the Haymarket Theatre, lest its

wit and sense should spoil the relish for operas. This comedy, however,

never saw the light.

Throughout 1720 the country was occupied with the fortunes of the

South Sea Company and other schemes, by which people hoped to make

rapid fortunes. Steele, both in and out of the House, again opposed

the action of ministers, and his conduct was justified in the autumn,

when the bubble burst. Aislabie, the elder Craggs, the Stanhopes, and

Sunderland were all compromised; and Walpole became First Lord of the

Treasury. Steele, as in the case of the 1715 Rebellion, advocated mercy

towards the directors of the company as individuals, though he had

fearlessly condemned their action while they had the power of doing

harm. On the 2nd of May, 1721, through Walpole's influence, the Lord

Chamberlain issued a warrant, ordering the managers of the theatre to

account to Steele for his share of the profits, past and future. In the

autumn he was again in Scotland.

Articles quadrupartite were entered into on September 19, between

Steele, Wilks, Cibber, and Booth, by which it was agreed that Steele's

executors should, for three years after his death, receive one-fourth

part of the profits of the theatre, and should also have, at his death,

£1,200 for his share in the patent, clothes, scenery, &c. Further

articles were also signed, which had for their object the protection of

the actors in case Steele were again deprived by order of the King or

Lord Chamberlain of his interest in the theatre. These agreements did

not prevent Steele having difficulty in getting from the other managers

his share of the profits, though he had already given them £400 each,

in consideration, as they said, of a fourth part of the scenery, &c.,

which belonged to them. At the close of the year Steele republished

_The Drummer_, which had not been included by Tickell in the collected

edition of Addison's works, and prefixed to it a vindication of himself

from charges made by the editor. In March, 1722, he became Member of

Parliament for Wendover.

IX.

As early as 1720 Steele spoke in the _Theatre_ of "a friend of mine"

who was lately preparing a comedy according to the just laws of the

stage, and had introduced a scene in which the first character bore

unprovoked wrong, denied a duel, and still appeared a man of honour

and courage. This was clearly an allusion to the play eventually to

be published as _The Conscious Lovers_. And in a paragraph in Mist's

_Weekly Journal_ for November 18, 1721, printed a year before the play

appeared, readers were informed that "Sir Richard Steele proposes to

represent a character upon the stage this season that was never seen

there yet: His _Gentleman_ has been two years a dressing, and we wish

he may make a good appearance at last." In June, 1722, Vanbrugh, in

a letter to Tonson, lamented the absence of new plays of any value.

"Steele, however," he said, "has one to come on at winter, which they

much commend." On September 22 the _British Journal_ stated that a

considerable number of new plays were promised at Drury Lane that

season, and that Steele's new comedy would be set up immediately after

Mrs. Centlivre's _The Artifice_. In October the newspapers announced

that Steele's play would be called _The Unfashionable Lovers_, or as

others said, _The Fine Gentleman_. When the play was produced, on

November 7th, the title chosen was _The Conscious Lovers_.

Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs. Younger, Booth, Wilks, and Cibber took the

principal parts in what was, in many respects, Steele's best play,

and Benjamin Victor says that the author, with whom he sat at the

first performance, was charmed with all the actors except Griffin,

who represented Cimberton, a very ungrateful part. The play ran for

eighteen nights, which at that time meant a great success, and there

were eight further performances during the season. It was published in

December,[8] with a dedication to the King, for which Steele appears to

have received five hundred guineas.

In the Preface the success of the play was attributed to the excellent

manner in which every part was acted; for a play is meant to be seen,

not read. "The chief design of this was to be an innocent performance,

and the audience have abundantly showed how ready they are to support

what is visibly intended that way; nor do I make any difficulty to

acknowledge that the whole was writ for the sake of the scene of the

fourth act, wherein Mr Bevil evades the quarrel with his friend; and

hope it may have some effect upon the Goths and Vandals that frequent

the theatres, or a more polite audience may supply their absence." The

general idea of the play was taken from Terence's _Andria_, but after

the first two acts Steele's indebtedness to Terence is very slight.

Cibber, however, rendered valuable assistance. "Mr. Cibber's zeal for

the work," wrote Steele, "his care and application in instructing

the actors, and altering the dispositions of the scenes, when I was,

through sickness, unable to cultivate such things myself, has been a

very obliging favour and friendship to me." Theophilus Cibber, who had

a part in the original cast, says that when Steele finished the comedy,

the parts of Tom and Phillis were not in it, and that Colley Cibber,

when he heard it read, said he liked it upon the whole, but that it was

rather too grave for an English audience, who think the end of a comedy

is to make them laugh. Steele thereupon agreed to the introduction

of some comic characters, and at his request the play received many

additions by Cibber. The piece was, as Victor says, "the last blaze of

Sir Richard's glory"; and it is probable that Cibber deserves all the

thanks Steele gave him for preparing for the stage the manuscript which

had for so long been in preparation, and which, without assistance,

might never have been completed. It is difficult, however, to accept

Theophilus Cibber's account in its entirety, because the germ of the

delightful scene in which Tom, the gentleman's gentleman, describes

how he fell in love with Phillis, is to be found in No. 87 of the

_Guardian_, where Steele says he had in mind a scene which he had

recently observed while passing a house. This is the form which the

story ultimately took:--

_Tom._ Ah! Too well I remember when, and how, and on what occasion I

was first surprised. It was on the first of April, one thousand seven

hundred and fifteen, I came into Mr. Sealand's service; I was then a

hobbledehoy, and you a pretty little tight girl, a favourite handmaid

of the housekeeper. At that time we neither of us knew what was in us:

I remember I was ordered to get out of the window, one pair of stairs,

to rub the sashes clean; the person employed on the inner side was

your charming self, whom I had never seen before.

_Phillis._ I think I remember the silly accident: What made ye, you

oaf, ready to fall down into the street?

_Tom._ You know not, I warrant you--You could not guess what surprised

me. You took no delight, when you immediately grew wanton, in your

conquest, and put your lips close, and breathed upon the glass, and

when my lips approached, a dirty cloth you rubbed against my face, and

hid your beauteous form; when I again drew near, you spit, and rubbed,

and smiled at my undoing.

_Phillis._ What silly thoughts you men have!

_Tom._ ... Oh, Phillis! Phillis! shorten my torment and declare you

pity me.

_Phillis._ I believe it's very sufferable; the pain is not so

exquisite but that you may bear it a little longer.

"If I were rich," said Phillis in another place, "I could twire and

loll as well as the best of them. Oh, Tom! Tom! Is it not a pity that

you should be so great a coxcomb, and I so great a coquette, and yet be

such poor devils as we are?"

The names of some of the characters recall earlier writings, for

Lucinda and her father, Mr. Sealand, Mr. Charles Myrtle, and Humphrey,

the servant, had all appeared in the _Theatre_, while there was another

Myrtle in the _Lover_. There are, too, passages which at once remind

us of the style of the earlier periodicals; thus Bevil, after escorting

a music-master to the door, says to Indiana, "You smile, madam, to

see me so complaisant to one whom I pay for his visit: Now, I own, I

think it is not enough barely to pay those whose talents are superior

to our own (I mean such talents as would become our condition, if we

had them). Methinks we ought to do something more than barely gratify

them for what they do at our command, only because their fortune is

below us"; to which Indiana replies, "You said, I smile; I assure you

it was a smile of approbation; for, indeed, I cannot but think it the

distinguishing part of a gentleman to make his superiority of fortune

as easy to his inferiors as he can." Or, to take another passage in

the conversation of these same "conscious lovers," Bevil remarks, "If

pleasure be worth purchasing, how great a pleasure is it to him, who

has a true taste of life, to ease an aching heart, to see the human

countenance lighted up with smiles of joy on receipt of a bit of ore

which is superfluous and otherwise useless in a man's own pocket." He

even remembers to praise Addison: "The moral writers practise virtue

after death: This charming Vision of Mirza! Such an author consulted

in a morning sets the spirit for the vicissitudes of the day better

than the glass does a man's person." And when Sir John Bevil observes

that, "What might injure a citizen's credit may be no strain to a

gentleman's honour," Mr. Sealand says, "Sir John, the honour of a

gentleman is liable to be tainted by as small a matter as the credit

of a trader." Much the same lesson is taught, less sententiously, when

Phillis exclaims, "Oh, Tom! Tom! thou art as false and as base as the

best gentleman of them all."

Parson Adams said that he thought _The Conscious Lovers_ the only

play fit for a Christian to see; "indeed," he added, "it contains

some things almost solemn enough for a sermon." In this kindly satire

Fielding indicated the weakness of the play. The chief interest

of the piece is sentimental, and the hero is not always free from

priggishness. Yet the duelling scene, for which, as Steele says, the

whole was written, has much dramatic interest, and the protest against

false ideas of honour--"decisions a tyrant custom has introduced,

to the breach of all laws both divine and human"--was at that time

courageous, and much needed. If some of the things expressed in this

play are more suited for a paper in the _Spectator_, there is nothing

in true comedy which makes it incongruous to convey, in a manner suited

to that form of art, a serious lesson of life. If, again, as some say,

there is more pathos than is allowable in the scene in which Sealand

recovers his long-lost daughter and sister, the end is that of true

comedy; the "pedantic coxcomb" Cimberton no longer wants Sealand's

daughter when he finds that, by the discovery of Indiana, Lucinda's

fortune will be halved; Bevil is able, in marrying Indiana, the lady

he loves, to comply with his father's wish that he should be united to

Sealand's daughter; and Bevil's friend, Myrtle, the true lover whose

affection is not lessened by change in the lady's dowry, is rewarded

with the hand of Lucinda. The friends, formerly supposed by one of them

to be rivals, thus become brothers.

Steele alluded to current criticism when he said, in his Preface,

that the incident of the threatened duel and the case of the father

and daughter were thought by some to be no subjects of comedy; "but I

cannot," he continued, "be of their mind, for anything that has its

foundation in happiness and success must be allowed to be the object of

comedy." His object, as Welsted said in the Prologue, was to

"please by wit that scorns the aid of vice;

The praise he seeks, from worthier motives springs,

Such praise, as praise to those that give, it brings."

It was for the audience

"To chasten wit, and moralise the stage."

If success is to be measured by the amount of discussion caused by a

work, _The Conscious Lovers_ was, indeed, fortunate. Dennis began the

attack in a pamphlet before the play was publicly acted, and afterwards

returned to the charge. Much of what he said was personal abuse, but

some of his remarks are interesting, and show what were then held to

be the weak points in the piece. He complained that Bevil was given

the qualities of an old man, and maintained that the characters were

not just images of their contemporaries, that patterns for imitation

were set up instead of follies and vices being made ridiculous, and

that the subject of the comedy was not by its constitution comical.

Bevil's filial piety, he said, was carried too far, and his behaviour

to Indiana was still more unaccountable, for though he had in one

sense concealed his passion, there was no retreat with honour for

him, because by his generosity and constant visits he had raised a

passion for him in Indiana, and had compromised her. The catastrophe,

he confessed, was very moving, but it might have been more surprising,

if handled differently. The action in Terence's play was natural, as,

for example, the conduct of Glycerium at the funeral of Chrysis; but

the scene at the masquerade between Bevil and Indiana was an absurd

imitation, for Indiana did not know that her affection was returned.

As for Bevil, "this man of conscience and of religion is as arrant

an hypocrite as a certain author," and was constantly dissimulating.

Dennis concluded by saying that the sentiments were often frivolous,

false, and absurd; the dialogue awkward, clumsy, and spiritless; the

diction affected, barbarous, and too often Hibernian.

There were other pamphlets for and against the play, and the newspapers

contained many articles on the subject. One writer remarked that a

great part of Squire Cimberton's conversation, "some of which has since

been omitted," could not be reconciled with rules often laid down by

Steele. "He [Steele] must always be agreeable, till he ceases to be at

all; and yet it has been always fashionable to use him ill: Blockheads

of quality, who are scarce capable of reading his works, have affected

a sort of ill-bred merit in despising 'em; and they who have no taste

for his writings, have pretended to a displeasure at his conduct."

X.

The remaining years of Steele's life need not detain us long. In 1723

he wrote to his eldest daughter, Betty, "I have taken a great deal

of pains to serve the world, and hope God will allow me some time to

serve my own family. My good girl, employ yourself always in some good

work, that you may be as good a woman as your mother." A few days later

Vanbrugh wrote, "Happening to meet with Sir Richard Steele t'other

day at Mr. Walpole's in town, he seemed to me to be (at least) in the

declining way I had heard he was." The complications arising from the

mortgage of Steele's interest in the theatre still troubled him, and

from the 18th of June the other managers each took, for his own use,

£1 13s. 4d. for every day upon which a play was acted, an arrangement

from which Steele was excluded.

The success of _The Conscious Lovers_ encouraged Steele to endeavour

to finish another play; and the newspapers reported that it would be

acted that winter. This was _The School of Action_, which has for its

scene a theatre, mistaken by a lady's guardian for an inn; but the

piece was left in a very incomplete condition. There is also a fragment

of another play, _The Gentleman_; it was a dramatised version of a

paper in the _Spectator_ upon high life below stairs. In September

illness forced Steele to go to Bath, and a few weeks later his only

surviving son, Eugene, died. "Lord, grant me patience; pray write to me

constantly," the father wrote to Betty: "Why don't you mention Molly?

Is she dead, too?" In the spring of 1724 he was again in London, and in

April a proposal for the payment of his debts was drawn up, from which

it appears that, as he lived for more than five years afterwards, his

liabilities were probably all met before his death. There was again

reference to "a new play, which Sir Richard may produce next winter."

In June an indenture quadrupartite was made between Steele, of the

first part; Wilks, Cibber, and Booth, of the second part; a number

of creditors, of the third part; and the Rev. David Scurlock, of the

fourth part, to provide for the payment of debts out of Steele's share

of the profits of the theatre. For this purpose Mr. Scurlock--Lady

Steele's cousin--was appointed trustee.

The autumn of 1724 was spent at Carmarthen. In February, 1725, Steele

was at Hereford, where he received £100 from the King's bounty; and

in July he was again at Carmarthen. He retired to the country from

"a principle of doing justice to his creditors," and not, as Swift

said after his death, because of the "perils of a hundred gaols." In

December, 1724, the other managers urged him to return to town at

once; the audiences decreased daily, and it was impossible to contend

against other forms of entertainment; the profits had fallen by more

than a half. Nothing came of this application, and in September, 1725,

protracted law proceedings were instituted in the Court of Chancery,

by Steele and Scurlock, against Wilks, Cibber, Booth, Castleman, and

Woolley. An abstract of the pleadings will be found in the Appendix.

The Court gave judgment in February, 1728, confirming the allowance of

£1 13s. 4d. a day to each of the three managers; but the case was not

brought to a close until July, when, as Cibber says, "Sir Richard not

being advised to appeal to the Lord Chancellor, both parties paid their

own costs, and thought it their mutual interest to let this be the last

of their law suits."

During the remaining three years of his life Steele lived chiefly

at Tygwyn, a farm-house overlooking the Towy, and within sight of

Carmarthen. There he had a stroke of paralysis, which was accompanied

by a partial loss of speech, but he kept his sweetness of temper and

kindliness towards others to the last. There is a pleasant anecdote,

told by Victor, and fully confirmed elsewhere, that he "would often be

carried out on a summer's evening, where the country lads and lasses

were assembled at their rural sports, and, with his pencil, give an

order on his agent, the mercer, for a new gown to the best dancer."

By his will, made in 1727, and witnessed by John Dyer, the poet, he

left the residue of his small property, after certain legacies, to his

"dear and well-beloved daughters, Elizabeth and Mary." Elizabeth, who

had many admirers, afterwards married Lord Trevor; Mary died shortly

after her father. Before his death Steele was moved to a house in

King Street, Carmarthen, where he passed away on September 1, 1729.

On the 4th he was privately buried in the vault of the Scurlocks, in

St. Peter's Church. This vault was accidentally opened in 1876, and

Steele's remains exposed to view; but they were carefully re-interred,

and the skull enclosed in a small lead coffin.

Steele's faults are apparent, and they have not been allowed to be

forgotten by writers of his own day or of later times. That he was

thriftless is manifest, but his income, though it came from various

sources, was uncertain and irregular, and he had passed the prime of

life before he had anything like handsome means. Many of his debts,

too, are to be accounted for by the generosity and open-handedness

which are a characteristic of the nation in which he was born. That

he sometimes drank more than was wise is equally well known, but that

fault does not strike us so much when we remember that hard drinking

was then the common practice, and that many could consume, with

impunity, an amount which would undoubtedly have upset Steele entirely.

Against these defects, and a certain general weakness of character to

which they were due, we have to set his unselfish patriotism, the high

aims of his writings, which had a most beneficial effect upon his own

and future generations, his affection for wife and children, and his

loyalty to his friends. Whatever there is to forgive is more than made

up for by these qualities, which have made him, to this day, one of the

best-loved characters of his time.

Steele's comedies were often reprinted in separate form during the

century following their production, and there were about a dozen

editions in which these separate plays were collected together, with

a general title-page. The last of these bears the date 1761. In 1809

Nichols published the fragments of two unfinished comedies in his

edition of Steele's Correspondence. In the present volume all Steele's

dramatic works have for the first time been gathered together, and an

attempt has been made to provide such annotation as seemed necessary.

Changes of scene, sometimes not noticed in the old copies, have been

indicated, and modern conventions respecting spelling and the like have

been adopted, while punctuation, which was very erratic in the early

issues, has, where necessary, been modified. The text has been collated

with the first and later editions of each play.

G. A. AITKEN.

_THE FUNERAL:_

OR

_GRIEF À-LA-MODE._

"Ut qui conducti plorant in funere, dicunt,

Et faciunt propè plura dolentibus ex animo, sic

Derisor vero plus laudatore movetur."[9]

HORACE, _Ars. Poet._ 431-3.

_The Funeral: or, Grief à-la-Mode_, a Comedy, was written in the summer

of 1701, and given to Christopher Rich, of the Theatre Royal, Drury

Lane, in October. Soon afterwards it was acted, and it was published

by Jacob Tonson between December 18 and 20, with the date 1702 on

the title-page. The music to the songs, by William Croft, appeared

between December 16 and 18. The original cast included Cibber (Lord

Hardy), Wilks (Campley), Mills (Trusty), Pinkethman (Trim), Norris

(Mrs. Fardingale), and Bullock (Kate Matchlock); with Mrs. Verbruggen

(Lady Brumpton), Mrs. Rogers (Lady Harriot), and Mrs. Oldfield (Lady

Sharlot). The play was revived occasionally in most of the years

between 1703 and 1734, and from time to time during the following

half-century, the last date, apparently, being April 17, 1799. The plot

is entirely original.

_To the Right Honourable the_

COUNTESS OF ALBEMARLE.[10]

MADAM,

Among the many novelties with which your ladyship, a stranger in our

nation, is daily entertained, you have not yet been made acquainted

with the poetical English liberty, the right of dedication; which

entitles us to a privilege of celebrating whatever for its native

excellence is the just object of praise, and is an ancient charter,

by which the Muses have always a free access to the habitation of the

Graces.

Hence it is that this Comedy waits on your Ladyship, and presumes to

welcome you amongst us; though indeed, madam, we are surprised to see

you bring with you, what we thought was of our own growth only, an

agreeable beauty; nay, we must assure you, that we cannot give up so

dear an article of our glory, but assert it by our right in you: for

if 'tis a maxim founded on the noblest human law, that of hospitality,

that every soil is a brave man's country, England has a very just

pretence of claiming as a native a daughter of Mr. Scravenmore.

But your Ladyship is not only endeared to us by the great services of

your father, but also by the kind offices of your husband, whose frank

carriage falls in with our genius, which is free, open, and unreserved.

In this the generosity of your tempers makes you both excel in so

peculiar a manner, that your good actions are their own reward; nor can

they be returned with ingratitude, for none can forget the benefits you

confer so soon as you do yourselves.

But ye have a more indisputable title to a dramatic performance than

all these advantages; for you are yourselves, in a degenerate low

age, the noblest characters which that fine passion that supports the

stage has inspired; and as you have practised as generous a fidelity

as the fancies of poets have ever drawn in their expecting lovers, so

may you enjoy as high a prosperity as ever they have bestowed on their

rewarded. This you may possess in an happy security, for your fortunes

cannot move so much envy as your persons love.

I am, Madam,

Your Ladyship's most devoted

Humble Servant,

RICHARD STEELE.

PREFACE.

The rehearsal of this Comedy was honoured with the presence of the Duke

of Devonshire,[11] who is as distinguished by his fine understanding

as high quality. The innocence of it moved him to the humanity of

expressing himself in its favour. 'Tis his manner to be pleased where

he is not offended; a condescension which delicate spirits are obliged

to for their own ease, for they would have but a very ill time of it

if they suffered themselves to be diverted with nothing but what could

bear their judgment.

That elegant and illustrious person will, I hope, pardon my gratitude

to the town, which obliges me to report so substantial a reason for

their approbation of this play, as that he permitted it. But I know not

in what words to thank my fellow-soldiers for their warmth and zeal in

my behalf, nor to what to attribute their undeserved favour, except it

be that 'tis habitual to 'em to run to the succour of those they see in

danger.

The subject of the drama 'tis hoped will be acceptable to all lovers of

mankind, since ridicule is partly levelled at a set of people who live

in impatient hopes to see us out of the world, a flock of ravens that

attend this numerous city for their carcases; but, indeed, 'tis not

in the power of any pen to speak 'em better than they do themselves.

As, for example, on a door I just now passed by, a great artist thus

informs us of his cures upon the dead:--

W. W., known and approved for his art of embalming, having preserved

the corpse of a gentlewoman, sweet and entire, thirteen years, without

embowelling, and has reduced the bodies of several persons of quality

to sweetness, in Flanders and Ireland, after nine months' putrefaction

in the ground, and they were known by their friends in England. No man

performeth the like.

He must needs be strangely in love with this life who is not touched

with this kind invitation to be pickled; and the noble operator must

be allowed a very useful person for bringing old friends together; nor

would it be unworthy his labour to give us an account at large of the

sweet conversation that arose upon meeting such an entire friend as he

mentions.

But to be serious: Is there anything, but its being downright fact,

could make a rational creature believe 'twere possible to arrive at

this fantastic posthumous folly? Not at the same time but that it were

buffoonery rather than satire to explode all funeral honours; but then

it is certainly necessary to make 'em such that the mourners should be

in earnest, and the lamented worthy of our sorrow. But this purpose is

so far from being served, that it is utterly destroyed by the manner

of proceeding among us, where the obsequies, which are due only to the

best and highest of human race (to admonish their short survivors that

neither wit, nor valour, nor wisdom, nor glory can suspend our fate),

are prostituted and bestowed upon such as have nothing in common with

men but their mortality.

But the dead man is not to pass off so easily, for his last thoughts

are also to suffer dissection, and it seems there is an art to be

earned to speak our own sense in other men's words, and a man in a

gown that never saw his face shall tell you immediately the design of

the deceased, better than all his old acquaintance; which is so perfect

an hocus-pocus that, without you can repeat such and such words, you

cannot convey what is in your hands into another's; but far be it from

any man's thought to say there are not men of strict integrity of the

long robe, though it is not everybody's good fortune to meet with 'em.

However, the daily legal villanies we see committed will also be

esteemed things proper to be prosecuted by satire, nor could our

ensuing Legislative do their country a more seasonable office than to

look into the distresses of an unhappy people, who groan perhaps in as

much misery under entangled as they could do under broken laws; nor

could there be a reward high enough assigned for a great genius, if

such may be found, who has capacity sufficient to glance through the

false colours that are put upon us, and propose to the English world

a method of making justice flow in an uninterrupted stream; there is

so clear a mind in being, whom we will name in words that of all men

breathing can be only said of him; 'tis he[12] that is excellent--

"Seu linguam causis acuit, seu civica jura

Responsare parat, seu condit amabile carmen."[13]

Other enemies that may arise against this poor play are indeed less

terrible, but much more powerful than these, and they are the ladies;

but if there is anything that argues a soured man, who lashes all for

Lady Brumpton, we may hope there will be seen also a devoted heart that

esteems all for Lady Sharlot.

PROLOGUE.

_Spoken_ by MR. WILKS.[14]

Nature's deserted, and dramatic art,

To dazzle now the eye, has left the heart;[15]

Gay lights and dresses, long extended scenes,

Demons and angels moving in machines,

All that can now, or please, or fright the fair,

May be performed without a writer's care,

And is the skill of carpenter, not player.

Old Shakespeare's days could not thus far advance;

But what's his buskin to our ladder dance?[16]

In the mid region a silk youth to stand,

With that unwieldly engine at command!

Gorged with intemperate meals while here you sit,

Well may you take activity for wit:

Fie, let confusion on such dulness seize;

Blush, you're so pleased, as we that so we please.

But we, still kind to your inverted sense,

Do most unnatural things once more dispense.

For since you're still preposterous in delight,

Our Author made, a full house to invite,

A funeral a Comedy to-night.

Nor does he fear that you will take the hint,

And let the funeral his own be meant;

No, in old England nothing can be won

Without a faction, good or ill be done;

To own this our frank Author does not fear;

But hopes for a prevailing party here;

He knows he's numerous friends; nay, knows they'll show it,

And for the fellow-soldier, save the poet.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

LORD BRUMPTON.

LORD HARDY, Son to LORD BRUMPTON, in love with LADY SHARLOT.

Mr. CAMPLEY, in love with LADY HARRIOT.

Mr. TRUSTY, Steward to LORD BRUMPTON.

CABINET.

Mr. SABLE, an Undertaker.

PUZZLE, a Lawyer.

TRIM, Servant to LORD HARDY.

TOM, the Lawyer's Clerk.

LADY BRUMPTON.

LADY SHARLOT,

LADY HARRIOT,

Orphan Sisters, left in ward to LORD BRUMPTON.

Mademoiselle D'EPINGLE.

TATTLEAID, LADY BRUMPTON'S Woman.

Mrs. FARDINGALE.

KATE MATCHLOCK.

Visitant Ladies, SABLE'S Servants, Recruits, &c.

SCENE.--COVENT GARDEN.

_THE FUNERAL: OR, GRIEF À-LA-MODE._

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE--_Covent Garden._

_Enter_ CABINET, SABLE, _and_ CAMPLEY.

_Cab._ I burst into laughter, I can't bear to see writ over an

undertaker's door, "Dresses for the Dead, and Necessaries for

Funerals!" Ha! ha! ha!

_Sab._ Well, gentlemen, 'tis very well; I know you are of the

laughers, the wits that take the liberty to deride all things that are

magnificent and solemn.

_Cam._ Nay, but after all, I can't but admire Sable's nice discerning

on the superfluous cares of mankind, that could lead them to the

thought of raising an estate by providing horses, equipage, and

furniture, for those that no longer need 'em.

_Cab._ But is it not strangely contradictory, that men can come to so

open, so apparent an hypocrisy, as in the face of all the world, to

hire professed mourners to grieve, lament, and follow in their stead

their nearest relations, and suborn others to do by art what they

themselves should be prompted to by nature?

_Sab._ That's reasonably enough said, but they regard themselves only

in all they act for the deceased, and the poor dead are delivered to

my custody, to be embalmed, slashed, cut, and dragged about, not to do

them honour, but to satisfy the vanity or interest of their survivors.

_Cam._ This fellow's every way an undertaker! How well and luckily he

talks! His prating so aptly has methinks something more ridiculous in

it than if he were absurd. [_Aside to_ CABINET.

_Cab._ But, as Mr. Campley says, how could you dream of making a

fortune from so chimerical a foundation as the provision of things

wholly needless and insignificant?

_Sab._ Alas, gentlemen, the value of all things under the sun is merely

fantastic. We run, we strive, and purchase things with our blood and

money, quite foreign to our intrinsic real happiness, and which have

a being in imagination only, as you may see by the pudder[17] that

is made about precedence, titles, court favour, maidenheads, and

china-ware.

_Cam._ Ay, Mr. Sable, but all those are objects that promote our

joy, are bright to the eye, or stamp upon our minds pleasure and

self-satisfaction.

_Sab._ You are extremely mistaken, sir; for one would wonder to

consider that after all our outcries against self-interested men,

there are few, very few, in the whole world that live to themselves,

but sacrifice their bosom-bliss to enjoy a vain show, and appearance

of prosperity in the eyes of others; and there is often nothing more

inwardly distressed than a young bride in her glittering retinue, or

deeply joyful than a young widow in her weeds and black train; of both

which, the lady of this house may be an instance, for she has been the

one, and is, I'll be sworn, the other.

_Cab._ You talk, Mr. Sable, most learnedly!

_Sab._ I have the deepest learning, sir, experience. Remember your

widow cousin that married last month.

_Cab._ Ay! But how could you imagine she was in all that grief an

hypocrite? Could all those shrieks, those swoonings, that rising,

falling bosom be constrained? You're uncharitable, Sable, to believe

it----What colour, what reason had you for it?

_Sab._ First, sir, her carriage in her concerns with me, for I never

yet could meet with a sorrowful relict, but was herself enough to make

an hard bargain with me.[18]--Yet I must confess they have frequent

interruptions of grief and sorrow when they read my bill--but as for

her, nothing, she resolved, that looked bright or joyous should after

her love's death approach her. All her servants that were not coal

black must turn out; a fair complexion made her eyes and heart ache,

she'd none but downright jet, and to exceed all example she hired my

mourning furniture by the year, and in case of my mortality tied my

son to the same article; so in six weeks' time ran away with a young

fellow----Prithee push on briskly, Mr. Cabinet, now is your time to

have this widow, for Tattleaid tells me she always said she'd never

marry----

_Cab._ As you say, that's generally the most hopeful sign.

_Sab._ I tell you, sir, 'tis an infallible one; you know those

professions are only to introduce discourse of matrimony and young

fellows.

_Cab._ But I swear I could not have confidence even after all our long

acquaintance, and the mutual love which his lordship (who indeed has

now been so kind as to leave us) has so long interrupted, to mention a

thing of such a nature so unseasonably----

_Sab._ Unseasonably! Why, I tell you 'tis the only season (granting her

sorrow unfeigned): When would you speak of passion, but in the midst

of passions? There's a what d'ye call, a crisis[19]--the lucky minute

that's so talked of, is a moment between joy and grief, which you must

take hold of and push your fortune----But get you in, and you'll best

read your fate in the reception Mrs. Tattleaid gives you. All she says,

and all she does, nay, her very love and hatred are mere repetition of

her ladyship's passions. I'll say that for her, she's a true lady's

woman, and is herself as much a second-hand thing as her clothes. But I

must beg your pardon, gentlemen, my people are come I see----[_Exeunt_

CAB. _and_ CAMP.

_Enter_ SABLE'S _Men._

Where in the name of goodness have you all been? Have you brought the

sawdust and tar for embalming? Have you the hangings and the sixpenny

nails, and my lord's coat-of-arms?

_Enter_ SERVANT.

_Ser._ Yes, sir, and had come sooner, but I went to the Herald's for a

coat for Alderman Gathergrease that died last night----He has promised

to invent one against to-morrow.

_Sab._ Ah! Pox take some of our cits, the first thing after their

death is to take care of their birth----Pox, let him bear a pair of

stockings, he's the first of his family that ever wore one. Well, come

you that are to be mourners in this house, put on your sad looks,

and walk by me that I may sort you. Ha, you! a little more upon the

dismal [_forming their countenances_]; this fellow has a good mortal

look--place him near the corpse. That wainscot face must be o' top of

the stairs; that fellow's almost in a fright (that looks as if he were

full of some strange misery) at the entrance of the hall--so--but I'll

fix you all myself----Let's have no laughing now on any provocation

[_makes faces_]. Look yonder, that hale, well-looking puppy! You

ungrateful scoundrel, did not I pity you, take you out of a great man's

service, and show you the pleasure of receiving wages? Did not I give

you ten, then fifteen, now twenty shillings a week, to be sorrowful?

and the more I give you, I think, the gladder you are.

_Enter a_ BOY.

_Boy._ Sir, the gravedigger of St. Timothy's-in-the-Fields would speak

with you.

_Sab._ Let him come in.

_Enter_ GRAVEDIGGER.

_Grav._ I carried home to your house the shroud the gentleman was

buried in last night. I could not get his ring off very easily,

therefore I brought the finger and all; and sir, the sexton gives his

service to you, and desires to know whether you'd have any bodies

removed or not. If not, he'll let 'em lie in their graves a week longer.

_Sab._ Give him my service, I can't tell readily; but our friend, tell

him, Dr. Passeport, with the powder, has promised me six or seven

funerals this week. I'll send to our country-farm at Kensington Gravel

Pits, and our City-house in Warwick Lane for news; you shall know time

enough. Harkee, be sure there's care taken to give my Lady Languishe's

woman a fee to keep out that young fellow came last from Oxford; he'll

ruin us all.

_Enter_ GOODY TRASH.

I wonder, Goody Trash, you could not be more punctual, when I told you

I wanted you, and your two daughters, to be three virgins to-night to

stand in white about my Lady Katherine Grissel's body; and you know

you were privately to bring her home from the man-midwife's, where she

died in childbirth, to be buried like a maid; but there is nothing

minded. Well, I have put off that till to-morrow; go and get your

bag of brick-dust and your whiting. Go and sell to the cook-maids;

know who has surfeited about town. Bring me no bad news, none of your

recoveries again. And you, Mr. Blockhead, I warrant you have not called

at Mr. Pestle's, the apothecary: Will that fellow never pay me? I stand

bound for all the poison in that starving murderer's shop. He serves

me just as Dr. Quibus did, who promised to write a treatise against

water-gruel, a damned healthy slop, that has done me more injury than

all the faculty. Look you now, you are all upon the sneer; let me have

none but downright stupid countenances----I've a good mind to turn you

all off, and take people out of the play-house; but, hang 'em, they are

as ignorant of their parts as you are of yours, they never act but when

they speak; when the chief indication of the mind is in the gesture,

or indeed in case of sorrow in no gesture, except you were to act a

widow, or so----But yours, you dolts, is all in dumb show; dumb show? I

mean expressive eloquent show: As who can see such an horrid ugly phiz

as that fellow's and not be shocked, offended, and killed of all joy

while he beholds it? But we must not loiter----Ye stupid rogues, whom I

have picked out of all the rubbish of mankind, and fed for your eminent

worthlessness, attend, and know that I speak you this moment stiff and

immutable to all sense of noise, mirth, or laughter [_Makes mouths at

them as they pass by him to bring them to a constant countenance_]. So,

they are pretty well--pretty well----

_Enter_ TRUSTY _and_ LORD BRUMPTON.

_Tru._ 'Twas fondness, sir, and tender duty to you, who have been so

worthy and so just a master to me, made me stay near you; they left me

so, and there I found you wake from your lethargic slumber; on which I

will assume an authority to beseech you, sir, to make just use of your

revived life, in seeing who are your true friends, and knowing her who

has so wrought upon your noble nature as to make it act against itself

in disinheriting your brave son.

_Ld. B._ Sure 'tis impossible she should be such a creature as you

tell me----My mind reflects upon ten thousand endearments that plead

unanswerably for her. Her chaste reluctant love, her easy observance of

all my wayward humours, to which she would accommodate herself with so

much ease, I could scarce observe it was a virtue in her; she hid her

very patience.

_Tru._ It was all art, sir, or indifference to you, for what I say is

downright matter of fact.

_Ld. B._ Why didst thou ever tell me it? or why not in my lifetime, for

I must call it so, nor can I date a minute mine, after her being false;

all past that moment is death and darkness: Why didst thou not tell me

then, I say?

_Tru._ Because you were too much in love with her to be informed;

nor did I ever know a man that touched on conjugal affairs could

ever reconcile the jarring humours but in a common hatred of the

intermeddler. But on this most extraordinary occasion, which seems

pointed out by Heaven itself to disengage you from your cruelty and

banishment of an innocent child, I must, I will conjure you to be

concealed, and but contain yourself, in hearing one discourse with that

cursed instrument of all her secrets, that Tattleaid, and you'll see

what I tell you; you'll call me then your guardian and good genius.

_Ld. B._ Well, you shall govern me, but would I had died in earnest

ere I'd known it; my head swims, as it did when I fell into my fit, at

the thoughts of it----How dizzy a place is this world you live in! All

human life's a mere vertigo!

_Tru._ Ay, ay, my lord, fine reflections--fine reflections,--but that

does no business. Thus, sir, we'll stand concealed, and hear, I doubt

not, a much sincerer dialogue than usual between vicious persons; for

a late accident has given a little jealousy, which makes 'em over-act

their love and confidence in each other. [_They retire._

_Enter_ WIDOW _and_ TATTLEAID _meeting, and running to each other._

_Wid._ O, Tattleaid! His and our hour is come!

_Tat._ I always said, by his churchyard cough, you'd bury him, but

still you were impatient----

_Wid._ Nay, thou hast ever been my comfort, my confidant, my friend,

and my servant; and now I'll reward thy pains; for though I scorn the

whole sex of fellows, I'll give 'em hopes for thy sake; every smile,

every frown, every gesture, humour, caprice and whimsey of mine shall

be gold to thee, girl; thou shalt feel all the sweet and wealth of

being a fine rich widow's woman. Oh! how my head runs my first year

out, and jumps to all the joys of widowhood! If thirteen months hence a

friend should haul one to a play one has a mind to see, what pleasure

'twill be when my Lady Brumpton's footman's called (who kept a place

for that very purpose) to make a sudden insurrection of fine wigs in

the pit and side-boxes. Then, with a pretty sorrow in one's face and

a willing blush for being stared at, one ventures to look round and

bow to one of one's own quality. Thus [_very directly_] to a smug

pretending fellow of no fortune: Thus [_as scarce seeing him_] to one

that writes lampoons: Thus [_fearfully_] to one one really loves: Thus

[_looking down_] to one's woman-acquaintance; from box to box thus

[_with looks differently familiar_]: And when one has done one's part,

observe the actors do their's, but with my mind fixed not on those I

look at, but those that look at me----Then the serenades! The lovers!

_Tat._ O, madam, you make my heart bound within me. I'll warrant you,

madam, I'll manage 'em all; and indeed, madam, the men are really

very silly creatures, 'tis no such hard matter----They rulers! They

governors! I warrant you indeed!

_Wid._ Ay, Tattleaid, they imagine themselves mighty things, but

government founded on force only is a brutal power. We rule them by

their affections, which blinds them into belief that they rule us,

or at least are in the government with us----But in this nation our

power is absolute. Thus, thus, we sway--[_playing her fan_]. A fan is

both the standard and the flag of England. I laugh to see the men go

on our errands; strut in great offices; live in cares, hazards, and

scandals; to come home and be fools to us in brags of their dispatches,

negotiations, and their wisdom--as my good, dear deceased used to

entertain me; which I, to relieve myself from, would lisp some silly

request, pat him on the face----He shakes his head at my pretty folly,

calls me simpleton, gives me a jewel, then goes to bed so wise, so

satisfied, and so deceived!

_Tat._ But I protest, madam, I've always wondered how you could

accomplish my young lord's being disinherited.

_Wid._ Why, Tatty, you must know my late lord--how prettily that

sounds, my late lord! But I say, my late Lord Frible was generosity--I

pressed him there, and whenever you, by my order, had told him

stories to my son-in-law's disadvantage, in his rage and resentment I

(whose interest lay otherwise) always fell on my knees to implore his

pardon, and with tears, sighs, and importunities for him, prevailed

against him; besides this, you know, I had, when I pleased, fits--fits

are a mighty help in the government of a good-natured man; but in an

ill-natured fellow have a care of 'em--he'll hate you for natural

infirmities, will remember your face in its distortion, and not value

your return of beauty.

_Tat._ O rare madam! your ladyship's a great headpiece; but now, dear

madam, is the hard task, if I may take the liberty to say it--to enjoy

all freedoms, and seem to abstain, to manage the number of pretenders,

and keep the disobliged from prating----

_Wid._ Never fear, Tattleaid; while you have riches, if you affront one

to abuse, you can give hopes to another to defend you. These maxims I

have been laying up all my husband's life-time, for we must provide

against calamities.

_Tat._ But now, madam, a fine young gentleman with a red coat, that

dances----

_Wid._ You may be sure the happy man (if it be in fate that there is

an happy man to make me an unhappy woman) shall not be an old one

again. Age and youth married, is the cruelty in Dryden's _Virgil_,

where Mezentius ties the dead and living together. I'm sure I was tied

to a dead man many a long day before I durst bury him----But the day

is now my own. Yet now I think on't, Tattleaid, be sure to keep an

obstinate shyness to all our old acquaintance. Let 'em talk of favours

if they please; if we grant 'em, still they'll grow tyrants to us; if

we discard 'em, the chaste and innocent will not believe we could have

confidence to do it, were it so; and the wise, if they believe it, will

applaud our prudence.

_Tat._ Ay, madam--I believe, madam--I speak, madam, but my humble

sense--Mr. Cabinet would marry you.

_Wid._ Marry me! No, Tattleaid. He that is so mean as to marry a woman

after an affair with her, will be so base as to upbraid that very

weakness. He that marries his wench will use her like his wench.--Such

a pair must sure live in a secret mutual scorn of each other; and

wedlock is hell if at least one side does not love, as it would be

Heaven if both did; and I believe it so much Heaven, as to think it was

never enjoyed in this world.

_Enter a_ WOMAN.

_Wom._ A gentleman to Mrs. Tattleaid----[_Exit_ TATTLEAID.

_Wid._ Go to him.--Bless me, how careless and open have I been to

this subtle creature in the case of Cabinet; she's certainly in his

interests----We people of condition are never guarded enough against

those about us. They watch when our minds boil over with joy or grief,

to come in upon us. How miserable it is to have one one hates always

about one, and when one can't endure one's own reflection upon some

actions, who can bear the thoughts of another upon 'em? But she has

me by deep, deep secrets.--The Italians, they say, can readily remove

the too much intrusted----Oh! their pretty scented gloves! This wench

I know has played me false and horned me in my gallants. O Italy, I

could resign all my female English liberty to thee, for thy much dearer

female pleasure, revenge!

_Enter_ TATTLEAID.

Well, what's the matter, dear Tatty?

_Tat._ The matter, madam? why, madam, Counsellor Puzzle is come to wait

on your ladyship about the will, and the conveyance of the estate.

There must, it seems, be no time lost for fear of things. Fie, fie,

madam, you a widow these three hours and not looked on a parchment

yet----Oh, impious, to neglect the will of the dead!

_Wid._ As you say, indeed, there is no will of an husband's so

willingly obeyed as his last. But I must go in and receive him in my

formalities, leaning on a couch, as necessary a posture as his going

behind his desk when he speaks to a client----But do you bring him in

hither till I am ready. [_Exit._

_Tat._ Mr. Counsellor, Mr. Counsellor----[_Calling._

_Enter_ PUZZLE _and_ CLERK.

_Puz._ 'Servant, good madam Tattleaid; my ancient friend is gone, but

business must be minded----

_Tat._ I told my lady twice or thrice, as she lies in dumb grief on the

couch within, that you were here, but she regarded me not; however,

since you say 'tis of such moment, I'll venture to introduce you.

Please but to repose here a little while I step in; for methinks I

would a little prepare her.

_Puz._ Alas! alas! Poor lady! [_Exit_ TATTLEAID. Damned hypocrites!

Well, this noble's death is a little sudden. Therefore, pray, let me

recollect. Open the bag, good Tom. Now, Tom, thou art my nephew, my

dear sister Kate's only son and my heir, therefore I will conceal from

thee on no occasion anything, for I would enter thee into business as

soon as possible. Know then, child, that the lord of this house was

one of your men of honour and sense who lose the latter in the former,

and are apt to take all men to be like themselves. Now this gentleman

entirely trusted me, and I made the only use a man of business can of

a trust--I cheated him. For I, imperceptibly, before his face, made

his whole estate liable to an hundred per annum for myself, for good

services, &c. As for legacies, they are good or not as I please; for,

let me tell you, a man must take pen, ink, and paper, sit down by an

old fellow, and pretend to take directions; but a true lawyer never

makes any man's will but his own; and as the priest of old among us got

near the dying man and gave all to the church, so now the lawyer gives

all to the law.

_Clerk._ Ay, sir; but priests then cheated the nation by doing their

offices in an unknown language.

_Puz._ True; but ours is a way much surer, for we cheat in no language

at all, but loll in our own coaches, eloquent in gibberish, and

learned in juggle----Pull out the parchment; there's the deed, I made

it as long as I could. Well, I hope to see the day when the indenture

shall be the exact measure of the land that passes by it; for 'tis a

discouragement to the gown that every ignorant rogue of an heir should,

in a word or two, understand his father's meaning, and hold ten acres

of land by half-an-acre of parchment. Nay, I hope to see the time

when that there is, indeed, some progress made in, shall be wholly

effected, and by the improvement of the noble art of tautology every

inn in Holborn an inn of court. Let others think of logic, rhetoric

and I know not what impertinence, but mind thou tautology. What's the

first excellence in a lawyer? Tautology. What the second? Tautology.

What the third? Tautology--as an old pleader said of action. But turn

to the deed [_pulls out an immeasurable parchment_], for the will is of

no force if I please, for he was not capable of making one after the

former--as I managed it; upon which account I now wait upon my lady. By

the way, do you know the true meaning of the word, a deed?

_Clerk._ Ay, sir; a deed is as if a man should say the deed.

_Puz._ Right. 'Tis emphatically so-called because after it all deeds

and actions are of no effect, and you have nothing to do but hang

yourself, the only obliging thing you can then do----But I was telling

you the use of tautology. Read toward the middle of that instrument.

_Clerk_ [_reads_]. "I, the said Earl of Brumpton, do give, bestow,

grant, and bequeath, over and above the said premises, all the site

and capital messuage called by the name of Oatham, and all out-houses,

barns, stables, and other edifices and buildings, yards, orchards,

gardens, fields, arbours, trees, lands, earths, meadows, greens,

pastures, feedings, woods, underwoods, ways, waters, watercourses,

fishings, ponds, pools, commons, common of pasture, paths,

heath-thickets, profits, commodities and emoluments, with their and

every of their appurtenances [PUZZLE _nods and sneers as the synonimous

words are repeating, whom_ LORD B. _scornfully mimics_] whatsoever,

to the said capital messuage and site belonging, or in any wise

appertaining, or with the same heretofore used, occupied or enjoyed,

accepted, executed, known, or taken as part, parcel, or member of

the same; containing in the whole, by estimation, four hundred acres

of the large measure, or thereabouts, be the same more or less; all

and singular, which the said site, capital messuage, and other the

premises, with their and every of their appurtenances are situate,

lying, and being----"

_Puz._ Hold, hold, good Tom; you do come on indeed in business,

but don't use your nose enough in reading. [_Reads in a ridiculous

law-tone until out of breath._] Why, you're quite out--You read

to be understood. Let me see it.--"I, the said Earl."--Now again,

suppose this were to be in Latin. [_Runs into Latin terminations._]

Making Latin is only making it no English--"_Ego predict--Comes de

Brumpton--totas meas barnos--outhousas et stabulas--yardos_"--But there

needs no further perusal--I now recollect the whole. My lord, by this

instrument, disinherits his son utterly, gives all to my lady, and

moreover, grants the wards of two fortune-wards to her--_id est_, to

be sold by her, which is the subject of my business to her ladyship,

who, methinks, a little overdoes the affair of grief, in letting me

wait thus long on such welcome articles. But here----

_Enter_ TATTLEAID, _wiping her eyes._

_Tat._ I have in vain done all I can to make her regard me. Pray, Mr.

Puzzle--you're a man of sense--come in yourself, and speak reason, to

bring her to some consideration of herself, if possible.

_Puz._ Tom, I'll come down to the hall to you; dear madam, lead on.

[_Ex._ CLERK _one way_, PUZZLE _and_ TATTLEAID _another._ LORD

BRUMPTON _and_ TRUSTY _advance from their concealment, after a long

pause, and staring at each other._

_Ld. B._ Trusty, on thy sincerity, on thy fidelity to me, thy friend,

thy patron, and thy master, answer me directly to one question: am I

really alive? Am I that identical, that numerical, that very same Lord

Brumpton, that----

_Tru._ That very lord--that very Lord Brumpton, the very generous,

honest, and good Lord Brumpton, who spent his strong and riper years

with honour and reputation; but in his age of decay declined from

virtue also. That very Lord Brumpton, who buried a fine lady who

brought him a fine son, who is a fine gentleman; but in his age, that

very man, unreasonably captivated with youth and beauty, married a very

fine young lady, who has dishonoured his bed, disinherited his brave

son, and dances o'er his grave.

_Ld. B._ Oh! that damned tautologist, too--that Puzzle and his

irrevocable deed! [_Pausing._] Well, I know I do not really live, but

wander o'er the place where once I had a treasure. I'll haunt her,

Trusty, gaze in that false beauteous face, till she trembles--till she

looks pale--nay, till she blushes----

_Tru._ Ay, ay, my lord, you speak a ghost very much; there's flesh and

blood in that expression, that false beauteous face!

_Ld. B._ Then since you see my weakness, be a friend, and arm me with

all your care and all your reason----

_Tru._ If you'll condescend to let me direct you--you shall cut off

this rotten limb, your false disloyal wife, and save your noble parts,

your son, your family, your honour.

Short is the date in which ill acts prevail,

But honesty's a rock can never fail.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.--LORD HARDY'S _Lodgings._

_Enter_ LORD HARDY.

_Ld. H._ Now, indeed, I am utterly undone; but to expect an evil

softens the weight of it when it happens, and pain no more than

pleasure is in reality so great as in expectation. But what will become

of me? How shall I keep myself even above worldly want? Shall I live

at home a stiff, melancholy, poor man of quality, grow uneasy to my

acquaintance as well as myself, by fancying I'm slighted where I am

not; with all the thousand particularities which attend those whom low

fortune and high spirit make malcontents? No! We've a brave prince on

the throne, whose commission I bear, and a glorious war in an honest

cause approaching [_clapping his hand on his sword_], in which this

shall cut bread for me, and may perhaps equal that estate to which

my birth entitled me. But what to do in present pressures--Ha! Trim.

[_Calling._

_Enter_ TRIM.

_Trim._ My lord.

_Ld. H._ How do the poor rogues that are to recruit my Company?

_Trim._ Do, sir! They've ate you to your last guinea.

_Ld. H._ Were you at the agent's?

_Trim._ Yes.

_Ld. H._ Well? And how?

_Trim._ Why, sir, for your arrears, you may have eleven shillings in

the pound; but he'll not touch your growing subsistence under three

shillings in the pound interest; besides which you must let his

clerk, Jonathan Item, swear the peace against you to keep you from

duelling--or insure your life, which you may do for eight per cent. On

these terms he'll oblige you, which he would not do for anybody else in

the regiment; but he has a friendship for you.

_Ld. H._ Oh, I'm his humble servant; but he must have his own terms.

We can't starve, nor must my fellows want. But methinks this is a calm

midnight, I've heard no duns to-day----

_Trim._ Duns, my lord? Why now your father's dead, and they can't

arrest you. I shall grow a little less upon the smooth with 'em than

I have been. Why, friend, says I, how often must I tell you my lord

is not stirring: His lordship has not slept well, you must come some

other time; your lordship will send for him when you are at leisure to

look upon money-affairs; or if they are so saucy, so impertinent as to

press to a man of your quality for their own--there are canes, there's

Bridewell, there's the stocks for your ordinary tradesmen. But to an

haughty, thriving Covent Garden mercer, silk or laceman, your lordship

gives your most humble service to him, hopes his wife's well. You have

letters to write, or you'd see him yourself, but you desire he would be

with you punctually such a day, that is to say the day after you are

gone out of town.

_Ld. H._ Go, sirrah, you're scurrilous; I won't believe there are

such men of quality. D'ye hear, give my service this afternoon to Mr.

Cutpurse, the agent, and tell him I'm obliged to him for his readiness

to serve me, for I'm resolved to pay my debts forthwith----

[_A voice without._ I don't know whether he is within or not. Mr. Trim,

is my lord within?]

_Ld. H._ Trim, see who it is. I ain't within, you know. [_Exit_ TRIM.

_Trim._ [_Without._] Yes, sir, my lord's above; pray walk up----

_Ld. H._ Who can it be? he owns me, too.

_Enter_ CAMPLEY _and_ TRIM.

Dear Tom Campley, this is kind! You are an extraordinary man indeed,

who in the sudden accession of a noble fortune can be still yourself,

and visit your less happy friends.

_Cam._ No; you are, my lord, the extraordinary man, who, on the loss

of an almost princely fortune, can be master of a temper that makes

you the envy, rather than pity, of your more fortunate, not more happy

friends.

_Ld. H._ O, sir, your servant--but let me gaze on thee a little,

I han't seen thee since I came home into England--most exactly,

negligently, genteelly dressed! I know there's more than ordinary in

this [_beating_ CAMPLEY'S _breast_]. Come, confess, who shares with me

here? I must have her real and poetical name. Come; she's in sonnet,

Cynthia; in prose, mistress.

_Cam._ One you little dream of, though she is in a manner of your

placing there.

_Ld. H._ My placing there?

_Cam._ Why, my lord, all the fine things you've said to me in the camp

of my Lady Sharlot, your father's ward, ran in my head so very much,

that I made it my business to become acquainted in that family, which

I did by Mr. Cabinet's means, and am now in love in the same place with

your lordship.

_Ld. H._ How? in love in the same place with me, Mr. Campley?

_Cam._ Ay, my lord, with t'other sister--with t'other sister.

_Ld. H._ What a dunce was I, not to know which, without your naming

her! Why, thou art the only man breathing fit to deal with her. But my

Lady Sharlot, there's a woman--so easily virtuous! So agreeably severe!

Her motion so unaffected, yet so composed! Her lips breathe nothing but

truth, good sense, and flowing wit.

_Cam._ Lady Harriot! there's the woman; such life, such spirit, such

warmth in her eyes; such a lively commanding air in her glances; so

spritely a mien, that carries in it the triumph of conscious beauty;

her lips are made of gum and balm. There's something in that dear girl

that fires my blood above--above--above----

_Ld. H._ Above what?

_Cam._ A grenadier's march.

_Ld. H._ A soft simile, I must confess! but oh that Sharlot! to recline

this aching head, full of care, on that tender, snowy--faithful bosom!

_Cam._ O that Harriot! to embrace that beauteous[20]----

_Ld. H._ Ay, Tom; but methinks your head runs too much on the

wedding night only, to make your happiness lasting; mine is fixed

on the married state. I expect my felicity from Lady Sharlot, in

her friendship, her constancy, her piety, her household cares, her

maternal tenderness. You think not of any excellence of your mistress

that is more than skin-deep----

_Cam._ When I know her further than skin-deep I'll tell you more of my

mind.

_Ld. H._ O fie, Tom, how can you talk so lightly of a woman you love

with honour.--But tell me, I wonder how you make your approaches in

besieging such a sort of creature--she that loves addresses, gallantry,

fiddles; that reigns and delights in a crowd of admirers. If I know

her, she is one of those you may easily have a general acquaintance

with, but hard to make particular.

_Cam._ You understand her very well. You must know I put her out of

all her play by carrying it in a humourous manner. I took care in all

my actions, before I discovered the lover, that she should in general

have a good opinion of me; and have ever since behaved myself with all

the good humour and ease I was able; so that she is now extremely at

a loss how to throw me from the familiarity of an acquaintance into

the distance of a lover; but I laugh her out of it. When she begins

to frown and look grave at my mirth, I mimic her till she bursts out

a-laughing.

_Ld. H._ That's ridiculous enough.

_Cam._ By Cabinet's interest over my Lady Brumpton, with gold and

flattery to Mrs. Fardingale, an old maid her ladyship has placed about

the young ladies, I have easy access at all times, and am this very

day to be admitted by her into their apartment. I have found, you must

know, that she is my relation.

_Ld. H._ Her ladyship has chose an odd companion for young ladies.

_Cam._ Oh, my lady's a politician. She told Tattleaid one day, that an

old maid was the best guard for young ones, for they, like eunuchs in a

seraglio, are vigilant out of envy of enjoyments they cannot themselves

arrive at. But, as I was saying, I've sent my cousin Fardingale a

song, which she and I are to practise to the spinet. The young ladies

will be by; and I am to be left alone with Lady Harriot; then I design

to make my grand attack, and to-day win or lose her. I know, sir,

this is an opportunity you want. If you'll meet me at Tom's,[21] have

a letter ready, I'll myself deliver it to your mistress, conduct you

into the house, and tell her you are there--and find means to place you

together. You must march under my command to-day, as I have many a one

under yours.

_Ld. H._ But 'faith, Tom, I shall not behave myself with half the

resolution you have under mine, for to confess my weakness, though I

know she loves me, though I know she is as steadfastly mine as her

heart can make her; I know not how, I have so sublime an idea of her

high value, and such a melting tenderness dissolves my whole frame when

I am near her, that my tongue falters, my nerves shake, and my heart so

alternately sinks and rises, that my premeditated resolves vanish into

confusion, down-cast eyes, and broken utterance----

_Cam._ Ha! ha! ha! this in a campaigner too! Why, my lord, that's the

condition Harriot would have me in, and then she thinks she could

have me; but I, that know her better than she does herself, know

she'd insult me, and lead me a two years' dance longer, and perhaps

in the end turn me into the herd of the many neglected men of better

sense, who have been ridiculous for her sake. But I shall make her no

such sacrifice. 'Tis well my Lady Sharlot's a woman of so solid an

understanding; I don't know another that would not use you ill for your

high value.

_Ld. H._ But, Tom, I must see your song you've sent your cousin

Fardingale, as you call her.

_Cam._ This is lucky enough [_Aside_]. No; hang it, my lord, a man

makes so silly a figure when his verses are reading. Trim--thou hast

not left off thy loving and thy rhyming; Trim's a critic, I remember

him a servitor at Oxon [_Gives a paper to_ TRIM]. I give myself into

his hands, because you shan't see 'em till I'm gone. My lord, your

servant, you shan't stir.

_Ld. H._ Nor you neither then. [_Struggling._]

_Cam._ You will be obeyed. [_Exeunt._ LORD HARDY _waits on him down._

_Trim._ What's in this song? Ha! don't my eyes deceive me--a bill of

three hundred pounds----

"MR. CASH,

"Pray pay to Mr. William Trim, or bearer, the sum of three hundred

pounds, and place it to the account of,

"Sir,

"Your humble servant,

"THOMAS CAMPLEY."

[_Pulling off his hat and bowing._] Your very humble servant,

good Mr. Campley. Ay, this is poetry--this is a song indeed!

Faith, I'll set it, and sing it myself. Pray pay to Mr.

William Trim--so far in recitativo--three hundred [_singing

ridiculously_]--hun--dred--hundred--hundred thrice repeated, because

'tis three hundred pounds--I love repetitions in music, when there's

a good reason for it,--po--unds after the Italian manner. If they'd

bring me such sensible words as these, I'd outstrip all your composers

for the music prize. This was honestly done of Mr. Campley, though I

have carried him many a purse from my master when he was ensign to our

Company in Flanders----

_Enter_ LORD HARDY.

My lord, I am your lordship's humble servant.

_Ld. H._ Sir, your humble servant. But pray, my good familiar friend,

how come you to be so very much my humble servant all of a sudden?

_Trim._ I beg pardon, dear sir, my lord, I am not your humble servant.

_Ld. H._ No!

_Trim._ Yes, my lord, I am, but not as you mean; but I am--I am, my

lord--in short, I'm overjoyed.

_Ld. H._ Overjoyed! thou'rt distracted, what ails the fellow? Where's

Campley's song?

_Trim._ Oh! my lord, one would not think 'twas in him. Mr. Campley's

really a very great poet; as for the song, 'tis only as they all end

in rhyme: Ow--woe--isses--kisses--boy--joy. But, my lord, the other in

long heroic blank verse.

[_Reading it with a great tone._

Pray pay to Mr. William Trim, or order, the sum of--How sweetly it

runs! Pactolian guineas chink every line.

_Ld. H._ How very handsomely this was done in Campley! I wondered,

indeed, he was so willing to show his verses. In how careless a manner

that fellow does the greatest actions!

_Trim._ My lord, pray my lord, shan't I go immediately to Cutpurse's?

_Ld. H._ No, sirrah, now we have no occasion for it.

_Trim._ No, my lord, only to stare him full in the face after I have

received this money, not say a word, but keep my hat on, and walk

out. Or perhaps not hear, if any I meet with speak to me, but grow

stiff, deaf, and shortsighted to all my old acquaintance, like a

sudden rich man as I am. Or, perhaps, my lord, desire Cutpurse's clerk

to let me leave fifty pounds at their house, payable to Mr. William

Trim, or order, till I come that way, or, a month or two hence, may

have occasion for it: I don't know what bills may be drawn upon me.

Then when the clerk begins to stare at me, till he pulls the great

goose-quill from behind his ear [_Pulls a handfull of farthings out_] I

fall a-reckoning the pieces as I do these farthings.

_Ld. H._ Well, sirrah, you may have your humour, but be sure you take

four score pounds, and pay my debts immediately. If you meet any

officer you ever see me in company with, that looks grave at Cutpurse's

house, tell him I'd speak with him: We must help our friends. But learn

moderation, you rogue, in your good fortune; be at home all the evening

after, while I wait at Tom's to meet Campley, in order to see Lady

Sharlot.

My good or ill in her alone is found,

And in that thought all other cares are drowned.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--LORD BRUMPTON'S _House._

_Enter_ SABLE, LORD BRUMPTON _and_ TRUSTY.

_Sab._ Why, my lord, you can't in conscience put me off so. I must do

according to my orders, cut you up, and embalm you, except you'll come

down a little deeper than you talk of; you don't consider the charges I

have been at already.

_Ld. B._ Charges! for what?

_Sab._ First, twenty guineas to my lady's woman for notice of your

death (a fee I've, before now, known the widow herself go halves in),

but no matter for that. In the next place, ten pounds for watching you

all your long fit of sickness last winter.

_Ld. B._ Watching me? Why I had none but my own servants by turns.

_Sab._ I mean attending to give notice of your death. I had all your

long fit of sickness last winter, at half-a-crown a day, a fellow

waiting at your gate to bring me intelligence, but you unfortunately

recovered, and I lost my obliging pains for your service.

_Ld. B._ Ha! ha! ha! Sable, thou art a very impudent fellow;

half-a-crown a day to attend my decease, and dost thou reckon it to me?

_Sab._ Look you, gentlemen, don't stand staring at me. I have a book at

home which I call my Doomsday book, where I have every man of quality's

age and distemper in town, and know when you should drop. Nay, my

lord, if you had reflected upon your mortality half so much as poor I

have for you, you would not desire to return to life thus; in short,

I cannot keep this a secret, under the whole money I am to have for

burying you.

_Ld. B._ Trusty, if you think it safe in you to obey my orders after

the deed Puzzle told his clerk of, pay it to him.

_Tru._ I should be glad to give it out of my own pocket, rather than be

without the satisfaction of seeing you witness to it.

_Ld. B._ I heartily believe thee, dear Trusty.

_Sab._ Then, my lord, the secret of your being alive, is now safe with

me.

_Tru._ I'll warrant I'll be revenged of this unconscionable dog

[_Aside_]--My lord, you must to your closet, I fear somebody's coming.

[_Exeunt_ SABLE _one way_, LD. B. _and_ TRUSTY _another._]

SCENE III.--LORD BRUMPTON'S _House._

LADY SHARLOT _discovered reading at a table;_ LADY HARRIOT _playing at

a glass to and fro, and viewing herself._

_L. Ha._ Nay, good sage sister, you may as well talk to me [_Looking

at herself as she speaks_], as sit staring at a book, which I know you

can't attend. Good Dr. Lucas[22] may have writ there what he pleases,

but there's no putting Francis Lord Hardy, now Earl of Brumpton, out of

your head, or making him absent from your eyes; do but look at me now,

and deny it if you can.

_L. Sh._ You are the maddest girl----[_Smiling._

_L. Ha._ Look ye, I knew you could not say it and forbear laughing

[_Looking over_ SHARLOT]. Oh, I see his name as plain as you

do--F--r--a--n Fran, c--i--s cis, Francis, 'tis in every line of the

book.

_L. Sh._ [_Rising_] 'Tis in vain, I see, to mind anything in such

impertinent company, but granting 'twere as you say as to my Lord

Hardy, 'tis more excusable to admire another than one's self.

_L. Ha._ No, I think not; yes, I grant you than really to be vain at

one's person, but I don't admire myself. Pish! I don't believe my eyes

have that softness [_Looking in the glass_], they ain't so piercing.

No, 'tis only stuff the men will be talking. Some people are such

admirers of teeth. Lord, what signifies teeth? [_Showing her teeth._] A

very black-a-moor has as white teeth as I. No, sister, I don't admire

myself, but I've a spirit of contradiction in me; I don't know I'm in

love myself, only to rival the men.

_L. Sh._ Ay, but Mr. Campley will gain ground even of that rival of

his, your dear self.

_L. Ha._ Oh! what have I done to you, that you should name that

insolent intruder, a confident opinionative fop. No indeed, if I am, as

a poetical lover of mine sighed and sung of both sexes--

The public envy, and the public care,

I shan't be so easily catched--I thank him--I want but to be sure

I should heartily torment him, by banishing him, and then consider

whether he should depart this life, or not.

_L. Sh._ Indeed, sister, to be serious with you, this vanity in your

humour does not at all become you!

_La. H._ Vanity! All the matter is we gay people are more sincere than

you wise folks: All your life's an art. Speak your soul--look you

there--[_Haling her to the glass_] are not you struck with a secret

pleasure, when you view that bloom in your looks, that harmony in your

shape, that promptitude of your mien?

_L. Sh._ Well, simpleton, if I am at first so silly, as to be a little

taken with myself, I know it a fault, and take pains to correct it.

_L. Ha._ Pshaw! pshaw! talk this musty tale to old Mrs. Fardingale,

'tis too soon for me to think at that rate.

_L. Sh._ They that think it too soon to understand themselves, will

very soon find it too late. But tell me honestly, don't you like

Campley?

_L. Ha._ The fellow is not to be abhorred, if the forward thing did not

think of getting me so easily. Oh! I hate a heart I can't break when I

please. What makes the value of dear china, but that 'tis so brittle?

Were it not for that, you might as well have stone mugs in your closet.

_L. Sh._ Hist, hist, here's Fardingale.

_Enter_ FARDINGALE.

_Far._ Lady Harriot, Lady Sharlot! I'll entertain you now, I've a new

song just come hot out of the poet's brain. Lady Sharlot, my cousin

Campley writ it, and 'tis set to a pretty air, I warrant you.

_L. Ha._ 'Tis like to be pretty indeed, of his writing. [_Flings away._

_Far._ Come, come, this is not one of your tringham trangham witty

things, that your poor poets write; no, 'tis well known my cousin

Campley has two thousand pounds a year. But this is all dissimulation

in you.

_L. Sh._ 'Tis so, indeed, for your cousin's song is very pretty, Mrs.

Fardingale.

[_Reads._]

Let not love on me bestow

Soft distress and tender woe;

I know none but substantial blisses,

Eager glances, solid kisses;

I know not what the lovers feign,

Of finer pleasure mixed with pain.

Then prithee give me, gentle boy,

None of thy grief, but all thy joy.[23]

But Harriot thinks that a little unreasonable, to expect one without

enduring t'other.

_Enter_ SERVANT.

_Ser._ There's your cousin Campley to wait on you without.

_Far._ Let him come in, we shall have the song now.

_Enter_ CAMPLEY.

_Cam._ Ladies, your most obedient servant; your servant, Lady

Sharlot--servant Lady Harriot--[HARRIOT _looks grave upon him_] What's

the matter, dear Lady Harriot, not well? I protest to you I'm mightily

concerned [_Pulls out a bottle_]. This is a most excellent spirit,

snuff it up, madam.

_L. Ha._ Pish--the familiar coxcomb frets me heartily.

_Cam._ 'Twill over, I hope, immediately.

_L. Sh._ Your cousin Fardingale has shown us some of your poetry;

there's the spinet, Mr. Campley, I know you're musical.

_Cam._ She should not have called it my poetry.

_Far._ No--who waits there--pray bring my lute out of the next room.

_Enter_ SERVANT _with a Lute._

You must know I conned this song before I came in, and find it will

go to an excellent air of old Mr. Lawes's[24], who was my mother's

intimate acquaintance; my mother's, what do I talk of? I mean my

grandmother's. Oh, here's the lute; cousin Campley, hold the song upon

your hat.--[_Aside to him_] 'Tis a pretty gallantry to a relation.

[_Sings and Squalls._]

Let not love, &c.

Oh! I have left off these things many a day.

_Cam._ No; I profess, madam, you do it admirably, but are not assured

enough. Take it higher [_in her own squall_]. Thus--I know your voice

will bear it.

_L. Ha._ O hideous! O the gross flatterer--I shall burst. Mrs.

Fardingale, pray go on, the music fits the words most aptly. Take it

higher, as your cousin advises.

_Far._ Oh! dear madam, do you really like it? I do it purely to please

you, for I can't sing, alas!

_L. Sh._ We know it, good madam, we know it. But pray----

_Far._ "Let not love," and "substantial blisses," is lively enough, and

ran accordingly in the tune. [_Curtsies to the company._] Now I took it

higher.

_L. Ha._ Incomparably done! Nothing can equal it, except your cousin

sang his own poetry.

_Cam._ Madam, from my Lord Hardy. [_Delivers a letter to_ LADY

SHARLOT.]--How do you say, my Lady Harriot, except I sing it myself?

Then I assure you I will----

_L. Sh._ I han't patience. I must go read my letter. [_Exit._

_Cam._ [_Sings_] Let not love, &c.

_Far._ Bless me, what's become of Lady Sharlot? [_Exit._

_L. Ha._ Mrs. Fardingale, Mrs. Fardingale, what, must we lose you?

[_Going after her._

CAMPLEY _runs to the door, takes the key out, and locks her in._

What means this insolence? a plot upon me--Do you know who I am?

_Cam._ Yes, madam, you're my Lady Harriot Lovely, with ten thousand

pounds in your pocket; and I am Mr. Campley, with two thousand a year,

of quality enough to pretend to you. And I do design, before I leave

this room, to hear you talk like a reasonable woman, as nature has made

you. Nay, 'tis in vain to flounce, and discompose yourself and your

dress.

_L. Ha._ If there are swords, if they are men of honour, and not all

dastards, cowards that pretend to this injured person----[_Running

round the room._

_Cam._ Ay, ay, madam, let 'em come. That's putting me in my way,

fighting's my trade; but you've used all mankind too ill to expect so

much service. In short, madam, were you a fool I should not desire to

expostulate with you. [_Seizing her hand._] But----

_L. Ha._ Unhand me, ravisher. [_Pulls her hand from him, chases round

the room,_ CAMPLEY _after her._

_Cam._ But madam, madam, madam, why madam!

Prithee Cynthia look behind you, [_Sings._

Age and wrinkles will o'ertake you.

_L. Ha._ Age, wrinkles, small-pox, nay, anything that's most abhorrent

to youth and bloom, were welcome in the place of so detested a creature.

_Cam._ No such matter, Lady Harriot. I would not be a vain coxcomb, but

I know I am not detestable, nay, know where you've said as much before

you understood me for your servant. Was I immediately transformed

because I became your lover?

_L. Ha._ My lover, sir! did I ever give you reason to think I admitted

you as such?

_Cam._ Yes, you did in your using me ill; for if you did not assume

upon the score of my pretending to you, how do you answer to yourself

some parts of your behaviour to me as a gentleman? 'Tis trivial, all

this, in you, and derogates from the good sense I know you mistress of.

Do but consider, madam, I have long loved you, bore with your fantastic

humour through all its mazes. Nay, do not frown, for 'tis no better.

I say I have bore with this humour, but would you have me with an

unmanly servitude feed it? No, I love you with too sincere, too honest

a devotion, and would have your mind as faultless as your person, which

'twould be, if you'd lay aside this vanity of being pursued with sighs,

with flatteries, with nonsense [_She walks about less violently, but

more confused._]--Oh! my heart aches at the disturbance which I give

her, but she must not see it. [_Aside._]--Had I not better tell you of

it now, than when your are in my power? I should be then too generous

to thwart your inclination.

_L. Ha._ That is indeed very handsomely said. Why should I not obey

reason as soon as I see it? [_Aside._]--Since so, Mr. Campley, I can

as ingenuously as I should then, acknowledge that I have been in an

error. [_Looking down on her fan._

_Cam._ Nay, that's too great a condescension. Oh! excellence! I repent!

I see 'twas but justice in you to demand my knees [_kneeling_], my

sighs, my constant, tenderest regard and service. And you shall have

'em, since you are above 'em.

_L. Ha._ Nay, Mr. Campley, you won't recall me to a fault you have so

lately shown me. I will not suffer this--no more ecstasies! But pray,

sir, what was't you did to get my sister out of the room?

_Cam._ You may know it, and I must desire you to assist my Lord Hardy

there, who writ to her by me; for he is no ravisher, as you called me

just now. He is now in the house, and I would fain gain an interview.

_L. Ha._ That they may have, but they'll make little use of it; for

the tongue is the instrument of speech to us of a lower form: They

are of that high order of lovers, who know none but eloquent silence,

and can utter themselves only by a gesture that speaks their passion

inexpressible, and what not fine things.

_Cam._ But pray let's go into your sister's closet while they are

together.

_L. Ha._ I swear I don't know how to see my sister--she'll laugh me to

death to see me out of my pantofles,[25] and you and I thus familiar.

However, I know she'll approve it.

_Cam._ You may boast yourself an heroine to her, and the first woman

that was ever vanquished by hearing truth, and had sincerity enough

to receive so rough an obligation as being made acquainted with her

faults. Come, madam, stand your ground bravely, we'll march in to her

thus. [_She leaning on_ CAMPLEY.

_L. Ha._ Who'll believe a woman's anger more? I've betrayed the whole

sex to you, Mr. Campley. [_Exeunt._

_Re-enter_ LORD HARDY _and_ CAMPLEY.

_Cam._ My lord, her sister, who now is mine, will immediately send her

hither. But be yourself: Charge her bravely. I wish she were a cannon,

an eighteen-pounder, for your sake. Then I know, were there occasion,

you'd be in the mouth of her.

_Ld. H._ I long, yet fear to see her. I know I am unable to utter

myself.

_Cam._ Come, retire here till she appears. [_They go back to the door._

_Enter_ LADY SHARLOT.

_L. Sh._ Now is the tender moment now approaching. [_Aside._] There he

is. [_They approach and salute each other trembling._] Your lordship

will please to sit. [_After a very long pause, stolen glances, and

irresolute gesture._] Your lordship, I think, has travelled those parts

of Italy where the armies are.

_Ld. H._ Yes, madam.

_L. Sh._ I think I have letters from you, dated Mantua.

_Ld. H._ I hope you have, madam, and that their purpose----

_L. Sh._ My lord? [_Looking serious and confused._

_Ld. H._ Was not your ladyship going to say something?

_L. Sh._ I only attended to what your lordship was going to say--That

is, my lord--But you were, I believe, going to say something of that

garden of the world, Italy. I am very sorry your misfortunes in England

are such as make you justly regret your leaving that place.

_Ld. H._ There is a person in England may make those losses insensible

to me.

_L. Sh._ Indeed, my lord, there have so very few of quality attended

his Majesty in the war, that your birth and merit may well hope for his

favour.

_Ld. H._ I have, indeed, all the zeal in the world for his Majesty's

service, and most grateful affection for his person, but did not then

mean him.

_L. Sh._ But can you indeed impartially say that our island is really

preferable to the rest of the world, or is it an arrogance only in us

to think so?

_Ld. H._ I profess, madam, that little I have seen has but more

endeared England to me; for that medley of humours which perhaps

distracts our public affairs, does, methinks, improve our private

lives, and makes conversation more various, and consequently

more pleasing. Everywhere else both men and things have the same

countenance. In France you meet much civility and little friendship; in

Holland, deep attention, but little reflection; in Italy, all pleasure,

but no mirth. But here with us, where you have everywhere pretenders or

masters in everything, you can't fall into company wherein you shall

not be instructed or diverted.

_L. Sh._ I never had an account of anything from you, my lord, but

I mourned the loss of my brother; you would have been so happy a

companion for him, with that right sense of yours. My lord, you need

not bow so obsequiously, for I do you but justice. But you sent me word

of your seeing a lady in Italy very like me. Did you visit her often?

_Ld. H._ Once or twice, but I observed her so loose a creature, that I

could have killed her for having your person.

_L. Sh._ I thank you, sir; but Heaven that preserves me unlike her,

will, I hope, make her more like me. But your fellow traveller--his

relations themselves know not a just account of him.

_Ld. H._ The original cause of his fever was a violent passion for

a fine young woman he had not power to speak to, but I told her his

regard for her as passionately as possible.

_L. Sh._ You were to him what Mr. Campley has been to you--Whither am I

running?--Poor, your friend--poor gentleman----

_Ld. H._ I hope then as Campley's eloquence is greater, so has been his

success.

_L. Sh._ My lord?

_Ld. H._ Your ladyship's----

_Enter_ LADY HARRIOT.

_L. Ha._ Undone! Undone! Tattleaid has found, by some means or other,

that Campley brought my Lord Hardy hither; we are utterly ruined, my

lady's coming.

_Ld. H._ I'll stay and confront her.

_L. Sh._ It must not be; we are too much in her power.

_Enter_ CAMPLEY.

_Cam._ Come, come, my lord, we're routed horse and foot. Down the back

stairs, and so out.

_Ladies._ Ay, ay. [_Exeunt._

_L. Ha._ I tremble every joint of me.

_L. Sh._ I'm at a stand a little, but rage will recover me; she's

coming in.

_Enter_ WIDOW.

_Wid._ Ladies, your servant. I fear I interrupt you; have you company?

Lady Harriot, your servant; Lady Sharlot, your servant. What, not a

word? Oh, I beg your ladyship's pardon. Lady Sharlot, did I say? My

young Lady Brumpton, I wish you joy.

_L. Sh._ Oh, your servant, Lady Dowager Brumpton. That's an appellation

of much more joy to you.

_Wid._ So smart, madam! but you should, methinks, have made one

acquainted--Yet, madam, your conduct is seen through.

_L. Sh._ My conduct, Lady Brumpton!

_Wid._ Your conduct, Lady Sharlot! [_Coming up to each other._

_L. Sh._ Madam, 'tis you are seen through all your thin disguises.

_Wid._ I seen? By whom?

_L. Sh._ By an all-piercing eye, nay, by what you much more fear,

the eye of the world. The world sees you, or shall see you. It shall

know your secret intemperance, your public fasting--Loose poems in

your closet, an homily on your toilet--Your easy, skilful, practised

hypocrisy, by which you wrought upon your husband, basely to transfer

the trust and ward of us, two helpless virgins, into the hands and care

of--I cannot name it. You're a wicked woman.

_L. Ha._ [_Aside._] O rare sister! 'Tis a fine thing to keep one's

anger in stock by one. We that are angry and pleased every half-hour

have nothing at all of all this high-flown fury! Why, she rages like a

princess in a tragedy! Blessings on her tongue.

_Wid._ Is this the effect of your morning lectures, your

self-examination, all this fury?

_L. Sh._ Yes it is, madam; if I take pains to govern my passions, it

shall not give licence to others to govern them for me.

_Wid._ Well, Lady Sharlot, however you ill deserve it of me, I shall

take care, while there are locks and bars, to keep you from Lord

Hardy--from being a leager lady, from carrying a knapsack.

_L. Sh._ Knapsack! Do you upbraid the poverty your own wicked arts have

brought him to? Knapsack! O grant me patience! Can I hear this of the

man I love? Knapsack! I have not words. [_Stamps about the room._

_Wid._ I leave you to cool upon it; love and anger are very warm

passions. [_Exit._

_L. Ha._ She has locked us in.

_L. Sh._ Knapsack? Well, I will break walls to go to him. I could

sit down and cry my eyes out! Dear sister, what a rage have I been

in? Knapsack! I'll give vent to my just resentment. Oh, how shall I

avoid this base woman; how meet that excellent man! What an helpless

condition are you and I in now! If we run into the world, that youth

and innocence which should demand assistance does but attract invaders.

Will Providence guard us? How do I see that our sex is naturally

indigent of protection! I hope 'tis in fate to crown our loves; for

'tis only in the protection of men of honour that we are naturally

truly safe--

And woman's happiness, for all her scorn,

Is only by that side whence she was born.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.--LORD HARDY'S _Lodgings._

_Enter_ LORD HARDY, CAMPLEY, _and_ TRIM.

_Ld. H._ That jade Tattleaid saw me upon the stairs, for I had not

patience to keep my concealment, but must peep out to see what was

become of you.

_Cam._ But we have advice, however, it seems, from the garrison

already--this mistress of Trim's is a mighty lucky accident.

_Trim._ Ay, gentlemen, she has free egress and regress, and you know

the French are the best-bred people in the world--she'll be assistant.

But, 'faith, I have one scruple that hangs about me; and that is,

look you, my lord, we servants have no masters in their absence. In a

word, when I am with mademoiselle I talk of your lordship as only a

particular acquaintance; that I do business indeed for you sometimes. I

must needs say, cries I, that indeed my Lord Hardy is really a person I

have a great honour for.

_Ld. H._ Pish! is that all? I understand you; your mistress does not

know that you do me the honour to clean my shoes or so, upon occasion.

Pr'ythee, Will, make yourself as considerable as you please.

_Trim._ Well, then, your lesson is this. She, out of respect to me,

and understanding Mr. Campley was an intimate of my friend, my Lord

Hardy, and condescending (though she is of a great house in France) to

make manteaus for the improvement of the English--which gives her easy

admittance--she, I say, moved by these promises,[26] has vouchsafed to

bring a letter from my Lady Harriot to Mr. Campley, and came to me to

bring her to him. You are to understand also that she is dressed in the

latest French cut; her dress is the model of their habit, and herself

of their manners. For she is--but you shall see her. [_Exit._

_Ld. H._ This gives me some life! Cheer up, Tom--but behold the

solemnity. Do you see Trim's gallantry? I shall laugh out.

_Enter_ TRIM _leading in_ MADEMOISELLE.

_Trim._ My dear Lord Hardy, this is Mademoiselle d'Epingle, whose

name you've often heard me sigh. [LORD HARDY _salutes her._] Mr.

Campley--Mademoiselle d'Epingle. [CAMPLEY _salutes her._]

_Mad._ Votre servante, gentlemen, votre servante.

_Cam._ I protest to you I never saw anything so becoming as your dress.

Shall I beg the favour you'd condescend to let Mr. Trim lead you once

round the room, that I may admire the elegance of your habit? [TRIM

_leads her round._

_Ld. H._ How could you ask such a thing?

_Cam._ Pshaw, my lord, you are a bashful English fellow. You see she is

not surprised at it, but thinks me gallant in desiring it. Oh, madam!

your air! the negligence, the disengagement of your manner! Oh how

delicate is your noble nation! I swear there's none but the clumsy

Dutch and English would oppose such polite conquerors. When shall you

see an Englishwoman so dressed?

_Mad._ De Englise! poor barbarians; poor savages; dey know no more of

de dress but to cover dere nakedness [_Glides along the room_]. Dey be

cloded, but no dressed--But, Monsieur Terim, which Monsieur Campley?

_Trim._ That's honest Tom Campley.

_Cam._ At your service, mademoiselle.

_Mad._ I fear I incur de censure [_Pulling out the letter, and

recollecting as loth to deliver it_], but Mr. Terim being your

intimate friend, and I designing to honour him in de way of an

husband--so--so--how do I run away in discourse--I never make promise

to Mr. Terim before, and now to do it par accident----

_Cam._ Dear Will Trim is extremely obliging in having prevailed upon

you to do a thing that the severity of your virtue, and the greatness

of your quality (though a stranger in the country you now honour by

your dwelling in it) would not let you otherwise condescend to----

_Mad._ Oh, monsieur! oh, monsieur! you speak my very thoughts. Oh! I

don't know how, pardon me, to give a billet--it so look! O fie! I can

no stay after it. [_Drops it, runs affectedly to the other end of the

room, then quite out; re-enters._] I beg ten tousand pardons for go

away to mal-propos. [_Curtsies as going._

_Ld. H._ Your servant, good madam. Mr. Trim, you know you command here.

Pray, if Madam d'Epingle will honour our cottage with longer stay, wait

on her in and entertain her. Pray, sir, be free.

_Trim._ My lord, you know your power over me; I'm all complaisance.

[_Leads her out._

_Cam._ Now to my dear epistle--

"SIR,

"There is one thing which you were too generous to touch upon in our

last conversation. We have reason to fear the Widow's practices in

relation to our fortunes, if you are not too quick for her. I ask Lady

Sharlot whether this is not her sense to Lord Hardy. She says nothing,

but lets me write on. These people always have, and will have,

admittance everywhere, therefore we may hear from you.

"I am, sir,

"Your most obedient servant,

"HARRIOT LOVELY."

My obedient servant! Thy obedience shall ever be as voluntary as

now--ten thousand thousand kisses on thee, thou dear paper. Look you,

my lord, what a pretty hand it is?

_Ld. H._ Why, Tom, thou dost not give me leave to see it. You snatch it

to your mouth so, you'll stifle the poor lady.

_Cam._ Look you, my lord, all along the lines here went the pen; and

through them white intervals her snowy fingers. Do you see, this is her

name?

_Ld. H._ Nay, there's Lady Sharlot's name, too, in the midst of the

letter. Why, you'll not be so unconscionable; you're so greedy, you'll

give me one kiss sure?

_Cam._ Well, you shall; but you're so eager. Don't bite me, for you

shan't have it in your own hands. There, there, there: Let go my hand.

_Ld. H._ What an exquisite pleasure there is in this foolery--but what

shall we do?

_Cam._ I have a thought; pry'thee, my lord, call Trim.

_Ld. H._ Ha, Trim----

_Cam._ Hold, Mr. Trim. You forget his mistress is there.

_Ld. H._ Gra'mercy! Dear Will Trim, step in hither.

_Cam._ Ay, that's something----

_Enter_ TRIM.

Trim, have not I seen a young woman sometimes carry Madam d'Epingle's

trinkets for her, coming from my Lady Brumpton's?

_Trim._ Yes, you might have seen such a one; she waits for her now.

_Cam._ Do you think you could not prevail for me to be dressed in that

wench's clothes, and attend your mistress in her stead thither? They'll

not dream we should so soon attempt again----

_Trim._ Yes, I'll engage it.

_Cam._ Then we'll trust the rest to our good genius. I'll about it

instantly--Harriot Lovely----[_Exit, kissing the letter._

SCENE II.--LADY BRUMPTON'S _Room._

_Enter_ WIDOW _and_ TATTLEAID.

_Wid._ This was well done of you; be sure you take care of their young

ladyships; you shall, I promise you, have a snip in the sale of 'em.

_Tat._ I thank your good ladyship.

_Wid._ Is that the porter's paper of how d'ye's?

_Tat._ Yes, madam, he just sent it up. His general answer is, that

you're as well as can be expected in your condition, but that you see

nobody.

_Wid._ That's right. [_Reading names._] Lady Riggle, Lady Formal--Oh!

that Riggle, a pert ogler, an indiscreet silly thing, who is really

known by no man, yet for her carriage, justly thought common to all;

and as Formal has only the appearance of virtue, so she has only the

appearance of vice. What chance, I wonder, put these contradictions to

each other into the same coach, as you say they called? Mrs. Frances

and Mrs. Winifred Glebe--who are they?

_Tat._ They are the country great fortunes have been out of town this

whole year; they are those whom your ladyship said upon being very well

born took upon 'em to be very ill bred.

_Wid._ Did I say so? really I think 'twas apt enough, now I remember

'em. Lady Wrinkle--oh, that smug old woman! There's no enduring her

affectation of youth, but I plague her; I always ask whether her

daughter in Wiltshire has a grandchild yet or not. Lady Worthy--I can't

bear her company, she has so much of that virtue in her heart which I

have in my mouth only. [_Aside._] Mrs. After-Day--oh that's she that

was the great beauty, the mighty toast about town--that's just come out

of the small-pox; she's horribly pitted they say; I long to see her and

plague her with my condolence. 'Tis a pure ill-natured satisfaction to

see one that was a beauty unfortunately move with the same languor and

softness of behaviour that once was charming in her--to see, I say, her

mortify that used to kill--ha! ha! ha! The rest are a catalogue of mere

names or titles they were born to, an insipid crowd of neither good nor

bad; but you are sure these other ladies suspect not in the least that

I know of their coming?

_Tat._ No, dear madam, they are to ask for me.

_Wid._ I hear a coach. [_Exit_ TAT.] I've now an exquisite pleasure in

the thought of surpassing my Lady Sly, who pretends to have out-grieved

the whole town for her husband. They are certainly coming.--Oh no!

here, let me--thus let me sit and think.

[WIDOW _on her couch; while she is raving as to herself,_ TATTLEAID

_softly brings in the ladies._]

Wretched, disconsolate as I am! Oh welcome, welcome, dear killing

anguish! Oh, that I could lie down and die in my present heaviness--but

what--how? Nay, my dear, dear lord, why do you look so pale, so ghastly

at me? Wottoo, wottoo, fright thy own trembling, shivering wife----

_Tat._ Nay, good madam, be comforted.

_Wid._ Thou shalt not have me. [_Pushes_ TAT.

_Tat._ Nay, good madam, 'tis I, 'tis I, your ladyship's own woman--'tis

I, madam, that dress you, and talk to you, and tell you all that's done

in the house every day; 'tis I----

_Wid._ Is it, then, possible? Is it, then, possible that I am left?

Speak to me not--hold me not. I'll break the listening walls with my

complaints. [_Looks surprised at seeing company, then severely at_

TATTLEAID.] Ah! Tattleaid----

_1st La._ Nay, madam, be not angry at her, we would come in in spite of

her. We are your friends and are as concerned as you----

_Wid._ Ah! madam, madam, madam, madam, I am an undone woman. Oh me!

Alas! Alas! Oh! Oh! [_All join in her notes._] I swoon--I expire.

[_Faints._

_2nd La._ Pray, Mrs. Tattleaid, bring something that is cordial to her.

[_Exit_ TATTLEAID.

_3rd La._ Indeed, madam, you should have patience. His lordship was

old. To die is but going before in a journey we must all take.

_Enter_ TATTLEAID _loaded with bottles. 3rd Lady takes a bottle from

her and drinks._

_4th La._ Lord, how my Lady Fleer drinks; I've heard, indeed, but never

could believe it of her. [_Drinks also._

_1st La._ But, madam,[27] don't you hear what the town says of the

jilt Flirt the men liked so much in the Park? Hark ye--was seen with

him in an Hackney-coach--and silk stockings--key-hole--his wig--on the

chair----[_Whispers by interruptions._

_2nd La._ Impudent Flirt, to be found out!

_3rd La._ But I speak it only to you----

_4th La._ Nor I but to one more----[_Whispers next woman._

_5th La._ I can't believe it; nay, I always thought it,

madam----[_Whispers the_ WIDOW.

_Wid._ Sure, 'tis impossible! the demure, prim thing! Sure all the

world's hypocrisy. Well, I thank my stars, whatsoever sufferings I

have, I've none in reputation. I wonder at the men; I could never think

her handsome. She has really a good shape and complexion, but no mien;

and no woman has the use of her beauty without mien! Her charms are

dumb, they want utterance. But whither does distraction lead me--to

talk of charms?

_1st La._ Charms? A chit's, a girl's charms. Come, let us widows be

true to ourselves, keep our countenances and our characters, and a fig

for the maids--I mean for the unmarried.

_2nd La._ Ay, since they will set up for our knowledge, why should not

we for their ignorance?

_3rd La._ But, madam, on Sunday morning at church I curtsied to

you, and looked at a great fuss in a glaring light dress next pew.

That strong masculine thing is a knight's wife, pretends to all the

tenderness in the world, and would fain put the unwieldy upon us for

the soft, the languid! She has of a sudden left her dairy, and sets up

for a fine town-lady, calls her maid Sisly her woman, speaks to her

by her surname, Mrs. Cherryfist, and her great foot-boy of nineteen,

big enough for a trooper, is striped into a lace coat, now Mr. Page

forsooth.

_4th La._ Oh! I have seen her. Well, I heartily pity some people for

their wealth, they might have been unknown else! You'd die, madam, to

see her and her equipage. I thought the honest fat tits, her horses,

were ashamed of their finery; they dragged on as if they were still at

the plough, and a great bashful-looked booby behind grasped the coach

as if he held one.

_5th La._ Alas! some people think there's nothing but being fine to be

genteel; but the high prance of the horses, and the brisk insolence of

the servants in an equipage of quality, are inimitable, but to our own

beasts and servants.

_1st La._ Now you talk of equipage, I envy this lady the beauty she'll

appear in in a mourning coach, 'twill so become her complexion; I

confess I myself mourned two years for no other reason. Take up that

hood there; Oh! that fair face with a veil. [_They take up her hoods._

_Wid._ Fie, fie, ladies. But I've been told, indeed, black does become--

_2nd La._ Well, I'll take the liberty to speak it, there's young

Nutbrain has long had (I'll be sworn) a passion for this lady; but I'll

tell you one thing I fear she'll dislike, that is, he's younger than

she is.

_3rd La._ No, that's no exception; but I'll tell you one, he's younger

than his brother.

_Wid._ Ladies, talk not of such affairs. Who could love such an unhappy

relict as I am? But, dear madam, what grounds have you for that idle

story?

_4th La._ Why he toasts you, and trembles when you're spoke of; it must

be a match.

_Wid._ Nay, nay; you rally, you rally; but I know you mean it kindly.

_1st La._ I swear we do. [TATTLEAID _whispers the_ WIDOW.

_Wid._ But I must beseech you, ladies, since you have been so

compassionate as to visit and accompany my sorrow, to give me the only

comfort I can now know, to see my friends cheerful, and to honour an

entertainment Tattleaid has prepared within for you. If I can find

strength enough I'll attend you; but I wish you'd excuse me, for I've

no relish of food or joy, but will try to get a bit down in my own

chamber.

_All._ No, no, you must go with us.

_1st La._ There's no pleasure without you.

_Wid._ But, madam, I must beg of your ladyship not to be so importune

to my fresh calamity, as to mention Nutbrain any more; I'm sure there's

nothing in it. In love with me, quoth a'. [_Is helped off. Exeunt._

_Enter_ MADEMOISELLE, _and_ CAMPLEY _in women's clothes carrying her

things._

_Mad._ I very glad us be in de ladies' antichamber; I was shamed of

you. You, you, such an impudent look; besides, me wonder you were not

seized by the constable, when you pushed de man into de kennel.

_Cam._ Why, should I have let him kissed me?

_Mad._ No; but if you had hit him wit fan, and say, why sure saucy-box,

it been enough; beside, what you hitted de gentleman for offer kiss me?

_Cam._ I beg pardon, I did not know you were pleased with it.

_Mad._ Please, no, but me rader be kiss den you, Mr. Terim's friend, be

found out. Could not you say when he kiss me, sure saucy-box dat's meat

for your master? Besides, you take such strides when you walk--walk--O

fie; dese littil pette tiny bits a woman steps. [_Showing her step._

_Cam._ But prithee, mademoiselle, why have you lost your English tongue

all of a sudden? Methought when the fellow called us French whores, as

we came along, and said we came to starve their own people, you gave

him pretty plain English; he was a dog, a rascal, you'd send him to the

stocks.

_Mad._ Ha! ha! ha! I was in a passion and betrayed myself, but you're

my lover's friend, and a man of honour, therefore know you'll do

nothing to injure us. Why, Mr. Campley, you must know I can speak as

good English as you, but I don't for fear of losing my customers. The

English will never give a price for anything they understand. Nay, I've

known some of your fools pretend to buy with good breeding, and give

any rate rather than not be thought to have French enough to know what

they were doing; strange and far-fetched things they only like. Don't

you see how they swallow gallons of the juice of tea, while their own

dock-leaves are trod under foot? But mum; my Lady Harriot.

_Enter_ LADY HARRIOT.

Madam, votre servante, servante----

_L. Ha._ Well, mademoiselle, did you deliver my letter?

_Mad._ Oui.

_L. Ha._ Well, and how--is that it in your hand?

_Mad._ Oui.

_L. Ha._ Well then, why don't you give it me?

_Mad._ O fie! lady, dat be so right Englise, de Englise mind only de

words of de lovers, but de words of de lovers are often lie, but de

action no lie.

_L. Ha._ What does the thing mean? Give me my letter.

_Mad._ Me did not deliver your letter.

_L. Ha._ No?

_Mad._ No, me tell you, me did drop it, to see Mr. Campley how cavalier

to take it up. As dese me drop it so monsieur run take it up. [_They

both run to take it up,_ MAD. _takes it._

_L. Ha._ Will you give me my letter or not?

_Mad._ Oui. But dus he do. Dere de letter--very well, very well. O

l'amour! You act de manner Mr. Campley--take it up better den I, do'

you no see it. [_They both run,_ HARRIOT _gets it._

_L. Ha._ [_Reads._]

"MADAM,

"I am glad you mentioned what indeed I did not at that time think of,

nor if I had, should I have known how to have spoken of. But bless me

more than fortune can, by turning those fair eyes upon, madam,

"Your most faithful,

"Most obedient humble servant,

"THO. CAMPLEY."

What does he mean? "But bless me more--by turning"--Oh, 'tis he himself

[_Looking about observes_ CAM. _smile_]. Oh, the hoyden, the romp, I

did not think anything could add to your native confidence, but you

look so very bold in that dress, and your arms will fall off, and your

petticoats how they hang!

_Cam._ Mademoiselle, voulez vous de Salville l'eau d'Hongrie, chez

Monsieur Marchand de Montpelier--Dis for your teet [_Showing his

trinkets_], de essence, a little book French for teach de elder broders

make compliments. Will you, I say, have anything that I have, will you

have all I have, madam?

_L. Ha._ Yes, and for humour's sake, will never part with this box,

while I live, ha! ha! ha!

_Cam._ But, Lady Harriot, we must not stand laughing; as you observe

in your letter, delays are dangerous in this wicked woman's custody

of you; therefore I must, madam, beseech you, and pray stay not on

niceties, but be advised.

_L. Ha._ Mr. Campley, I have no will but yours.

_Cam._ Thou dear creature, but [_Kisses her hand_] harkee then, you

must change dresses with mademoiselle, and go with me instantly.

_L. Ha._ What you please.

_Cam._ Madam d'Epingle, I must desire you to comply with a humour of

gallantry of ours--you may be sure I'll have an eye over the treatment

you have upon my account--only to change habits with Lady Harriot, and

let her go while you stay.

_Mad._ Wit all my heart.[28] [_Offers to undress herself._

_L. Ha._ What, before Mr. Campley?

_Mad._ Oh, oh--very Anglaise! dat is so Englise, all women of

quality in France are dress and undress by a valet de chambre; de

man chamber-maid help complexion better den de woman. [_Apart to_ L.

HARRIOT.

_L. Ha._ Nay, that's a secret in dress, mademoiselle, I never knew

before, and am so unpolished an English woman as to resolve never to

learn even to dress before my husband. Oh! Indecency! Mr. Campley, do

you hear what mademoiselle says?

_Mad._ Oh! Hist--bagatelle.

_L. Ha._ Well, we'll run in and be ready in an instant. [_Exeunt_ L.

HARRIOT _and_ MADEMOISELLE.

_Cam._ Well, I like her every minute better and better. What a delicate

chastity she has! There's something so gross in the carriage of some

wives (though they're honest too) that they lose their husbands' hearts

for faults which, if they had either good nature or good breeding, they

know not how to tell 'em of. But how happy am I in such a friend as

Hardy, such a mistress as Harriot!

Continue Heaven, a grateful heart to bless

With faith in friendship, and in love success.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.--LORD BRUMPTON'S _House._

_Enter_ WIDOW _and_ TRUSTY.

_Wid._ Mr. Trusty, you have, I do assure you, the same place and power

in the management of my Lord Brumpton's estate, as in his life-time. (I

am reduced to a necessity of trusting him) [_aside._] However Tattleaid

dissembles the matter, she must be privy to Lady Harriot's escape, and

Fardingale's as deep with 'em both, and I fear will be their ruin,

which 'tis my care and duty to prevent. Be vigilant, and you shall be

rewarded. I shall employ you wholly in Lady Sharlot's affairs, she is

able to pay services done for her. You've sense, and understand me.

[_Exit_ WIDOW.

_Tru._ Yes, I do indeed understand you, and could wish another could

with as much detestation as I do, but my poor old lord is so strangely,

so bewitchedly enamoured of her, that even after this discovery of

her wickedness, I see he could be reconciled to her, and though he

is ashamed to confess to me, I know he longs to speak with her. If I

tell Lord Hardy all to make his fortune, he would not let his father

be dishonoured by a public way of separation. If things are acted

privately, I know she'll throw us all; there's no middle-way, I must

expose her to make a reunion impracticable. Alas, how is honest truth

banished the world; when we must watch the seasons and soft avenues to

men's hearts, to gain it entrance even for their own good and interest!

[_Exit._

SCENE II.--LORD HARDY'S _Lodgings._

_Enter_ LORD HARDY, CAMPLEY, _and_ TRIM.

_Ld. H._ I forget my own misfortunes, dear Campley, when I reflect on

your success.

_Cam._ I assure you, it moderates the swell of joy that I am in, to

think of your difficulties. I hope my felicity is previous to yours; my

Lady Harriot gives her service to you, and we both think it but decent

to suspend our marriage 'till your and Lady Sharlot's affairs are in

the same posture.

_Ld. H._ Where is my lady?

_Cam._ She's at my aunt's, my lord. But, my lord, if you don't

interpose, I don't know how I shall adjust matters with Mr. Trim for

leaving his mistress behind me: I fear he'll demand satisfaction of me.

_Trim._ No, sir, alas, I can know no satisfaction while she is in

jeopardy. Therefore would rather be put in a way to recover her by

storming the castle, or other feat of arms, like a true enamoured swain

as I am.

_Cam._ Since we are all three then expecting lovers, my lord, prithee

let's have that song of yours which suits our common purpose.

_Ld. H._ Call in the boy.

BOY _sings._[29]

I.

Ye minutes bring the happy hour,

And Chloe blushing to the bower;

Then shall all idle flames be o'er,

Nor eyes or heart e'er wander more;

Both, Chloe, fixed for e'er on thee,

For thou art all thy sex to me.

II.

A guilty is a false embrace,

Corinna's love's a fairy-chace;

Begone, thou meteor, fleeting fire,

And all that can't survive desire.

Chloe my reason moves and awe,

And Cupid shot me when he saw.

_Trim._ Look you, gentlemen, since as you are pleased to say we're all

lovers, and consequently poets, pray do me the honour to hear a little

air of mine. You must know then, I once had the misfortune to fall in

love below myself, but things went hard with us at that time, so that

my passion, or as I may poetically speak, my fire was in the kitchen;

'twas towards a cook-maid, but before I ever saw Mrs. Deborah.

_Ld. H._ Come on then, Trim, let's have it.

_Trim._ I must run into next room for a lute. [_Exit._

_Cam._ This must be diverting! can the rogue play?

_Re-enter_ TRIM, _with a pair of Tongs._

_Trim._ Dear Cynderaxa herself very well understood this instrument, I

therefore always sung this song to it, as thus--

I.

Cynderaxa kind and good,

Has all my heart and stomach too;

She makes me love, not hate, my food,

As other peevish wenches do.

II.

When Venus leaves her Vulcan's cell,

Which all but I a coal-hole call;

Fly, fly, ye that above stairs dwell,

Her face is washed, ye vanish all.

III.

And as she's fair, she can impart

That beauty, to make all things fine;

Brightens the floor with wondrous art,

And at her touch the dishes shine.

_Ld. H._ I protest, Will, thou art a poet indeed. "And at her touch the

dishes shine"--and you touch your lute as finely.

_Enter_ BOY.

_Boy._ There's one Mr. Trusty below would speak with my lord.

_Ld. H._ Mr. Trusty? My father's steward? What can he have to say to me?

_Cam._ He's very honest, to my knowledge.

_Ld. H._ I remember, indeed, when I was turned out of the house he

followed me to the gate and wept over me, for which I've heard he'd

like to have lost his place. But, however, I must advise with you a

little about my behaviour to him; let's in. Boy, bring him up hither,

tell him I'll wait on him presently. [_Exit_ BOY.

I shall want you, I believe, here, Trim. [_Exeunt._

_Re-enter_ BOY _and_ TRUSTY.

_Boy._ My lord will wait on you here immediately. [_Exit_ BOY.

_Tru._ 'Tis very well, these lodgings are but homely for the Earl

of Brumpton. Oh, that damned strumpet--that I should ever know my

master's wife for such!--How many thousand things does my head run back

to? After my poor father's death the good lord took me, because he

was a captain in his regiment, and gave me education. I was, I think,

three-and-twenty when this young lord within was christened; what a do

there was about calling him Francis! [_Wipes his eyes._] These are but

poor lodgings for him. I cannot bear the joy, to think that I shall

save the family from which I've had my bread.

_Enter_ TRIM.

_Trim._ Sir, my lord will wait you immediately.

_Tru._ Sir, 'tis my duty to wait him--[_As_ TRIM _is going_] but, sir,

are not you the young man that attended him at Christchurch, in Oxford,

and have followed him ever since?

_Trim._ Yes, sir, I am.

_Tru._ Nay, sir, no harm, but you'll thrive the better for it.

_Trim._ I like this old fellow; I smell more money. [_Aside. Exit._

_Tru._ I think 'tis now eight years since I saw him--he was not then

nineteen--when I followed him to the gate, and gave him fifty guineas,

which I pretended his father sent after him.

_Enter_ LORD HARDY.

_Ld. H._ Mr. Trusty, I'm very glad to see you look very hale and jolly;

you wear well. I'm glad to see it--but your commands to me, Mr. Trusty.

_Tru._ Why, my lord, I presume to wait on your lordship. My lord,

you're strangely grown; you're your father's very picture, you're he,

my lord; you are the very man that looked so pleased to see me look so

fine in my laced livery, to go to Court. I was his page when he was

just such another as you. He kissed me afore a great many lords, and

said I was a brave man's son, that taught him to exercise his arms.

I remember he carried me to the great window, and bid me be sure to

keep in your mother's sight in all my finery. She was the finest young

creature; the maids of honour hated to see her at Court. My lord then

courted my good lady. She was as kind to me on her death-bed; she

said to me, Mr. Trusty, take care of my lord's second marriage for

that child's sake. She pointed as well as she could to you. You fell

a-crying, and said she should not die; but she did, my lord. She left

the world, and no one like her in't. Forgive me, my honoured master.

[_Weeps, runs to my lord, and hugs him._] I've often carried you in

these arms that grasp you; they were stronger then, but if I die

to-morrow, you're worth five thousand pounds by my gift--'tis what I've

got in the family, and I return it to you with thanks. But alas! do I

live to see you want it?[30]

_Ld. H._ You confound me with all this tenderness and generosity.

_Tru._ I'll trouble you no longer, my lord, but----

_Ld. H._ Call it not a trouble, for----

_Tru._ My good lord, I will not, I say, indulge myself in talking

fond tales that melt me, and interrupt my story. My business to your

lordship, in one word, is this: I am in good confidence at present

with my lady dowager, and I know she has some fears upon her, which

depend upon the nature of the settlement to your disfavour, and under

the rose--be yourself--I fear your father has not had fair play for

his life--be composed, my lord. What is to be done is this: we'll not

apply to public justice in this case, 'till we see farther; 'twill make

it noisy, which we must not do, if I might advise. You shall, with

a detachment of your Company, seize the corpse as it goes out of the

house this evening to be interred in the country; 'twill only look like

taking the administration upon yourself, and commencing a suit for the

estate. She has put off the lying in state, and Lady Harriot's escape

with Mr. Campley makes her fear he will prove a powerful friend, both

to the young ladies and your lordship. She cannot, with decency, be so

busy, as when the corpse is out of the house, therefore hastens it.

I know your whole affair; leave the care of Lady Sharlot to me. I'll

pre-acquaint her, that she mayn't be frightened, and dispose of her

safely, to observe the issue.

_Ld. H._ I wholly understand you; it shall be done.

_Tru._ I'm sure I am wanted this moment for your interest at home. This

ring shall be the passport of intelligence for whom you send to assault

us, and the remittance of it sealed with this, shall be authentic from

within the house.

_Ld. H._ 'Tis very well.

_Tru._ Hope all you can wish, my lord, from a certain secret relating

to the estate, which I'll acquaint you with next time I see you.

[_Exit._

_Ld. H._ Your servant----This fellow's strangely honest----Ha! Will.

_Enter_ CAMPLEY _and_ TRIM.

Will! don't the recruits wait for me to see 'em at their parade before

this house?

_Trim._ Yes; and have waited these three hours.

_Ld. H._ Go to 'em; I'll be there myself immediately. We must attack

with 'em, if the rogues are sturdy, this very evening.

_Trim._ I guess where----I'm overjoyed at it. I'll warrant you they do

it, if I command in chief.

_Ld. H._ I design you shall. [TRIM _runs out jumping._

_Cam._ You seem, my lord, to be in deep meditation.

_Ld. H._ I am so, but not on anything that you may not be acquainted

with. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.--_Covent Garden._

_Enter_ TRIM, _with a company of ragged fellows, with a cane._

_1st Sol._ Why then, I find, Mr. Trim, we shall come to blows before we

see the French.

_Trim._ Harkee, friend, 'tis not your affair to guess or enquire what

you're going to do; 'tis only for us commanders.

_2nd Sol._ The French? Pox! they are but a Company of scratching civet

cats. They fight!

_Trim._ Harkee, don't bluster. Were not you a little mistaken in your

facings at Steinkirk?

_2nd Sol._ I grant it; you know I have an antipathy to the French--I

hate to see the dogs. Look you here, gentlemen, I was shot quite

through the body, look you.

_Trim._ Prithee, look where it entered at your back.

_2nd Sol._ Look you, Mr. Trim, you will have your joke, we know you are

a wit--but what's that to a fighting man?

_Enter_ KATE.

_Kate._ Mr. Trim! Mr. Trim!

_Trim._ Things are not as they have been, Mrs. Kate. I now pay the

Company, and we that pay money expect a little more ceremony.

_Kate._ Will your honour please to taste some right French brandy?

_Trim._ Art thou sure, good woman, 'tis right? [_Drinks._

How--French--pray--nay, if I find you deceive me, who pay the

men----[_Drinks._

_Kate._ Pray, good master, have you spoken to my lord about me?

_Trim._ I have, but you shall speak to him yourself. Thou hast been a

true campaigner, Kate, and we must not neglect thee. Do you sell grey

pease yet of an evening, Mrs. Matchlock? [_Drinks again._

_Kate._ Anything to turn the penny, but I got more by crying pamphlets

this year, than by anything I have done a great while. Now I am married

into the Company again, I design to cross the seas next year. But,

master, my husband, a Temple porter, and a Parliament man's footman,

last night by their talk made me think there was danger of a peace;

why, they said, all the prime people were against a war.

_Trim._ No, no, Kate, never fear; you know I keep great company. All

men are for a war, but some would have it abroad, and some would have

it at home in their own country.

_Kate._ Ay, say you so? Drink about, gentlemen, not a farthing to pay;

a war is a war, be it where it will. But pray, Mr. Trim, speak to my

lord, that when these gentlemen have shirts I may wash for 'em.

_Trim._ I tell you, if you behave well to-night, you shall have

a fortnight's pay each man as a reward; but there's none of you

industrious. There's a thousand things you might do to help out about

this town, as to cry, puff, puff pies--have you any knives or scissors

to grind? or, late in an evening, whip from Grub Street, strange and

bloody news from Flanders--votes from the House of Commons--buns, rare

buns--old silver lace, cloaks, suits, or coats--old shoes, boots, or

hats--But here, here, here's my lord a-coming; here's the captain. Fall

back into the rank there; move up in the centre.

_Enter_ LORD HARDY _and_ CAMPLEY.

_Ld. H._ Let me see whether my ragged friends are ready and about me.

_Kate._ Ensign Campley, Ensign Campley, I am overjoyed to see your

honour; ha! the world's surely altered, ha!

_Cam._ 'Tis so, faith! Kate, why thou art true to the cause, with the

Company still, honest amazon.

_Kate._ Dear soul, not a bit of pride in him; but won't your honour

help in my business with my lord? Speak for me, noble ensign, do.

_Cam._ Speak to him yourself; I'll second you.

_Kate._ Noble captain, my lord! I suppose Mr. Trim has told your honour

about my petition. I have been a great sufferer in the service. 'Tis

hard for a poor woman to lose nine husbands in a war, and no notice

taken; nay, three of 'em, alas, in the same campaign. Here the woman

stands that says it. I never stripped a man 'till I first tried if

he could stand on his legs, and, if not, I think 'twas fair plunder,

except our adjutant, and he was a puppy, that made my eighth husband

run the gauntlet for not turning his toes out.

_Ld. H._ Well, we'll consider thee, Kate, but fall back into the rear.

A roll of what? Gentlemen soldiers?

_Trim_ [_To_ PUMKIN]. Do you hear that? My lord himself can't deny but

we are all gentlemen, as much as his honour.

_Ld. H._ [_Reading_]. Gentlemen soldiers quartered in and about Guy

Court in Vinegar Yard, in Russel Court in Drury Lane, belonging to

the honourable Captain Hardy's Company of Foot--So, answer to your

names, and march off from the left. John Horseem, corporal, march

easy, that I may view you as you pass by me. Drums Simon Ruffle, Darby

Tattoo--there's a shilling for you--Tattoo be always so tight; how

does he keep himself so clean?

_Trim._ Sir, he is a tragedy drum to one of the playhouses.

_Ld. H._ Private gentlemen: Alexander Cowitch, Humphrey Mundungus,

William Faggot, Nicholas Scab, Timothy Megrim, Philip Scratch, Nehemiah

Dust, Humphrey Garbage, Nathaniel Matchlock.

_Cam._ What! Is Matchlock come back to the Company? That's the fellow

that brought me off at Steinkirk.

_Ld. H._ No, sir, 'tis I am obliged to him for that. [_Offering to give

him money._] There, friend, you shall want for nothing; I'll give thee

a halbert too.

_Kate._ O brave me! Shall I be a sergeant's lady? I' faith, I'll make

the drums, and the corporal's wives, and Company-keepers know their

distance.

_Cam._ How far out of the country did you come to list? Don't you come

from Cornwall? How did you bear your charges?

_Match._ I was whipped from constable to constable----

_Trim._ Ay, my lord, that's due by the courtesy of England to all that

want in red coats; besides, there's an Act that makes us free of all

corporations, and that's the ceremony of it.

_Cam._ But what pretence had they for using you so ill? You did not

pilfer?

_Match._ I was found guilty of being poor.

_Cam._ Poor devil!

_Ld. H._ Timothy Ragg! O Ragg! I thought when I gave you your

discharge, just afore the peace, we should never have had you again.

How came you to list now?

_Ragg._ To pull down the French king.

_Ld. H._ Bravely resolved! But pull your shirt into your breeches in the

mean time. Jeoffrey Tatter--What's become of the skirts and buttons of

your coat?

_Tatter._ In our last clothing in the regiment I served in afore, the

colonel had one skirt before, the agent one behind, and every captain

of the regiment a button.

_Ld. H._ Hush, you rogue, you talk mutiny. [_Smiling._

_Trim._ Ay, sirrah, what have you to do with more knowledge than that

of your right hand from your left? [_Hits him a blow on the head._]

_Ld. H._ Hugh Clump--Clump, thou growest a little too heavy for

marching.

_Trim._ Ay, my lord, but if we don't allow him the pay he'll starve,

for he's too lame to get into the hospital.

_Ld. H._ Richard Bumpkin! Ha! A perfect country hick. How came you,

friend, to be a soldier?

_Bump._ An't please your honour, I have been crossed in love, and am

willing to seek my fortune.

_Ld. H._ Well, I've seen enough of 'em. If you mind your affair, and

act like a wise general, these fellows may do--come, take your orders.

[TRIM _puts his hat on his stick, while my lord is giving him the ring,

and whispers orders._] Well, gentlemen, do your business manfully, and

nothing shall be too good for you.

_All._ Bless your honour. [_Exeunt_ HARDY _and_ CAMPLEY.

_Trim._ Now, my brave friends and fellow-soldiers--[_Aside._] I must

fellow-soldier 'em just afore a battle, like a true officer, though I

cane 'em all the year round beside--[_Strutting about._] Major-General

Trim; no, pox, Trim sounds so very short and priggish--that my name

should be a monosyllable! But the foreign news will write me, I

suppose, Monsieur or Chevalier Trimont. Seigneur Trimoni, or Count

Trimuntz, in the German Army, I shall perhaps be called; ay, that's

all the plague and comfort of us great men, they do so toss our

names about. But, gentlemen, you are now under my command--huzza!

thrice--faith, this is very pleasing, this grandeur! Why, after all,

'tis upon the neck of such scoundrels as these gentlemen that we great

captains build our renown. A million or two of these fellows make an

Alexander, and as that my predecessor said in the tragedy of him on the

very same occasion, going to storm for his Statira, so do I for my dear

seamstress, Madam d'Epingle--

When I rush on, sure none will dare to stay;

'Tis beauty calls, and glory leads the way.[31]

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.--LORD BRUMPTON'S _House._

_Enter_ TRUSTY _and_ LORD BRUMPTON.

_Tru._ She knows no moderation in her good fortune; she has, out of

impatience to see herself in her weeds, ordered her mantua woman to

stitch up anything immediately. You may hear her and Tattleaid laugh

aloud--she is so wantonly merry.

_Ld. B._ But this of Lady Sharlot is the very utmost of all ill. Pray

read--but I must sit; my late fit of the gout makes me act with pain

and constraint. Let me see----

_Tru._ She writ it by the page, who brought it me, as I had wheedled

him to do all their passages.

_Ld. B._ [_Reads._]

"You must watch the occasion of the servants being gone out of

the house with the corpse; Tattleaid shall conduct you to my Lady

Sharlot's apartment--away with her--and be sure you bed her----

"Your affectionate Sister,

"MARY BRUMPTON."

Brumpton? The creature! She called as Frank's mother was? Brumpton! The

succuba! What a devil incarnate have I had in my bosom? Why, the common

abandoned town women would scruple such an action as this. Though

they have lost all regard to their own chastity, they would be tender

of another's. Why, sure she had no infancy. She never had virginity,

to have no compassion through memory of her own former innocence. This

is to forget her very humanity--her very sex. Where is my poor boy?

Where's Frank? Does not he want? How has he lived all this time? Not a

servant, I warrant, to attend him--what company can he keep? What can

he say of his father?

_Tru._ Though you made him not your heir, he is still your son, and has

all the duty and tenderness in the world for your memory.

_Ld. B._ It is impossible, Trusty; it is impossible. I will not rack

myself with the thought, that one I have injured can be so very

good--keep me in countenance--tell me he hates my very name, would not

assume my title because it descends from me. What's his company?

_Tru._ Young Tom Campley; they are never asunder.

_Ld. B._ I am glad he has my pretty tattler--the cheerful innocent

Harriot. I hope he'll be good to her; he's good-natured and well-bred.

_Tru._ But, my lord, she was very punctual in ordering the funeral. She

bid Sable be sure to lay you deep enough, she had heard such stories

of the wicked sextons taking up people; but I wish, my lord, you would

please to hear her and Tattleaid once more----

_Ld. B._ I know to what thy zeal tends; but I tell you, since you

cannot be convinced but that I have still a softness for her--I say

though I had so, it should never make me transgress that scrupulous

honour that becomes a peer of England. If I could forget injuries

done myself thus gross, I never will those done my friends. You knew

Sharlot's worthy father--No, there's no need of my seeing more of

this woman. I behold her now with the same eyes that you do; there's

a meanness in all she says or does; she has a great wit but a little

mind--something ever wanting to make her appear my Lady Brumpton.

She has nothing natively great. You see I love her not; I talk with

judgment of her.

_Tru._ I see it, my good lord, with joy I see it, nor care how few

things I see more in this world. My satisfaction is complete. Welcome

old age; welcome decay; 'tis not decay, but growth to a latter being.

[_Exit, leading_ LORD BRUMPTON.

_Re-enter_ TRUSTY, _meeting_ CABINET.

_Tru._ I have your letter, Mr. Cabinet.

_Cab._ I hope, sir, you'll believe it was not in my nature to be guilty

of so much baseness; but being born a gentleman, and bred out of all

roads of industry in that idle manner too many are, I soon spent a

small patrimony; and being debauched by luxury, I fell into the narrow

mind to dread no infamy like poverty, which made me guilty, as that

paper tells you; and had I not writ to you, I am sure I never could

have told you of it.

_Tru._ It is an ingenious, pious penitence in you; my Lord Hardy (to

whom this secret is inestimable) is a noble-natured man, and you shall

find him such, I give you my word.

_Cab._ I know, sir, your integrity.

_Tru._ But pray be there; all that you have to do is to ask for the

gentlewoman at the house at my Lord Hardy's; she'll take care of you.

And pray have patience, where she places you, till you see me. [_Exit_

CAB.] My Lord Hardy's being a house where they receive lodgers, has

allowed me convenience to place everybody I think necessary to be

by at her discovery. This prodigious welcome secret! I see, however

impracticable honest actions may appear, we may go on with just hope--

All that is ours is to be justly bent,

And Heaven in its own cause will bless the event.

[_Exit._

SCENE II.--_Covent Garden._

_Enter_ TRIM _and his party._

_Trim._ March up, march up. Now we are near the citadel, and halt only

to give the necessary orders for the engagement. Ha! Clump, Clump! When

we come to Lord Brumpton's door, and you see us conveniently disposed

about the house, you are to wait till you see a corpse brought out

of the house; then to go up to him you observe the director, and ask

importunately for an alms to a poor soldier, for which you may be sure

you shall have a good blow or two; but if you have not, be saucy till

you have. Then when you see a file of men got between the house and the

body--a file of men, Bumpkin, is six men--I say, when you see the file

in such a posture, that half the file may face to the house, half to

the body, you are to fall down, crying murder, that the half file faced

to the body may throw it and themselves over you. I then march to your

rescue. Then, Swagger, you and your party fall in to secure my rear,

while I march off with the body. These are the orders; and this, with

a little improvement of my own, is the same disposition Villeroy and

Catinat made at Chiari. [_Marches off with his party._

SCENE III.--LORD BRUMPTON'S _House._

_Enter_ Widow, _in deep mourning, with a dead squirrel on her arm,

and_ TATTLEAID.

_Wid._ It must be so; it must be your carelessness. What had the page

to do in my bedchamber?

_Tat._ Indeed, madam, I can't tell. But I came in and catched him

wringing round his neck----

_Wid._ Tell the rascal from me he shall romp with the footmen no more.

No; I'll send the rogue in a frock to learn Latin among the dirty boys

that come to good, I will. But 'tis ever so among these creatures

that live on one's superfluous affections; a lady's woman, page, and

squirrel are always rivals.

Poor harmless animal--pretty e'en in death:

Death might have overlooked thy little life--

How could'st thou, Robin, leave thy nuts and me?

How was't importunate, dearest, thou should'st die?

Thou never did'st invade thy neighbour's soils;

Never mad'st war with specious shows of peace;

Thou never hast depopulated regions,

But cheerfully did'st bear thy little chain,

Content--so I but fed thee with this hand.

_Tat._ Alas, alas! we are all mortal. Consider, madam, my lord's dead

too. [_Weeps._

_Wid._ Ay, but our animal friends do wholly die; an husband or

relation, after death, is rewarded or tormented; that's some

consolation--I know her tears are false, for she hated Robin always;

but she's a well-bred, dishonest servant, that never speaks a painful

truth. [_Aside._]--But I'll resolve to conquer my affliction--never

speak more of Robin--hide him there. But to my dress: How soberly

magnificent is black--and the train--I wonder how widows came to wear

such long tails?

_Tat._ Why, madam, the stateliest of all creatures has the longest

tail; the peacock, nay, 't has of all creatures the finest mien

too--except your ladyship, who are a Phœnix----

_Wid._ Ho! brave Tattleaid! But did not you observe what a whining my

Lady Sly made when she had drank a little? Did you believe her? Do you

think there are really people sorry for their husbands?

_Tat._ Really, madam, some men do leave their fortunes in such

distraction that I believe it may be----[_Speaks with pins in her

mouth._

_Wid._ But I swear I wonder how it came up to dress us thus. I protest,

when all my equipage is ready, and I move in full pageantry, I shall

fancy myself an embassadress from the Commonwealth of Women, the

distressed State of Amazonia--to treat for men. But I protest I wonder

how two of us thus clad can meet with a grave face! Methinks they

should laugh out like two fortune-tellers, or two opponent lawyers that

know each other for cheats----

_Tat._ Ha! ha! ha! I swear to you, madam, your ladyship's wit will

choke me one time or other. I had like to have swallowed all the pins

in my mouth----

_Wid._ But, Tatty, to keep house six weeks, that's another barbarous

custom; but the reason of it, I suppose, was that the base people

should not see people of quality may be as afflicted as themselves.

_Tat._ No, 'tis because they should not see 'em as merry as themselves.

_Wid._ Ha! ha! ha! Hussy, you never said that you spoke last. Why, 'tis

just--'tis satire--I'm sure you saw it in my face, that I was going

to say it: 'Twas too good for you. Come, lay down that sentence and

the pin-cushion, and pin up my shoulder. Harkee, hussy, if you should,

as I hope you won't, outlive me, take care I ain't buried in flannel;

'twould never become me, I'm sure.[32] That they can be as merry: Well,

I'll tell my new acquaintance--what's her name?--she that reads so

much, and writes verses. Her husband was deaf the first quarter of a

year; I forget her name. That expression she'll like. Well, that woman

does divert me strangely; I'll be very great with her. She talked very

learnedly of the ridicule till she was ridiculous; then she spoke of

the decent, of the agreeable, of the insensible. She designs to print

the discourse; but of all things, I like her notion of the insensible.

_Tat._ Pray, madam, how was that?

_Wid._ A most useful discourse to be inculcated in our teens. The

purpose of it is to disguise our apprehension in this ill-bred

generation of men, who speak before women what they ought not to hear.

As now, suppose you were a spark in my company, and you spoke some

double entendre, I look thus! But be a fellow, and you shall see how

I'll use you. The insensible is useful upon any occasion where we

seemingly neglect and secretly approve, which is our ordinary common

case. Now, suppose a coxcomb, dancing, prating, and playing his tricks

before me to move me, without pleasure or distaste in my countenance,

I look at him, just thus; but----Ha! ha! ha! I have found out a

supplement to this notion of the insensible, for my own use, which is

infallible, and that is to have always in my head all that they can

say or do to me. So never be surprised with laughter, the occasion of

which is always sudden.

_Tat._ Oh! my Lady Brumpton [TATTLEAID _bows and cringes_], my lady,

your most obedient servant.

_Wid._ Look you, wench, you see by the art of insensibility I put you

out of countenance, though you were prepared for an ill-reception.

_Tat._ Oh! madam, how justly are you formed for what is now fallen to

you--the empire of mankind.

_Wid._ Oh! sir, that puts me out of all my insensibility at once; that

was so gallant--Ha! what noise is that; that noise of fighting? Run, I

say. Whither are you going? What, are you mad? Will you leave me alone?

Can't you stir? What, you can't take your message with you? Whatever

'tis, I suppose you are not in the plot; not you--Nor that now they're

breaking open my house for Sharlot--Not you--Go, see what's the matter,

I say, I have nobody I can trust. [_Exit_ TATTLEAID] One minute I think

this wench honest, and the next false. Whither shall I turn me?

_Tat._ Madam, madam. [_Re-entering._

_Wid._ Madam, madam, will you swallow me gaping?

_Tat._ Pray, good my lady, be not so out of humour; but there is a

company of rogues have set upon our servants and the burial man's,

while others ran away with the corpse.

_Wid._ How, what can this mean? What can they do with it?--Well, 'twill

save the charge of interment--But to what end?

_Enter_ TRUSTY _and a_ SERVANT, _bloody and dirty, haling in_ CLUMP

_and_ BUMPKIN.

_Ser._ I'll teach you better manners; I'll poor soldier you, you dog

you, I will. Madam, here are two of the rascals that were in the gang

of rogues that carried away the corpse.

_Wid._ We'll examine 'em apart. Well, sirrah, what are you? Whence came

you? What's your name, sirrah? [CLUMP _makes signs as a dumb man._

_Ser._ Oh, you dog, you could speak loud enough just now, sirrah, when

your brother rogues mauled Mr. Sable. We'll make you speak, sirrah.

_Wid._ Bring the other fellow hither. I suppose you will own you knew

that man before you saw him at my door?

_Clump._ I think I have seen the gentleman's face. [_Bowing to_ BUMPKIN.

_Wid._ The gentleman's! The villain mocks me. But friend, you look like

an honest man--what are you? Whence came you? What are you, friend?

_Bump._ I'se at present but a private gentleman, but I was lifted to be

a sergeant in my Lord Hardy's Company. I'se not ashamed of my name nor

of my koptin.

_Wid._ Leave the room all. [_Exeunt all but_ TRUSTY _and_ TATTLEAID.]

Mr. Trusty--Lord Hardy! O, that impious young man, thus, with the

sacrilegious hands of ruffians to divert his father's ashes from their

urn and rest--I suspect this fellow [_Aside._]--Mr. Trusty, I must

desire you to be still near me. I'll know the bottom of this; and

to Lord Hardy's lodgings as I am, instantly. 'Tis but the back side

of this street, I think. Let a coach be called.--Tattleaid, as soon

as I am gone, conduct my brother and his friends to Lady Sharlot.

Away with her. Bring mademoiselle away to me, that she may not be a

witness.--Come, good Mr. Trusty.

SCENE IV.--LORD HARDY'S _Lodgings._

_Enter_ LORD HARDY, _leading_ HARRIOT; CAMPLEY, _and_ TRIM.

_L. Ha._ Why, then I find this Mr. Trim is a perfect general; but I

assure you, sir, I'll never allow you an hero, who could leave your

mistress behind you. You should have broke the house down, but you

should have mademoiselle with you.

_Trim._ No, really, madam, I have seen such strange fears come into the

men's heads, and such strange resolutions into the women's upon the

occasion of ladies following a camp, that I thought it more discreet to

leave her behind me. My success will naturally touch her as much as if

she were here.

_L. Ha._ A good, intelligent, arch fellow this [_Aside._]--But were not

you saying, my lord, you believed Lady Brumpton would follow hither? If

so, pray let me be gone.

_Ld. H._ No, madam, I must beseech your ladyship to stay, for there are

things alleged against her which you, who have lived in the family, may

perhaps give light into, and which I can't believe even she could be

guilty of.

_L. Ha._ Nay, my lord, that's generous to a folly, for even for her

usage of you (without regard to myself), I am ready to believe she

would do anything that can come into the head of a close, malicious,

cruel, designing woman.

_Enter_ BOY.

_Boy._ My Lady Brumpton's below.

_L. Ha._ I'll run, then.

_Cam._ No, no, stand your ground. You, a soldier's wife? Come, we'll

rally her to death.

_Ld. H._ Prithee, entertain her a little, while I go in for a moment's

thought on this occasion. [_Exit._

_L. Ha._ She has more wit than us both.

_Cam._ Pshaw, no matter for that; be sure, as soon as the sentence

is out of my mouth, to clap in with something else; and laugh at all

I say. I'll be grateful, and burst myself at my pretty, witty wife.

We'll fall in slap upon her; she shan't have time to say a word of the

running away.

_Enter_ LADY BRUMPTON _and_ TRUSTY.

Oh, my Lady Brumpton, your ladyship's most obedient servant: This is

my Lady Harriot Campley. Why, madam, your ladyship is immediately in

your mourning. Nay, as you have more wit than anybody, so (what seldom

wits have) you have more prudence, too. Other widows have nothing in a

readiness but a second husband; but you, I see, had your very weeds and

dress lying by you.

_L. Ha._ Ay, madam; I see your ladyship is of the Order of Widowhood,

for you have put on the habit.

_Wid._ I see your ladyship is not of the profession of virginity, for

you have lost the look on't.

_Cam._ You are in the habit--That was so pretty; nay, without flattery,

Lady Harriot, you have a great deal of wit. Ha! ha! ha!

_L. Ha._ No, my Lady Brumpton here is the woman of wit; but, indeed,

she has but little enough, considering how much her ladyship has to

defend. Ha! ha! ha!

_Wid._ I am sorry, madam, your ladyship has not what's sufficient

for your occasions, or that this pretty gentleman can't supply

'em----[CAMPLEY _dancing about and trolling._ Hey, day! I find, sir,

your heels are a great help to your head. They relieve your wit, I see;

and I don't question but ere now they have been as kind to your valour.

Ha! ha!

_Cam._ Pox, I can say nothing; 'tis always thus with your endeavours

to be witty [_Aside._]--I saw, madam, your mouth go, but there could

be nothing offered in answer to what my Lady Harriot said.--'Twas

home--'Twas cutting satire.

_L. Ha._ Oh, Mr. Campley! But pray, madam, has Mr. Cabinet visited your

ladyship since this calamity? How stands that affair now?

_Wid._ Nay, madam, if you already want instructions, I'll acquaint you

how the world stands, if you are in distress--but I fear Mr. Campley

overhears us.

_Cam._ And all the tune the pipers played was Toll-toll-doroll. I

swear, Lady Harriot, were I not already yours, I could have a tender

for this lady.

_Wid._ Come, good folks, I find we are very free with each other. What

makes you two here? Do you board my lord, or he you? Come, come, ten

shillings a head will go a great way in a family. What do you say,

Mrs. Campley, is it so? Does your ladyship go to market yourself? Nay,

you're in the right of it. Come, can you imagine what makes my lord

stay? He is not now with his land-steward. Not signing leases, I hope?

Ha! ha! ha!

_Cam._ Hang her, to have more tongue than a man and his wife too.

[_Aside._

_Enter_ LORD HARDY.

_Ld. H._ Because your ladyship is, I know, in very much pain in company

you have injured, I'll be short--Open those doors--There lies your

husband's, my father's body; and by you stands the man accuses you of

poisoning him.

_Wid._ Of poisoning him!

_Tru._ The symptoms will appear upon the corpse.

_Ld. H._ But I am seized by nature--How shall I view, a breathless

lump of clay, him whose high veins conveyed to me this vital force and

motion?

I cannot bear that sight--

I am as fixed and motionless as he--

[_They open the coffin, out of which jumps_ LADY SHARLOT.[33]

Art thou the ghastly shape my mind had formed?

Art thou the cold, inanimate--bright maid?

Thou giv'st new higher life to all around.

Whither does fancy, fired with love, convey me?

Whither transported by my pleasing fury?

The season vanishes at thy approach;

'Tis morn, 'tis spring--

Daisies and lillies strow thy flowery way.

Why is my fair unmoved--my heavenly fair?

Does she but smile at my exalted rapture?

_L. Sh._ Oh! sense of praise, to me unfelt before,

Speak on, speak on, and charm my attentive ear.

How sweet applause is from an honest tongue!

Thou lov'st my mind--hast well affection placed;

In what, nor time, nor age, nor care, nor want can alter.

Oh, how I joy in thee, my eternal lover;

Immutable as the object of thy flame!

I love, I am proud, I triumph that I love.

Pure, I approach thee; nor did I with empty shows,

Gorgeous attire, or studied negligence,

Or song, or dance, or ball, allure thy soul;

Nor want, or fear, such arts to keep or lose it:

Nor now with fond reluctance doubt to enter

My spacious, bright abode, this gallant heart.[34]

[_Reclines on_ HARDY.

_L. Ha._ Ay, marry, these are high doings indeed; the greatness of the

occasion has burst their passion into speech. Why, Mr Campley, when

we are near these fine folks, you and I are but mere sweethearts. I

protest I'll never be won so; you shall begin again with me.

_Cam._ Prithee, why dost name us poor animals? They have forgot there

are such creatures as their old acquaintance Tom and Harriot.

_Ld. H._ So we did indeed, but you'll pardon us.

_Cam._ My lord, I never thought to see the minute wherein I should

rejoice at your forgetting me, but now I do heartily. [_Embracing._

_L. Sh._ Harriot.}

}[_Embracing._]

_L. Ha._ Sharlot.}

_Wid._ Sir, you're at the bottom of all this; I see you're skilled

at close conveyances. I'll know the meaning instantly of these

intricacies. 'Tis not your seeming honesty and gravity shall save you

from your deserts. My husband's death was sudden. You and the burial

fellow were observed very familiar. Produce my husband's body, or I'll

try you for his murder; which I find you'd put on me, thou hellish

engine!

_Tru._ Look you, madam, I could answer you, but I scorn to reproach

people in misery. You're undone, madam.

_Wid._ What does the dotard mean? Produce the body, villain, or the law

shall have thine for it. [TRUSTY _exit hastily._]--Do you design to let

the villain escape? How justly did your father judge, that made you

a beggar with that spirit! You meant just now you could not bear the

company of those you'd injured.

_Ld. H._ You are a woman, madam, and my father's widow. But sure you

think you've highly injured me.

[_Here_ LORD BRUMPTON _and_ TRUSTY _half enter and observe._

_Wid._ No, sir, I have not, will not, injure you. I must obey the

will of my deceased lord to a tittle; I must justly pay legacies. Your

father, in consideration that you were his blood, would not wholly

alienate you. He left you, sir, this shilling, with which estate you

now are Earl of Brumpton.

_Ld. H._ Insolent woman! it was not me my good father disinherited;

'twas him you represented. The guilt was thine; he did an act of

justice.

LORD BRUMPTON, _entering with_ TRUSTY.

_Ld. B._ Oh, unparalleled goodness!

TATTLEAID _and_ MADEMOISELLE _at the other door entering._

_Tru._ Oh! Tattleaid, his and our hour is come.

_Wid._ What do I see? My lord, my master, husband, living?

_Ld. B._ [_Turning from her, running to his son._] Oh, my boy, my

son. Mr. Campley, Sharlot, Harriot! [_All kneeling to him._] Oh, my

children! Oh, oh! These passions are too strong for my old frame. Oh,

the sweet torture! my son! my son! I shall expire in the too mighty

pleasure! my boy!

_Ld. H._ A son, an heir, a bridegroom in one hour! Oh! grant me,

Heaven, grant me moderation!

_Wid._ A son, an heir! Am I neglected then?

What? can my lord revive, yet dead to me?

Only to me deceased--to me alone,

Deaf to my sighs, and senseless to my moan?

_Ld. B._ 'Tis so long since I have seen plays, good madam, that I know

not whence thou dost repeat, nor can I answer.

_Wid._ You can remember, though, a certain settlement, in which I am

thy son and heir. Great noble, that's I suppose not taken from a play?

That's as irrevocable as law can make it, that if you scorn me, your

death and life are equal; or I'll still wear my mourning 'cause you're

living.

_Tru._ Value her not, my lord; a prior obligation made you incapable of

settling on her, your wife.

_Ld. B._ Thy kindness, Trusty, does distract thee. I would indeed

disengage myself by any honest means, but, alas, I know no prior gift

that avoids this to her--Oh, my child!

_Tru._ Look you, madam, I'll come again immediately. Be not troubled,

my dear lords----[_Exit._

_Cam._ Trusty looks very confident; there is some good in that.

_Re-enter_ TRUSTY _with_ CABINET.

_Cab._ What, my Lord Brumpton living? nay then----

_Tru._ Hold, sir, you must not stir, nor can you, sir, retract this

for your hand-writing.--My lord, this gentleman, since your supposed

death, has lurked about the house to speak with my lady, or Tattleaid,

who upon your decease have shunned him, in hopes, I suppose, to buy him

off for ever. Now, as he was prying about, he peeped into your closet,

where he saw your lordship reading. Struck with horror, and believing

himself (as well he might) the disturber of your ghost for alienation

of your fortune from your family, he writ me this letter, wherein he

acknowledges a private marriage with this lady, half a year before you

ever saw her.

_All._ How? [_All turn upon her disdainfully._

_Wid._ No more a widow then, but still a wife.

[_Recovering from her confusion._

I am thy wife--thou author of my evil

Thou must partake with me an homely board,

An homely board that never shall be cheerful;

But every meal embittered with upbraidings.

Thou that could'st tell me, good and ill were words,

When thou could'st basely let me to another,

Yet could'st see sprights, great unbeliever!

Coward! Bug-beared penitent----

Stranger henceforth to all my joys, my joys

To thy dishonour; despicable thing,

Dishonour thee? Thou voluntary cuckold.

[CABINET _sneaks off,_ WIDOW _flings after him,_ TATTLEAID _following._

_Ld. B._ I see you're all confused as well as I. Ye are my children,

I hold you all so; and for your own use will speak plainly to you. I

cannot hate that woman; nor shall she ever want. Though I scorn to bear

her injuries, yet had I ne'er been roused from that low passion to a

worthless creature, but by disdain of her attempt on my friend's child.

I am glad that scorn's confirmed by her being that fellow's, whom, for

my own sake, I only will contemn. Thee, Trusty, how shall we prosecute

with equal praise and thanks for this great revolution in our house?

_Tru._ Never to speak on't more, my lord.

_Ld. B._ You are now, gentlemen, going into cares at a crisis[35] in

your country.

And on this great occasion, Tom, I'll mount

Old Campley which thy father gave me,

And attend thee a cheerful gay old man,

Into the field to represent our county.

My rough plebeian Britons, not yet slaves

To France, shall mount thy father's son

Upon their shoulders. Echo loud their joy,

While I and Trusty follow weeping after:

But be thou honest, firm, impartial,

Let neither love, nor hate, nor faction move thee,[36]

Distinguish words from things, and men from crimes;

Punctual be thou in payments, nor basely

Screen thy faults 'gainst law, behind the

Laws thou makest

But thou against my death, must learn a supererogatory morality.

[_To_ LORD HARDY.

As he is to be just, be generous thou:

Nor let thy reasonable soul be struck

With sounds and appellations; title is

No more, if not significant

Of something that's superior in thyself

To other men, of which thou may'st be

Conscious, yet not proud--But if you swerve

From higher virtue than the crowd possess,

Know, they that call thee honourable mock thee.

You are to be a Peer, by birth a judge

Upon your honour, of others' lives and fortunes;

Because that honour's dearer than your own.

Be good, my son, and be a worthy lord

For when our shining virtues bless mankind,

We disappoint the livid malcontents,

Who long to call our noble Order useless.

Our all's in danger, sir, nor shall you dally

Your youth away with your fine wives.

No, in your country's cause you shall meet death,

While feeble we with minds resigned do wait it.

Not but I intend your nuptials as soon as possible, to draw entails and

settlements. How necessary such things are, I had like to have been a

fatal instance.

_Cam._ But, my lord, here are a couple that need not wait such

ceremonies. Please but to sit; you've been extremely moved, and must be

tired. You say we must not spend our time in dalliance; you'll see, my

lord, the entertainment reminds us also of nobler things, and what I

designed for my own wedding I'll compliment the general with. The bride

dances finely. Trim, will you dance with her?

_Trim._ I will, but I can't. There's a countryman of hers without, by

accident.

_Cam._ Ay, but is he a dancer?

_Trim._ Is a Frenchman a dancer? Is a Welshman a gentleman? I'll bring

him in.

[_Here a dance and the following songs._

_Set by_ MR. DANIEL PURCELL.[37]

_Sung by_ JEMMIE BOWIN.

I.

On yonder bed supinely laid,

Behold thy loved expecting maid:

In tremor, blushes, half in tears,

Much, much she wishes, more she fears.

Take, take her to thy faithful arms,

Hymen bestows thee all her charms.

II.

Heaven to thee bequeaths the fair,

To raise thy joy, and lull thy care;

Heaven made grief, if mutual, cease,

But joy, divided, to increase:

To mourn with her exceeds delight,

Darkness with her, the joys of light.

_Sung by_ MR. PATE.

I.

Arise, arise, great dead, for arms renowned,

Rise from your urns, and save your dying story,

Your deeds will be in dark oblivion drowned,

For mighty William seizes all your glory.

II.

Again the British trumpet sounds,

Again Britannia bleeds;

To glorious death, or comely wounds,

Her godlike monarch leads.

III.

Pay us, kind fate, the debt you owe,

Celestial minds from clay untie,

Let coward spirits dwell below,

And only give the brave to die.

_Ld. B._ Now, gentlemen, let the miseries which I have but miraculously

escaped, admonish you to have always inclinations proper for the

stage of life you're in. Don't follow love when nature seeks but

ease; otherwise you'll fall into a lethargy of your dishonour, when

warm pursuits of glory are over with you; for fame and rest are utter

opposites.

You who the path of honour make your guide,

Must let your passion with your blood subside;

And no untimed ambition, love, or rage

Employ the moments of declining age;

Else boys will in your presence lose their fear,

And laugh at the grey-head they should revere.

EPILOGUE.

_Spoken by_ LORD HARDY.

Love, hope and fear, desire, aversion, rage,

All that can move the soul, or can assuage,

Are drawn in miniature of life, the stage.

Here you can view yourselves, and here is shown

To what you're born in sufferings not your own.

The stage to wisdom's no fantastic way,

Athens herself learned virtue at a play.

Our author me to-night a soldier drew,

But faintly writ, what warmly you pursue:

To his great purpose, had he equal fire,

He'd not aim to please only, but inspire;

He'd sing what hovering fate attends our isle,

And from base pleasure rouse to glorious toil:

Full time the earth to a new decision brings;

While William gives the Roman eagle wings:

With arts and arms shall Britain tamely end,

Which naked Picts so bravely could defend?

The painted heroes on th' invaders press,

And think their wounds addition to their dress;

In younger years we've been with conquest blest,

And Paris has the British yoke confessed;

Is't then in England, in lost England, known,

Her kings are named from a revolted throne?

But we offend--You no examples need,

In imitation of yourselves proceed;

'Tis you your country's honour must secure,

By all your actions worthy of Namur:

With gentle fires your gallantry improve,

Courage is brutal, if untouched with love:

If soon our utmost bravery's not displayed,

Think that bright circle must be captives made;

Let thoughts of saving them our toils beguile,

And they reward our labours with a smile.

_THE LYING LOVER:_

OR

_THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP._

"Hæc nôsse salus est adolescentulis."[38]--TERTULLIAN.

_The Lying Lover: or the Ladies' Friendship_, a Comedy, was acted at

Drury Lane Theatre on December 2, 1703, and ran for six nights. It was

published by Bernard Lintot on January 26, 1704. Wilks (Bookwit, jun.),

Mills (Lovemore), Cibber (Latine), Pinkethman (Storm), and Bullock

(Charcoal), together with Mrs. Oldfield (Victoria), and Mrs. Rogers

(Penelope), acted in this piece, which, so far as is known, has been

revived only once (April 4, 1746) since it was originally produced. The

plot was taken from _Le Menteur_, by Corneille, who had borrowed from

Ruiz de Alarcon's _Verdad Sospechosa_. Steele is, of course, solely

responsible for the scenes in Newgate towards the end of the piece.

Samuel Foote afterwards made much use of Steele's play in his _Liar_.

_To His Grace the_

DUKE OF ORMOND.[39]

MY LORD,

Out of gratitude to the memorable and illustrious patron of my

infancy,[40] your Grace's grandfather, I presume to lay this Comedy

at your feet. The design of it is to banish out of conversation

all entertainment which does not proceed from simplicity of mind,

good-nature, friendship, and honour. Such a purpose will not, I hope,

be unacceptable to so great a lover of mankind as your Grace; and if

your patronage can recommend it to all who love and honour the Duke of

Ormond, its reception will be as extensive as the world itself.

'Twas the irresistible force of this humanity in your temper that has

carried you through the various successes of war, with the peculiar and

undisputed distinction that you have drawn your sword without other

motive than a passionate regard for the glory of your country; since

before you entered into its service, you were possessed of its highest

honours, but could not be contented with the illustrious rank your

birth gave you, without repeating the glorious actions by which it was

acquired.

But there cannot be less expected from the son of an Ossory, than to

contemn life, to adorn it, and with munificence, affability, scorn

of gain, and passion for glory, to be the honour and example to the

profession of arms; all which engaging qualities your noble family has

exerted with so steadfast a loyalty, that in the most adverse fortune

of our monarchy, popularity, which in others had been invidious, was a

security to the Crown, when lodged in the House of Ormond.

Thus your Grace entered into the business of the world with so great

an expectation, that it seemed impossible there could be anything left

which might still conduce to the honour of your name. But the most

memorable advantage your country has gained this century was obtained

under your command; and Providence thought fit to give the wealth of

the Indies into his hands, who only could despise it; while, with

a superior generosity, he knows no reward but in opportunities of

bestowing. The great personage whom you succeed in your honours, made

me feel, before I was sensible of the benefit, that this glorious bent

of mind is hereditary to you. I hope, therefore, you will pardon me,

that I take the liberty of expressing my veneration for his remains, by

assuring your Grace that I am,

My Lord,

Your Grace's most obedient

And most devoted

Humble Servant,

RICHARD STEELE.

THE PREFACE.

Though it ought to be the care of all Governments that public

representations should have nothing in them but what is agreeable to

the manners, laws, religion, and policy of the place or nation in which

they are exhibited; yet is it the general complaint of the more learned

and virtuous amongst us, that the English stage has extremely offended

in this kind. I thought, therefore, it would be an honest ambition

to attempt a Comedy which might be no improper entertainment in a

Christian commonwealth.

In order to this, the spark of this play is introduced with as much

agility and life as he brought with him from France, and as much humour

as I could bestow upon him in England. But he uses the advantages of a

learned education, a ready fancy, and a liberal fortune, without the

circumspection and good sense which should always attend the pleasures

of a gentleman; that is to say, a reasonable creature.

Thus he makes false love, gets drunk, and kills his man; but in the

fifth Act awakes from his debauch, with the compunction and remorse

which is suitable to a man's finding himself in a gaol for the death of

his friend, without his knowing why.

The anguish he there expresses, and the mutual sorrow between an only

child and a tender father in that distress, are, perhaps, an injury

to the rules of comedy, but I am sure they are a justice to those of

morality. And passages of such a nature being so frequently applauded

on the stage, it is high time that we should no longer draw occasions

of mirth from those images which the religion of our country tells us

we ought to tremble at with horror.

But her Most Excellent Majesty has taken the stage into her

consideration;[41] and we may hope, by her gracious influence on

the Muses, wit will recover from its apostasy; and that, by being

encouraged in the interests of virtue, it will strip vice of the gay

habit in which it has too long appeared, and clothe it in its native

dress of shame, contempt, and dishonour.

PROLOGUE.

All the commanding powers that awe mankind

Are in a trembling poet's audience joined,

Where such bright galaxies of beauty sit,

And at their feet assembled men of wit:

Our author, therefore, owns his deep despair

To entertain the learned or the fair;

Yet hopes that both will so much be his friends,

To pardon what he does, for what he intends;

He aims to make the coming action move

On the dread laws of friendship and of love;

Sure then he'll find but very few severe,

Since there's of both so many objects here.

He offers no gross vices to your sight,

Those too much horror raise for just delight;

And to detain the attentive knowing ear,

Pleasure must still have something that's severe.[42]

If then you find our author treads the stage

With just regard to a reforming age;

He hopes, he humbly hopes, you'll think there's due

Mercy to him, for justice done to you.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

OLD BOOKWIT.

YOUNG BOOKWIT, the "Lying Lover."

LOVEMORE, in love with PENELOPE.

FREDERICK, Friend to LOVEMORE.

LATINE, Friend to YOUNG BOOKWIT.

STORM, a Highwayman.

CHARCOAL, an Alchemist and Coiner.

SIMON, Servant to PENELOPE.

PENELOPE.

VICTORIA, Friend to PENELOPE.

BETTY, VICTORIA'S Woman.

LETTICE, PENELOPE'S Woman.

Constables, Watch, Turnkey, Cookmaid, and several Gaol-birds.

SCENE--LONDON.

_THE LYING LOVER: OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP._

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.--_St. James's Park._

_Enter_ YOUNG BOOKWIT _and_ LATINE.

_Latine._ But have you utterly left Oxford?

_Y. Book._ For ever, sir, for ever; my father has given me leave to

come to town, and I don't question but will let my return be in my own

choice. But Jack, you know we were talking in Maudlen Walks last week

of the necessity, in intrigues, of a faithful, yet a prating servant.

We agreed, therefore, to cast lots who should be the other's footman

for the present expedition. Fortune, that's always blind, gave me the

superiority.

_Lat._ She shall be called no more so, for that one action. And I am,

sir, in a literal sense, your very humble servant.

_Y. Book._ Begin, then, the duty of a useful valet, and flatter me

egregiously. Has the fellow fitted me? How is my manner? my mien? Do I

move freely? Have I kicked off the trammels of a gown? or does not the

tail on't seem still tucked under my arm, where my hat is, with a pert

jerk forward, and little hitch in my gait like a scholastic beau? This

wig, I fear, looks like a cap.

_Lat._ No, faith, it looks like a cap and gown too; though at the same

time you look as if you ne'er had worn either.

_Y. Book._ But my sword, does it hang careless? Do I look bold,

negligent, and erect? that is, do I look as if I could kill a man

without being out of humour? I horridly mistrust myself. Am I military

enough in my air? I fancy people see I understand Greek. Don't I pore

a little in my visage? Han't I a down bookish lour, a wise sadness? I

don't look gay enough and unthinking, I fancy.

_Lat._ I protest you wrong yourself. You look very brisk and very

ignorant.

_Y. Book._ O fie! I am afraid you flatter me.

_Lat._ I don't indeed; I'll be hanged if my tutor would know either of

us. But, good master, to what use do you design to put the noble arts

and sciences he taught us? The conduct of our lives, the government of

our passions, were his daily talk to us, good man!

_Y. Book._ Good man! Why I'll obey his precepts, but abridge 'em. For

as he used to advise me, I'll contract my thoughts, as I'll tell you,

Jack:--for the passions, I'll turn 'em all into that one dear passion,

love; and when that's the only torture of my heart, I'll give that

tortured heart quite away; deny there's any such thing as pain, and

turn stoic a shorter way than e'er thy tutor taught thee. This is the

new philosophy, you rogue you.

_Lat._ But you would not in earnest be thought wholly illiterate?

_Y. Book._ No; for as when I walk, I'd have you know by my motion I can

dance; so when I speak, I'd have you see I read: yet would ordinarily

neither cut capers nor talk sentences. But you prate as if I came to

town to get an employment. No; hang business, hang care; let it live

and prosper among the men; I'll ne'er go near the solemn ugly things

again. I'll keep company with none but ladies--bright ladies. O London!

London! O woman! woman! I am come where thou livest, where thou shinest.

_Lat._ Hey day! why, were there no women in Oxford?

_Y. Book._ No, no; why, do you think a bed-maker's a woman?

_Lat._ Yes, and thought you knew it.

_Y. Book._ No, no, 'tis no such thing. As he that is not honest or

brave is no man; so she that is not witty or fair is no woman. No, no,

Jack, to come up to that high name and object of desire, she must be

gay and chaste, she must at once attract, and banish you. I don't know

how to express myself, but a woman, methinks, is a being between us and

angels. She has something in her that at the same time gives awe and

invitation; and I swear to you I was never out in't yet, but I always

judged of men as I observed they judged of women. There's nothing shows

a man so much as the object of his affections.--But what do you stare

at so considerately?

_Lat._ Faith, sir, I am wondering at you--how 'tis possible you could

be so jaunty a town-spark in a moment, and have so easy a behaviour. I

look, methinks, to you, as if I were really your footman.

_Y. Book._ Why, if you're serious in what you say, I owe it wholly to

the indulgence of an excellent father, in whose company I was always

free and unconstrained. But what's this to ladies, Jack, to ladies?

I was going to tell you I had studied 'em, and know how to make my

approaches to 'em by contemplating their frame, their inmost temper. I

don't ground my hopes on the scandalous tales and opinions your wild

fellows have of 'em--fellows that are but mere bodies, machines--which

at best can but move gracefully. No; I draw my pretences from

philosophy--from nature.

_Lat._ You'll give us by-and-by a lecture over your mistress: you can

dissect her.

_Y. Book._ That I can, indeed, and have so accurately observed on

woman, that I can know her mind by her eye as well as her doctor shall

her health by her pulse; I can read approbation through a glance of

disdain; can see when the soul is divided by a sparkling tear that

twinkles and betrays the heart. A sparkling tear's the dress and livery

of love--of love made up of hope and fear, of joy and grief.

_Lat._[43] But what have the wars to do with all this? Why must you

needs commence soldier all of a sudden?

_Y. Book._ Were't not a taking compliment with my college face and

phrase to accost a lady:--"Madam, I bring your ladyship a learned

heart, one newly come from the University. If you want definitions,

axioms, and arguments, I am an able schoolman. I've read Aristotle

twice over, compared his jarring commentators too, examined all

the famous peripatetics, know where the Scotists and the Nominals

differ:"--this, certainly, must needs enchant a lady.

_Lat._ This is too much on th' other side.

_Y. Book._ The name of soldier bids you better welcome. 'Tis valour and

feats done in the field a man should be cried up for; nor is't so hard

to achieve.

_Lat._ The fame of it, you mean?

_Y. Book._ Yes; and that will serve. 'Tis but looking big, bragging

with an easy grace, and confidently mustering up an hundred hard names

they understand not: Thunder out Villeroy, Catinat, and Boufflers;

speak of strange towns and castles, whose barbarous names, the harsher

they're to the ear, the rarer and more taking; still running over

lines, trenches, outworks, counterscarps, and forts, citadels, mines,

countermines, pickeering, pioneers, sentinels, patrols, and others,

without sense or order; that matters not, the women are amazed, they

admire to hear you rap 'em out so readily; and many a one that went no

farther for it, retailing handsomely some warlike terms, passes for a

brave fellow. Don't stand gaping, but live and learn, my lad. I can

tell thee ten thousand arts to make thee known and valued in these

regions of wit and gallantry--the park, the playhouse.

_Lat._ Now you put me in mind where we are. What have we to do here

thus early, now there's no company?

_Y. Book._ Oh! sir, I have put on so much of the soldier with my red

coat, that I came here to observe the ground I am to engage upon. Here

must I act, I know, some lover's part, and therefore came to view this

pleasant walk. I privately rambled to town last November. Here, ay

here, I stood and gazed at high Mall, till I forgot it was winter, so

many pretty shes marched by me. Oh! to see the dear things trip, trip

along, and breathe so short, nipt with the season! I saw the very air

not without force leave their dear lips. Oh! they were intolerably

handsome.

_Lat._ You'll see, perhaps, such to-day; but how to come at 'em?

_Y. Book._ Ay, there's it, how to come at 'em.

_Lat._[44] Are you generous?

_Y. Book._ I think I am no niggard.

_Lat._ You must entertain them high, and bribe all about them. They

talk of Ovid and his Art of Loving; be liberal, and you outdo his

precepts. The art of love, sir, is the art of giving. Be free to women,

they'll be free to you. Not every open-handed fellow hits it neither.

Some give by lapfulls, and yet ne'er oblige. The manner, you know, of

doing a thing is more than the thing itself. Some drop a jewel, which

had been refused if bluntly offered.

_Y. Book._ Some lose at play what they design a present.

_Lat._ Right; the skill is to be generous, and seem not to know it of

yourself, 'tis done with so much ease; but a liberal blockhead presents

his mistress as he'd give an alms.

_Y. Book._ Leaving such blockheads to their deserved ill-fortune, tell

me if thou know'st these ladies?

_Lat._ No, not I, sir; they are above an academic converse many

degrees. I've seen ten thousand verses writ in the University on

wenches not fit to be either of their handmaids. I never spoke to

such a fine thing as either in my whole life--I'm downright asleep o'

sudden. I must fall back, and glad it is my place to do so; yet I can

get you intelligence perhaps. I'll to the footman.

_Y. Book._ Do you think he'll tell?

_Lat._ He would not to you, perhaps, but to a brother footman. Do but

listen at the entrance of the Mall at noon, and you'll have all the

ladies' characters in town among their lackeys. You know all fame

begins from our domestics.

_Y. Book._ That was a wise man's observation. Follow him, and know what

you can. [_Exit_ LATINE.

_Enter_ PENELOPE, VICTORIA, SIMON, _and_ LETTICE.

_Pen._ A walk round would be too much for us; we'll keep the Mall.--But

to our talk: I must confess I have terrors when I think of marrying

Lovemore. He is, indeed, a man of an honest character. He has my good

opinion, but love does not always follow that. He is so wise a fellow,

always so precisely in the right, so observing and so jealous; he's

blameless indeed, but not to be commended. What good he has, has no

grace in it; he's one of those who's never highly moved, except to

anger. Give me a man that has agreeable faults rather than offensive

virtues.

_Vict._ Offensive virtues, madam?

_Pen._ Yes, I don't know how--there's a sort of virtue, or prudence, or

what you'll call it, that we can but just approve. That does not win

us. Lovemore wants that fire, that conversation-spirit I would have.

They say he's learned as well as discreet, but I'm no judge of that.

I'm sure he's no woman's scholar; his wisdom he should turn into wit,

and his learning into poetry or humour.

_Vict._ Well, I'm not so much of your mind; I like a sober passion.

_Pen._ A sober passion! you took me up just now when I said an

offensive virtue.--Bless me! [_Stumbling almost to a fall._

_Y. Book._[45] [_Catching her._] How much am I indebted to an accident,

that favours me with an occasion of this small service! for 'tis to me

an happiness beyond expression thus to kiss your hand.

_Pen._ The occasion, methinks, is not so obliging, nor the happiness

you mention worth that name, sir.

_Y. Book._ 'Tis true, madam, I owe it all to fortune; neither your

kindness nor my industry had any share in't. Thus am I still as

wretched as I was, for this happiness I so much prize had doubtless

been refused my want of merit.

_Pen._ It has very soon, you see, lost what you valued in it; but I

find you and I, sir, have a different sense; for, in my opinion, we

enjoy with most pleasure what we attain with least merit. Merit is

a claim, and may pretend justly to favour; when without it what's

conferred is more unexpected, and therefore more pleasing.

_Y. Book._ You talk very well, madam, of an happiness you can't

possibly be acquainted with, the enjoying without desert. But indeed

you have done me a very singular good office, in letting me know myself

very much qualified for felicity.

_Vict._ I swear he's a very pretty fellow, and how readily the thing

talks! I begin to pity Lovemore, but I begin to hate Penelope. How he

looks! he looks at her!

_Y. Book._[46] But judge, madam, what the condition of a passionate man

must be, that can approach the hand only of her he dies for, when her

heart is inaccessible.

_Pen._ 'Tis very well the heart lies not so easily to be seized as the

hand--I find----Pray, sir--I don't know what there is in this very odd

fellow: I'm not angry, though he's downright rude--but I must----

_Y. Book._ But your heart, madam, your heart--[_Pressingly._

_Pen._ You seemed, sir, I must confess, to have shown a ready civility

when I'd like to fall just now, for which I could not but thank you,

and permit you to say what you pleased on that occasion--"But your

heart, madam!" 'tis a sure sign, sir, you know not me; or, if you are

what indeed you seem--a gentleman--sure you forget yourself, or rather

you talk, by memory, a form or cant which you mistake for something

that's gallant.

_Y. Book._ Madam, I very humbly beg your pardon, if I pressed too far

and too abruptly. I forgot, indeed, that I broke through decencies, and

that though you have been long a familiar to me, I am a stranger to you.

_Pen._ Pray, familiar stranger, what can you mean? I never saw you

before this instant, nor you me, I believe.

_Y. Book._[47] Perhaps not, that you know of, madam, for your humility,

it seems, makes you so little sensible of your own perfection, that

you overlook your conquest; nor have you e'er observed me, though I

hover day and night about your lodging, haunt you from place to place,

at balls, in the park, at church. I gave you all the serenades you've

had, yet never till this minute could I find you, and this minute an

unfortunate one--But this is always my luck when I'm out of the field.

_Vict._ You've travelled then, and seen the wars, sir?

_Y. Book._ I--madam--I--all that I know of the matter is, that Louis

the Fourteenth mortally hates me. They talk of French gold--what heaps

have I refused! Yet to be generous even to an enemy, I must allow

that Prince has reason for his rancour to me. There has not been a

skirmish, siege, or battle since I bore arms, I made not one in; no,

nor the least advantage got of the enemy, but I had my share, though

perhaps not all my share of the glory. You've seen my name, though you

don't know it, often in the _Gazette_.

_Pen._ I never read news.

_Enter_ LATINE.

_Lat._ What tale's he telling now, tro'?

_Y. Book._ You've never heard, I suppose, of such names as Ruremonde,

Kaiserswerth, and Liege? nor read of an English gentleman left dead by

his precipitancy upon a parapet at Venloo? I was thought so indeed,

when the first account came away. Every man has his failings; rashness

is my fault.

_Lat._ Don't you remember a certain place called Oxford among your

towns, sir?

_Y. Book._ Pshaw, away--Oh! oh!--I beg your pardon, ladies, this fellow

knows I was shot in my left arm, and cannot bear the least touch, yet

will still be rushing on me.

_Lat._ He has a lie, I think, in every joint. [_Aside._

_Pen._ Do you bear any commission, sir?

_Y. Book._ There's an intimate of mine, a general officer, who has

often said, Tom, if thou would'st but stick to any one application,

thou might'st be anything. 'Tis my misfortune, madam, to have a mind

too extensive. I began last summer's campaign with the renowned Prince

Eugene, but was forced to fly into Holland for a duel with that rough

Captain of the Hussars, Paul Diack. They talk of a regiment for me,

but those things--besides, it will oblige me to attend it, and then I

can't follow honour where'er she's busiest, but must be confined to

one nation; when indeed 'tis rather my way of serving with such of our

allies as most want me.

_Pen._ But I see you soldiers never enjoy such a thing as rest: You but

come home in winter to turn your valour on the ladies--'tis but just a

change of your warfare.

_Y. Book._ I had immediately returned to Holland, but your beauties at

my arrival here disarmed me, madam, made me a man of peace, or raised

a civil war within me rather. You took me prisoner at first sight, and

to your charms I yielded up an heart, till then unconquered. Martial

delights (once best and dearest to me) vanished before you in a moment,

and all my thoughts grew bent to please and serve you.

_Lett._ Lovemore's in the walk, madam; he'll be in a fit.

_Y. Book._ Rob me o' the sudden thus of all my happiness! Yet ere you

quite forsake me, authorise my passion, license my innocent flames, and

give me leave to love such charming sweetness.

_Pen._ He that will love, and knows what 'tis to love, will ask no

leave of any but himself. [_Exeunt_ Ladies, _etc._

_Y. Book._ Follow 'em, Jack.

_Lat._ I know as much of 'em already as needs: the footman was in his

talking vein. The handsomer of the two, says he, I serve, and she lives

in the Garden.

_Y Book._ What Garden?

_Lat._ Covent Garden; the other lies there too. I did not stay to ask

her name, but I shall meet him again; I took particular notice of the

livery.

_Y. Book._ Ne'er trouble thyself to know which is which, my heart and

my good genius tell me, 'tis she, that pretty she I talked to.

_Lat._ If, with respect to your worship's opinion, I might presume to

be of a contrary one, I should think the other the handsomer now.

_Y. Book._ What, the dumb thing,[48] the picture?--No, love is the

union of minds, and she that engages mine must be very well able to

express her own. But I suppose some scolding landlady has made you

thus enamoured with silence. But here are two of the dearest of my old

comrades--they seem amazed at something by their action.

_Enter_ LOVEMORE _and_ FREDERICK.

_Fred._[49] How! a collation on the water, and music too?

_Love._ Yes, music and a collation.

_Fred._ Last night?

_Love._ Last night too.

_Fred._ An handsome treat?

_Love._ A very noble one.

_Fred,_ Who gave it?

_Love._ That I'm yet to learn.

_Y. Book._ How happy am I to meet you here!

_Love._ When I embrace you thus, no happiness can equal mine.

[_Saluting._

_Y. Book._ I thrust myself intrudingly upon you; but you'll pardon a

man o'erjoyed to see you.

_Love._ Where you're always welcome you never can intrude.

_Y. Book._ What were you talking of?

_Love._ Of an entertainment.

_Y. Book._ Given by some lover?

_Love._ As we suppose.

_Y. Book._ That circumstance deserves my curiosity; pray go on, and let

me share the story.

_Love._ Some ladies had the fiddles last night.

_Y. Book._ Upon the water, too, methought you said?

_Love._ Yes, 'twas upon the water.

_Y. Book._ Water often feeds the flame.

_Love._ Sometimes.

_Y. Book._ And by night too?

_Love._ Yes, last night.

_Y. Book._ He chose his time well--The lady is handsome?

_Love._ In most men's eyes she is.

_Y. Book._ And the music?

_Love._ Good, as we hear.

_Y. Book._ Some banquet followed?

_Love._ A sumptuous one, they say.

_Y. Book._ And neither of you all this while know who gave this treat?

ha! ha!

_Love._ D'ye laugh at it?

_Y. Book._ How can I choose, to see you thus admire a slight

divertisement I gave myself?

_Love._ You?

_Y. Book._ Even I!

_Love._ Why, have you got a mistress here already?

_Y. Book._ I should be sorry else. I've been in town this month or

more, though for some reasons I appear but little yet by day. I' the

dark o' the evening I peep out, and incognito make some visits. Thus

had I spent my time but ill, were not--

_Lat._ [_To_ Y. BOOK.] Do you know what you say, sir? Don't lay it on

so thick.

_Y. Book._ [_To_ LAT.] Nay, you must be sure to take care to be in the

way as soon as they land, to shew upstairs--I beg pardon, I was giving

my fellow some directions about receiving some women of quality that

sup with me to-night incog----but you're my dearest friends, and shall

hear all.

_Fred._ [_To_ LOVE.] How luckily your rival discovers himself!

_Y. Book._ I took five barges, and the fairest kept for my company; the

other four I filled with music of all sorts, and of all sorts the best;

in the first were fiddles, in the next theorbo, lutes, and voices.

Flutes and such pastoral instruments i' th' third.

Loud music from the fourth did pierce the air.

Each concert vied by turns,

Which with most melody should charm our ears.

The fifth, the largest of 'em all, was neatly hung,

Not with dull tapestry, but with green boughs,

Curiously interlaced to let in air,

And every branch with jessamines, and orange posies decked;

In this the feast was kept.

Hither, with five other ladies, I led her whose beauty alone governs

my destiny. Supper was served up straight; I will not trouble you

with our bill of fare, what dishes were best liked, what sauces most

recommended; 'tis enough I tell you this delicious feast was of six

courses, twelve dishes to a course.

_Lat._ That's indeed enough of all conscience. [_Aside._

_Love._ Oh, the torture of jealousy! [_Aside_]--But, sir, how seemed

the lady to receive this entertainment? We must know that.

_Y. Book._ Oh! that was the height on't. She, I warrant you, was quite

negligent of all this matter. You know their way, they must not seem to

like--no, I warrant it would not so much as smile to make the fellow

vain, and believe he had power to move delight in her--ha, ha!

_Love._ But how then?

_Y. Book._ Why you must know my humour grew poetic. I pulled off my

sword-knot, and with that bound up a coronet of ivy, laurel, and

flowers; with that round my temples, and a plate of richest fruits

in my hand, on one knee I presented her with it as a cornucopia, an

offering from her humble swain of all his harvest--to her the Ceres of

our genial feast and rural mirth. She smiled; the ladies clapped their

hands, and all our music struck sympathetic rapture at my happiness;

while gentle winds, the river, air, and shore echoed the harmony in

notes more soft than they received it. Methought all nature seemed to

die for love like me. To all my heart and every pulse beat time. Oh,

the pleasures of successful love! ha, Lovemore! ha! What, hast thou got

a good office lately? you're afraid I should make some request. Prithee

ben't so shy, I have nothing to ask but of my mistress--What's the

matter?

_Love._ I only attend, sir, I only attend--

_Y. Book._ Then I'll go on. As soon[50] as we had supped, the fireworks

played. Squibs of all sorts were darted through the skies, whose

spreading fires made a new day. A flaming deluge seemed to fall from

Heaven, and with such violence attacked the waves, you would have

thought the fiery element had left his sphere, to ruin his moist

enemy. Their contest done, we landed, danced till day, which hasty

Sol disturbed us with too soon. Had he taken our advice, or feared my

anger, he might in Thetis's lap have slept as long as at Alcmena's

labour he's reported. But steering not as we would have prescribed, he

put a period to our envied mirth.

_Love._ Trust me, you tell us wonders, and with a grace as rare as the

feast itself, which all our summer's mirth can't equal.

_Y. Book._ My mistress took me o' the sudden; I had not a day's warning.

_Love._ The treat was costly though, and finely ordered.

_Y. Book._ I was forced to take up with this trifle. He that wants time

can't do as he would.

_Love._ Farewell, we shall meet again at more leisure.

_Y. Book._ Number me among your creatures.

_Love._ Oh jealousy! Thou rack, jealousy!

_Fred._ [_To_ LOVE.] What reason have you to feel it? the circumstances

of the feast nothing agree.

_Love. [To_ FRED.] In time and place they do; the rest is nothing.

[_Exeunt_ FRED. _and_ LOVE.

_Lat._[51] May I speak now, sir, without offence?

_Y. Book._ 'Tis in your choice now to speak or not, but before company

you'll spoil all.

_Lat._ Do you walk abroad and talk in your sleep? or do you use to tell

your dreams for current truth?

_Y. Book._ Dull brain!

_Lat._ Why, you beat out mine with your battles, your fireworks, your

music, and your feasts. You've found an excellent way to go to the

wars, and yet keep out of danger. Then you feast your mistresses at the

cheapest rate that ever I knew! Why d'ye make 'em believe you ha' been

here these six weeks?

_Y. Book._ My passion has the more growth, and I the better ground to

make love.

_Lat._ You'd make one believe fine things, that would but hearken to

you; but this lady might soon have found you out.

_Y. Book._ Some acquaintance I have got, however; this is making love,

scholar, and at the best rate too.

_Lat._ To speak truth, I'm hardly come to myself yet; your great supper

lies on my stomach still. I defy Pontack[52] to have prepared a better

o' the sudden. Your enchanted castles, where strangers found strange

tables strangely furnished with strange cates, were but sixpenny

ordinaries to the fifth barge; you were an excellent man to write

romances, for having feasts and battles at command, your Quixote in

a trice would over-run the world; revelling and skirmishing cost you

nothing; then you vary your scene with so much ease, and shift from

court to camp with such facility--

_Y. Book._ I love thus to outvie a newsmonger; and as soon as I

perceive a fellow thinks his story will surprise, I choke him with a

stranger, and stop his mouth with an extempore wonder. Did'st thou but

know what a pleasure 'tis to cram their own news down their throats

again!

_Lat._ 'Tis fine, but may prove dangerous sport, and may involve us in

a peck of troubles. Prithee, Tom, consider that I am of quality to be

kicked or caned by this l----

_Y. Book._ Hush, hush, call it not lying; as for my waging war, it is

but just I snatch and steal from fortune that fame which she denies

me opportunity to deserve. My father has cramped me in a college,

while all the world has been in action. Then as to my lying to my

mistress, 'tis but what all the lovers upon earth do. Call it not then

by that coarse name, a lie. 'Tis wit, 'tis fable, allegory, fiction,

hyperbole--or be it what you call it, the world's made up almost of

nothing else. What are all the grave faces you meet in public? mere

silent lies, dark solemn fronts, by which they would disguise vain

empty silly noddles. But after all, to be serious, since I am resolved

honestly to love, I don't care how artfully I obtain the woman I pitch

upon; besides, did you ever know any of them acknowledge they loved as

soon as they loved? No, they'll let a man dwell upon his knees--whom

they languish to receive into their arms. They're no fair enemy.

Therefore 'tis but just that--

We use all arts the fair to undermine,

And learn with gallantry to hide design. [_Exeunt._

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.--PENELOPE'S _Lodgings, Covent Garden._

_Enter_ OLD BOOKWIT, PENELOPE, _and_ LETTICE.

_Old Book._ Mistress Penelope, I have your father's leave to wait

upon you, madam, and talk to you this morning; nay, to talk to you of

marriage.

_Pen._ To talk to me of marriage, sir?

_O. Book._ Yes, madam, in behalf of my son, Tom Bookwit.

_Pen._ Nay, there may perhaps be something said to that. [_Aside._

_O. Book._[53] I sent for him from Oxford with that design. He came

to town but yesterday; and, if a father can judge, he brings from a

college the mien and air of a court. I love my son entirely, and hope,

madam, you take my thoughts as to you, to be no want of respect to you.

_Pen._ 'Twere want of sense, sir, to do that.

_O. Book._ If I can remember my style to my mistress of old, I'll ease

Tom's way, and raise her expectation of my son. [_Aside._]--Madam, had

I my hat, my feather, pantaloons, and jerkin on, as when I wooed your

humble servant's mother, I would deliver you his errand. I married her

just such a young thing as you; her complexion was charming, but not

indeed with all your sweetness.

_Pen._ Oh! sir!

_O. Book._ Her neck and bosom were the softest pillows; her shape was

not of that nice sort. Some young women suffer in shapes of their

mother's making, by spare diet, straight lacing, and constant chiding.

But 'twas the work of nature, free, unconstrained, healthy, and----But

her charms had not all that emanation which yours have.

_Pen._ O fie! fie!

_O. Book._ Not those thousand thousand graces, that soft army of loves

and zephyrs, millions of airy beings that attend around you, and appear

only to the second sight of lovers.

_Pen._ O fie! Pray, good sir, you'll leave nothing for your son to say.

_O. Book._ I did not think I had such a memory. I find the women are

now certainly daughters of the women before 'em: Flattery still does

it. [_Aside._]--Tom is my only son, and I extremely desire to have him

settled. I own I think him of much merit.

_Pen._ He would derogate from his birth were he not much a gentleman.

But to receive a man in the character of a pretender at first sight----

_O. Book._ I'll walk him by and by before your window, where your own

eyes shall judge. I think there's nothing above his pretences but

yourself; but when one of so many excellent qualities bestows herself,

it must be condescension. You shall not answer--Farewell, daughter; we

are but too apt to believe what we wish. [_Exit_ OLD BOOK.

_Pen._ 'Tis as you said, Lettice, Old Bookwit came to propose his son.

_Lett._ I overheard the old gentleman talk of it last night. But,

madam, you han't heard the song that was made on you. Oh! 'tis mighty

pretty! The gentleman is dying for you, he says it. Pure, pure verses.

_Pen,_ Whoever writ 'em, he's not the first poet I have made. They may

talk, and say nature makes a poet, but I say love makes a poet. Don't

you see elder brothers, who are by nature born above wit, shall fall in

love, and write verses: nay, and pretty good ones, considering they can

tag 'em to settlements. But let's see.

[_Reading._] "TO CELIA'S SPINET.

"Thou soft machine that dost her hand obey,

Tell her my grief in thy harmonious lay."

Poor man!

"To shun my moan to thee she'll fly;

To her touch be sure reply,

And, if she removes it, die."

The device is just and truly poetical.

"Know thy bliss--"

Ay, ay, there I come in.

"Know thy bliss, with rapture shake,

Tremble o'er all thy numerous make;

Speak in melting sounds my tears,

Speak my joys, my hopes, my fears--"

Which all depend upon me.

"Thus force her, when from me she'd fly,

By her own hand, like me, to die."

Well, certainly nothing touches the heart of woman so much as poetry.

I suppose the master is in the next room. 'Tis his hour; desire him to

walk in. 'Twill make one's ears tingle, a song on one's self!

[_Here the song is performed to a spinet._

Well, dost think, Lettice, my grave lover writ this fine thing--say'st

thou?

_Lett._ No, madam, nobody writes songs on those they are sure of.

_Pen._ Sure of me! the insolent!

_Lett._ Nay, I know no more but that he said he'd turn me away as soon

as he had married you.

_Pen._ 'Tis like enough; that's the common practice of your

jealous-headed fellows. Well, I have a good mind to dress myself anew,

put on my best looks, and send for him to dismiss him. I know he loves

me.

_Lett._ I never knew him show it but by his jealousy.

_Pen._ As you say, a jealous fellow love! 'tis all mistake--'tis only

for himself he has desires; nor cares what the object of his wishes

suffers so he himself has satisfaction.--No, he has a gluttony, an

hunger for me.

_Lett._ An hunger for you! I protest, madam, if you'd let me be his

cook, and make you ready, I'd poison him. But I'm glad Simon disobeyed

you, and told the gentleman's servant who you were, and your lodging.

_Pen._ Did the rogue do so? Call him hither.

_Lett._ Simon, why Simon!

_Enter_ SIMON.

_Pen._ Sirrah, I find I must at last turn you off, you saucy fellow.

Don't stand staring and dodging with your feet, and wearing out your

livery hat with squeezing for an excuse, but answer me, and that

presently.

_Sim._ I will, madam, as soon as you ask me a question.

_Pen._ Not afore then--Mr. Pert, don't you know, you told the

gentleman's footman in the park who I was, against my constant order,

when I walk early. Come, sirrah, tell all that passed between you.

_Sim._ Why, madam, the gentleman's gentleman came up to me very

civilly, and said his master was in discourse with my lady, he

supposed; then he fell into talk about vails[54]--about profits in a

service; at last, after a deal of civil discourse between us----

_Pen._ Come, without this preamble, what he asked you, impertinence;

tell that, do.

_Sim._ He asked about you, and Madam Victoria. I said the handsomest of

the two is my lady.

_Pen._ Speak on boldly, Simon; I'm never angry at a servant that speaks

truth.

_Sim._ He told me he should be very proud of my acquaintance. Indeed,

madam, the man was very well spoken, and showed a great deal of respect

for me, on your ladyship's account. He is a mighty well spoken man, and

said he found I was a smart gentleman; said he'd come again.

_Pen._ Go, you have done your business. Go down. [_Exit._

_Lett._ Well, after all, madam, I did not think that gentleman

displeased you.

_Pen._[55] Had but young Bookwit his mien and conversation, how easily

would he exclude Lovemore!

_Enter_ SERVANT.

_Ser._ Mr. Lovemore is coming up, madam.

_Pen._ He has not heard, sure, of this new proposal!

_Lett._ 'Tis possible he may, and come to rant or upbraid your

ladyship. I wonder you endure him on these occasions.

_Pen._ I'll rack his very heart-strings. He shall know all that man

e'er suffered for his native mistress, woman.

_Lett._ His father, madam, has been so long coming out of

Suffolk---There are strange tricks in the world, but 'tis not my place

to speak.

_Pen._ However, his father, may come at last. I will not wholly lose

him; as bad as he is, he's better than no husband at all. Stay in the

room; I'll talk to you as if he were not present.

_Enter_ LOVEMORE.

_Love._[56] Ah! Penelope! inconstant, fickle Penelope!

_Pen._ But, Lettice, you don't tell me what the gentleman said. Now

there's nobody here, you may speak.

_Love._ Now there's nobody here? Then I am a thing, a utensil! I am

nobody, I have no essence that I am sensible of! I think 'twill be so

soon!--This ingrate--this perjured!

_Pen._ Tell me, I say, how the match happened to break off?

_Love._ This is downright abuse! What! don't you see me, madam?

_Lett._ He had the folly, upon her being commonly civil to him, to

talk of directing her affairs before his time. In the first place, he

thought it but necessary her maid, her faithful servant, Mrs. Betty,

should be removed.

_Love._ Her faithful servant, Mrs. Betty? Her betrayer, her whisperer,

Mrs. Lettice! Madam, would you but hear me? I will be heard!

_Pen._ Prithee step, Lettice, and see what noise is that without.

_Love._ The noise is here, madam; 'tis I that make what you call noise.

'Tis I that claim aloud my right and speak to all the world the wrongs

I suffer.

_Pen._ Cooling herbs, well steeped--a good anodyne at night, made of

the juice of hellebore, with very thin diet, may be of use in these

cases. [_Both looking at him as disturbed._

_Love._ Cases! what cases? I shall downright run mad with this damned

usage! Am I a jest?

_Lett._ A jest? No, faith, this is far from a merry madness. Ha! ha! ha!

_Love._ Harkee, Lettice, I'll downright box you. Hold your tongue,

gipsy.

_Lett._ Dear madam, save me! Go you to him.

_Pen._ Let him take you.--Bless me, how he stares! Take her.

_Lett. Pen._ Take her. [_Running round each other._

_Love._ Very fine!--No, madam, your gallant, your spark last night;

your fine dancer, entertainer, shall take you. He that was your swain;

and you, I warrant, a fantastic nymph of the flood or forest. Ha! ha!

ha! To be out all night with a young fellow! Oh! that makes you change

your countenance, does it so? Fine lady--you wonder how I came to

know. Why, choose a discreeter the next time--he told me all himself.

Swoon--die for shame at hearing of these words--do!

_Pen._ I am, indeed, downright ashamed for him that speaks 'em. Whence

this insolence, if not from utter distraction, under this roof?

_Love._ Oh, the ingrate! Have not I, madam, two long years, two ages,

with humblest resignation, depended on your smile? and shall I suffer

one of yesterday's to treat you, to dance all night with you?

_Pen._[57] Speak softly; my father's coming down.

_Love._ Thy father's coming down! Faithless! Thou hast no father--But

to cross me by night upon the water!

_Pen._ Well, by night upon the water; what then?

_Love._ Yes, all night.

_Pen._ What of that?

_Love._ Without blushing when you hear of 't!

_Pen._ Blush for what? What do you drive at?

_Love._ Can you, then, coolly ask what 'tis I mean, thou reveller, thou

rambler? A fine young lady, with your midnight frolics! But what do I

pretend to? I know not how with bended knees to call you Ceres; make

you an offering of summer fruits, and deify your vanity! Thou art no

goddess; thou'rt a very woman, with all the guile! Your barges! your

treats! your fireworks!

_Pen._ What means the insolent? You grow insufferable!

_Love._ Oh, Penelope! that look, that disdainful look has pierced my

soul, and ebbed my rage to penitence and sorrow. I own my fault; I'm

too rash----

_Pen._ The imaginary enemies you raise are but mere forms of your

sickly brain: so I think, and scorn 'em. A diffident, a humorous, and

ungenerous man, who, without grounds, calls me inconstant, shall surely

find me so. She will be very happy that takes a constant man with

twenty thousand humours.

_Love._ Is it a fault my life's bound up in thee,

That all my powers change with thy looks,

That my eyes gloat on thee when thou'rt present,

And ache and roll for light when thou'rt absent?

_Pen._ A little ill-usage, I see, improves a lover. I never heard him

speak so well in my life before. [_Aside._

_Love._ Of you I am not jealous:

'Tis my own indesert[58] that gives me fears,

And tenderness forms dangers where they're not;

I doubt and envy all things that approach thee:

Not a fond mother of a long-wished-for only child beholds with such

kind terrors her infant offspring, as I do her I love. She thinks its

food, if she's not by, unwholesome; and all the ambient air made up of

fevers and of quartan agues, except she shrouds it in her arms. Such is

my unpitied, anxious care for you; and can I see another----

_Pen._ What other?

_Love._ Nay, if you make a secret of your meeting, there's all that I

suspect in it. Another? Young Bookwit is another----

_Pen._ I never saw his face. Young Bookwit?

_Love._ What! not though he solicited a glance, with symphonies of

charming note, with sumptuous dishes? Not when the flying meteors from

the earth made a new day? Not see him? Oh, that was hard; that was

unkind! Not one look for all this gallantry?--But love is blind. You

can be all night with the son, all day with the father, and never see

either. His father was here this morning.--Seek not to excuse: I find

your arts, and see their aim too. Go, go, take your Bookwit; forget

your lover, as he now must you. [_Going._

_Pen._ Hear but three words.

_Love._ What shall they be?

_Pen._ Prithee hear me.

_Love._ No, no, your father's coming down.

_Pen._ He's not coming, nor can he overhear us. There's time and

privacy enough to disabuse you.

_Love._ I'll hear nothing unless you will be married; unless you give

me, as a present earnest of yourself, three kisses, and your word for

ever.

_Pen._ To give way to my satisfaction, then, and be friends again, you

would, Mr. Lovemore, have three kisses----

_Love._ Three kisses, your faith and hand.

_Pen._ Nothing else? Will you be so contented?

_Love._ I'll expect higher terms if you accept not these--Quickly, then.

_Pen._ Well, then--no, my father's coming. Ha! ha! ha!

_Love._ Laugh at my sufferings! slight my anger!

Is this your base requital of my love?--

Revenge, revenge! I'll print on thy favourite in his heart's blood my

revenge. Our swords--our swords shall dispute our pretences, rather

than he enjoy what my long services entitle me to, which is to do

myself right for what he intends an injury; though perhaps what we

shall dispute for is better lost.

_Pert._ Mr. Lovemore, you have taken very great liberties. You say I

have injured you in my regard to another. Is your opinion, then, of

what you say you will dispute for, such as you just now said--better

lost?

_Love._ Look you, madam--so--therefore--as to that--this is such--for

that it--You don't consider what you said to me.

_Pen._ Ha! ha! ha!

_Love._ You shall by all that's--you shall repent this. [_Flings out._

_Pen._ This is all we have for 't, a little dominion beforehand. These

are the creatures that are born to rule us; who creep, who flatter,

and servilely beseech our favour; which obtained, they grow sullen,

proud, and insolent; pry into the gift, the manner of bestowing, with

all the little arts the ungrateful use to hide, or kill their sense and

conscience of a benefit.

_Lett._ Ay, ay, madam, 'tis so. I had a sweetheart once, a lady's

butler, to whom I gave a lock of my hair, and the villain, when we

quarrelled, told me half of them were grey.

_Pen._ Ha! ha! ha! the ingrate--the faithless, as Lovemore says.

_Lett._ And yet, madam, the rogue stole a letter out of a book to ask

me for it, as my next suitor found out.

_Pen._ However, I am sure 'tis in my fate to be subject to one of them

very suddenly.

_Lett._ Ah! madam! the gentleman this morning----

_Pen._ The fellow's very well, and I am mightily mistaken if my cousin

Victoria did not think so.

_Lett._ And so do you heartily. [_Aside._

_Pen._ Yet I wish I had seen this young Bookwit before Lovemore came

to-day.

_Lett._[59] I'll tell you how, madam. Victoria has ne'er a lover, and

is your entire friend. Now, madam, suppose you got her to write a

letter to this young gentleman in her own name. You meet him under that

name incognito; then, if an accident should happen, both you and she

will be safe, and puzzle the truth: you never writ to him, she never

met him.

_Pen._ A lucky thought--step to her immediately. I'll come to her, or

she to me.

_Lett._ I fly, I fly. [_Exit._

_Pen._ This is, indeed, a lucky hint of the wench, in which I have

another drift, too. Now shall I sift my friend Victoria, and perfectly

understand whether she likes that agreeable young fellow; for if her

reserved humour easily falls in with this design on Bookwit, she's

certainly smitten with the other, and suspects me to be so too--What

is this dear, this sudden intruder, love, that Victoria's long and

faithful friendship, Lovemore's anxious and constant passion, both

vanish before it in a moment? Why are our hearts so accessible at our

eyes?--My dear----

_Enter_ VICTORIA _and_ LETTICE.

_Vict._ Dear Pen, I ran to you. Well, what is it?

_Pen._ Set chairs, and the bohea tea, and leave us. [_Exit_ LETT.] Dear

Victoria, you have always been my most intimate bosom friend; your wary

carriage and circumspection have often been a safety against errors to

me--I must confess it. [_Filling her tea._

_Vict._ But, my dear, why this preface to me? To the matter--

_Pen._ You know all that has passed between me and Mr. Lovemore.

_Vict._ I have always approved him, and do now more than ever; for 'tis

not a mien and air that makes that worthy creature, a kind husband;

but----

_Pen._ True, but here was old Bookwit this morning, with my father's

authority to talk to me of the subject of love.

_Vict._ Nay, madam, if so, and you can resolve to obey your father--I

contend not for Lovemore; for though the young men of this age are so

very vicious, so expensive, both of their health and fortune----

_Pen._ How zealous she is to put me out of her way! False creature!

[_Aside._]--But, my dear friend, you don't take me; your friendship

outruns my explanation. 'Twas for his son at Oxford he came to me: He

is to walk with him before the door that I may view him, by-and-by.

_Vict._ Nay, as one must obey their parents wholly, I think a raw

young man that never saw the town is better than an old one that has

run through all its vices. I congratulate your good fortune. There's a

great estate; and he knows nothing--just come to town. The furniture

and the horse-cloths will be all your own device for the wedding, and

the horses when and where you please. He knows no better.

_Pen._ But one shall be so long teaching a raw creature a manner.

_Vict._ Never let him have one; 'twill make him like himself, and think

of making advances elsewhere: You'd better have him a booby.--How could

I think of the old fellow for you! Look you, Pen, old age has its

infirmities, and 'tis a sad prospect for an honest young woman to be

sure of being a nurse, and never of being a mother.

_Pen._ Oh, that I had but your prudence! But, my dear, I have a request

to make to you, and that is that you would write him an assignation

this evening in the Park. I'll obey the appointment, and converse with

him under that disguise; for the old people will clap up a match before

I know anything of the real man. And if one don't know one's husband,

how can one manage him--that is to say, obey him?

_Vict._ Oh! pray, my dear, do you think I don't understand you? Oh! and

there's another thing--a scholar makes the best husband in the world.

_Pen._ Because they are the most knowing?

_Vict._ No, because they are the least knowing.--But I'll go

immediately and obey your commands. I wish you heartily well, my dear,

in this matter. [_Kissing her._

_Pen._ I thank you, dearest; I don't doubt it indeed.

_Vict._ Where are you going now, my dear? O fie! this is not like a

friend--Do I use you so, dear madam?

_Pen._ Nay, indeed, madam, I must wait on you.

_Vict._ Indeed you shan't--indeed you shan't. [PEN. _follows_ VICT.

_Pen._ Well, madam, will you promise, then, to be as free with

me?--Thus does she hope to work me out of my lover, by being made my

confident--but that baseness has been too fashionable to pass any more.

I have not trusted her, the cunning creature. I begin to hate her

so--I'll never be a minute from her. [_Exit._

SCENE II.--_Covent Garden._

_Enter_ OLD BOOKWIT, YOUNG BOOKWIT, _and_ LATINE.

_O. Book._ Well, Tom, where have you sauntered about since I saw you?

Is not the town mightily increased since you were in it?

_Y. Book._ Ay, indeed, I need not have been so impatient to have left

Oxford. Had I stayed a year longer, they had builded to me.

_O. Book._ But I don't observe you affected much with the alterations.

Where have you been?

_Y. Book._ No, faith, the New Exchange[60] has taken up all my

curiosity.

_O. Book._ Oh! but, son, you must not go to places to stare at women!

Did you buy anything?

_Y. Book._ Some baubles. But my choice was so distracted among the

pretty merchants and their dealers, I knew not where to run first.

One little, lisping rogue--"Ribbandths, gloveths, tippeths"--"Sir,"

cries another, "will you buy a fine sword-knot?" Then a third pretty

voice and curtsey--"Does not your lady want hoods, scarfs, fine green

silk stockings?"[61] I went by as if I had been in a seraglio, a

living gallery of beauties, staring from side to side--I bowing, they

laughing--so made my escape, and brought your son and heir safe to

you, through all these darts and glances, to which indeed my breast is

not impregnable. But I wonder whence I had this amorous inclination?

_O. Book._ Whoever you had it from, sirrah, 'tis your business to

correct it, by fixing it upon a proper object--But, Tom, you know I

am always glad to hear you talk with the gaiety before me that you

do elsewhere. But I have now something of consequence (that sudden,

serious look was so like me). [_Aside._]--What I am going to say now, I

tell you is extraordinary.

_Y. Book._ I could not indeed help some seeming extravagancies I have

been forced to. But----

_O. Book._ I do not grudge you your expenses, I was not going to speak

on it. For I decay, and so do my desires, while yours grow still upon

you. Therefore, what may be spared from mine, I heartily give you to

supply yours; 'tis but the just order of things. I scorn to hoard

what I only now can gaze at, while your youth and person want those

entertainments you may become and taste. All your just pleasures are

mine also; in you my youth and gayer years methinks I feel repeated.

_Y. Book_ Then what can give you, sir, uneasiness?

_O. Book._ Your affectation of a soldier's dress; makes me think you

bent upon a dangerous though noble course; that you'll expose a life,

that's dearer to your father than yourself, to daily hazards. I,

therefore, have resolved to settle thee,[62] and chosen a young lady,

witty, prudent, rich, and fair----

_Y. Book._ Oh, Victoria! [_Aside._]--You cannot move too slowly in such

a business.

_O. Book._ Nay, 'tis no sudden thing. Her father and I have been

old acquaintance, and I was so confident of her worth, and your

compliance, that I can't with honour disengage myself.

_Y. Book._ How, sir! when honour calls me to the field, where I may

perpetuate your name by some brave exploit----

_O. Book._ You may do it much better, Tom, at home, by a brave boy.

Come, come, it must be so----

_Y. Book._ What shall I do for some invention? [_Aside._

_O. Book._ Let it be so, dear Tom; it must be so.

_Y. Book._ What if it be impossible?

_O. Book._ Impossible! as how?

_Y. Book._ Upon my knees I beg your pardon, sir; I am----

_O. Book._ What?

_Y. Book._ At Oxford----

_O. Book._ What art thou at Oxford? Rise and tell me.

_Y. Book._ Why I am married there, since you needs must know.

_O. Book._ Married, without my consent!

_Y. Book._ There was a force upon me; you'll easily get all annulled if

you desire it. It was the crossest, most unhappy accident. Yet, indeed,

she is an excellent creature!

_Lat._ How could he conceal this all this while from me? But I remember

he used to be out of the college whole nights, we knew not where.

[_Aside._

PENELOPE _and_ VICTORIA _at the window._

_Pen._ [_Aside._] The very man we met this morning; and I employ my

rival to write to him! How confidently she stares at the fellow, and

observes his action!

_Vict._ Betty, do you see with what intent and with what fire in her

eyes Penelope gazes yonder? But take you that letter and give it when

the old gentleman's gone. Goodness! how concerned she seems! Well, some

women!----[_Exeunt Ladies from above._

_O. Book._ Let that pass, since the business is irrevocable. What is

her name?

_Y. Book._ Matilda, and her father's, Newtown.

_O. Book._ They're names I never heard before; but go on.

_Y. Book._ This lady, sir, I saw in a public assembly; at the first

sight she made me hers for ever. From that instant I languished, nor

had vital heat out of her presence. The sun to me shed influence in

vain; he rose and set both unobserved, nor was to any living this human

life so much a dream as me. All this she observed, but not untouched

observed. She shewed a noble gratitude to a noble passion; favours I

soon received, but severely modest ones.

_Lat._ Oh! that's pre-supposed; you, to be sure, would ne'er desire any

other. [_Aside._

_Y. Book._ We had contrived to meet o'nights,

The sweetest hours of love; and there was I

One evening in her lodging--'Twas, as I remember,

Yes, 'twas on the second of December;

That's the very night I was caught----

_Lat._ 'Tis strange, a fellow of his wit to be trepanned into a

marriage----[_Aside._

_Y. Book._ Her father supped abroad that night, which made us think

ourselves secure. But coming home by accident sooner than we expected,

we heard him at the door. How did that noise surprise us! She hid me

behind the bed, then lets him in.

_O. Book._ I tremble for the poor young lady.--Pray go on. How did she

recover herself?

_Y. Book._ She fell into the prettiest artful little tales to divert

him and hide her discomposure--which he interrupted by telling her she

must be married suddenly to one proposed to him that evening. This was

to me daggers.

_O. Book._ But she!----

_Y. Book._ She, by general answers, in that case managed it so well

that he was going down, when instantly my watch in my pocket struck

ten. He turns him short on his amazed daughter, asked where she had it.

She cried her cousin Martha sent it out of the country to be mended

for her. He said he would take care on't. She comes to me, but as I

was giving it her the string was so entangled in the cock of a pistol

I always had about me on those occasions, that my haste to disengage

it fired it off. My mistress swoons away. The father ran out, crying

out murder. I thought her dead, feared his return, which he soon did

with two boisterous rogues, his sons, and his whole family of servants.

I would have made my escape, but they opposed me with drawn swords. I

wounded both; but a lusty wench, with a fireshovel, at one blow struck

down my sword, and broke it all to pieces.

_O. Book._ But still, the poor young lady!----

_Y. Book._ Here was I seized. Meantime, Matilda wakes from her trance,

beholding me held like a ruffian, both her brothers bleeding. She

was returning to it. What should I do? I saw the hoary father in

the divided sorrow, for his sons' lives and daughter's honour, of

both which he thought me the invader. She, with pitying, dying and

reproaching looks, beseeched me, and taught me what I owed her constant

love. I yielded, sir, I own I yielded to the just terror of their

family resentment, and to my mistress's more dreadful upbraiding. Thus

am I, sir, the martyr of an honest passion----

_O. Book._ That I most blame is, that you concealed it from your best

friend. I'll instantly to Penelope's father, and make my apology. He is

my friend. [_Exit._

_Lat._ This marriage strangely surprised me.

_Y. Book._ Why, did you believe it, too, as well as the old gentleman?

Why, then, I did it excellently. Ha! ha! ha!

_Lat._ What,[63] the watch! The pistol! Lady swooning! Her pitying,

upbraiding look! All chimera?

_Y. Book._ Nothing but downright wit, to keep myself safe for Victoria.

_Lat._ May I desire one favour?

_Y. Book._ What can I deny thee, my privado?

_Lat._ Only that you'd give me some little secret hint when next you

l----are going to be witty. But to jumble particulars so readily! 'Tis

impossible you could, I believe, at the beginning of your tale know the

ending--Yet----

_Y. Book._ These are gifts, child, mere gifts; 'tis not to be

learnt--the skill of lying--except humour, wit, invention, presence of

mind, retention, memory, circumspection, etc., were to be obtained by

industry. You must not hum, nor haw, nor blush for't----

_Lat._ Who have we got here?

BETTY _entering._

_Bet._ May I be so bold as to crave the liberty to ask your name?

_Y. Book._ My bright handmaid, my little she Ganymede--thou charming

Hebe--you may ask me my name, for I won't tell it you--till you do;

because I'd have the more words with you.

_Bet._ Are not you Mr. Bookwit?

_Y. Book._ The very same, my dear.

_Bet._ There, then [_Giving him letter._] He's a mighty pretty man.

[_Exit_ BETTY.

_Y. Book._ [_Reading._] "You may wonder--your person and

character--this evening, near Rosamond's Pond, on the other side the

Park.--VICTORIA."

Oh, the happiness! What is become of the girl? Oh! Latine! Latine! ask

me fifty questions all at once! What ails me? Why this joy? Who is this

from? Oh, I could die, methinks, this moment, lest there should be in

fate some future ill to dash my present joy! Why, Jack, why dost not

ask me what's the matter?

_Lat._ If you'd but give me leave----

_Y. Book._ No; do not speak. Let me talk all; I fain would celebrate my

fair one's praise, her every beauty! but the mind's too full to utter

anything that is articulate, and will give way to nothing but mere

names and interjections. O Victoria! Victoria! Victoria! O my Victoria!

Read there.

_Lat._ Well, I own this subscribed "Victoria"--but still I am afraid of

mistakes.

_Y. Book._ No--kneel down and ask forgiveness. You don't believe that

she that would not speak to me would write.--But after all raptures

and ecstasies--prithee step after the maid, learn what you can of

her fortune, and so forth. Get interest to be admitted another time.

[_Exit_ LATINE.

_Enter_ FREDERICK.

_Fred._ Sir, your servant

_Y. Book._ Yours, sir; have you business with me?

_Fred._ This paper speaks it.

_Y. Book._ [_Reading._] "Of a friend you've made me your mortal enemy.

With your sword I expect satisfaction to-morrow morning at six in Hyde

Park.--LOVEMORE." Do you know the contents of this letter?

_Fred._ Yes, sir, it is a challenge from Lovemore.

_Y. Book._ Are you to be his second?

_Fred._ I offered it, but he will meet you single.

_Y. Book._ The fewer the better cheer.

_Fred._ You're very pleasant, sir.

_Y. Book._ My good humour was ever challenge-proof. I will be very

punctual. [_Exit_ FRED.]--I fall into business very fast. There, thou

dear letter of love; be there, thou of hatred. There; men of business

must sort their papers.--I fear he saw me put up two letters.

_Enter_ LATINE.

Oh, Jack, more adventures, another lady has writ.

_Lat._ Let's see it.

_Y. Book._ No; always tender of rep.--she is of quality--a gentleman

usher came with it. I can't believe there's anything in that old whim

of being wrapt in one's mother's smock to be thus lucky; I suppose I

was used like other children. They clapped me on a skull-cap, swathed

me hard, played me in arms, and shewed me London. But however it comes

about I have strange luck with the women.

_Lat._ But let us see this letter.

_Y. Book._ [_Reading._] "No, no--A woman of condition to go so

far--But, indeed, your passion, your wit--My page--at the back

'stairs--secrecy, and your veracity----"

_Lat._ There her ladyship nicked it. Pox, I'll be as humourous and

frolic as you. You pert fellows are the only successful----

_Y. Book._ Well said, lad; and, as Mr. Bayes says,[64] now the plot

thickens upon us we'll spend our time as gaily as the best of 'em, and

all of it in love--

For since through all the race of man we find,

Each to some darling passion is inclined,

Let love be still the bias of my mind. [_Exeunt._

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.--VICTORIA'S _Lodgings, Covent Garden._

_Enter_ VICTORIA _and_ BETTY.

_Vict._ This was, indeed, Betty, a very diverting accident, that I

should be employed to write to her lover. Now, I can't but think

how angry my cousin Pen is. She frets, I warrant, at her very

looking-glass, which used to be her comforter upon all occasions.

_Bet._ I would not be in poor Mrs. Lettice's place for all the world.

Nothing, to be sure, can please to-day; did you mind how she nestled

and fumed inwardly to see your ladyship look so well? Nay, indeed,

madam, you were in high beauty.

_Vict._ Yet I must confess I was myself a little discomposed. I was

ashamed for my friend, and then to see her show such a regard for a

fellow!

_Bet._ But I swear, were I to have my will, you should be always angry

at me. It gives your ladyship such a pretty fierceness, and quick

spirit to your features--not that you want it--yet it adds----

_Vict._ There are some people very unhappily pretend to fire and life;

there's poor, stupid, insipid Lady Fad, has heard of the word spleen,

and distaste, and sets up for being out of humour, with that unmeaning

face of hers.

_Bet._ You're in a fine humour, madam.

_Vict._ Her ladyship's physician prescribed anger to her; upon which

she comes in public with her eyes staringly open. This she designs for

vivacity, and gapes about like a wandering country lady. She pretends

to be a remarker, and looks at everybody; but, alas, she wants it here,

and knows not that to see, is no more to look, than to go is to walk.

For you must know, Betty, every child can see, but 'tis an observing

creature that can look; as every pretty girl can go, but 'tis a fine

woman that walks.

_Both._ Ha! ha! ha!

_Vict._ But, by the way, there's Mrs. Penelope, methinks, does neither;

I have a kindness for her, but she has no gesture in the least. My

dear----

_Enter_ PENELOPE.

_Pen._ Well, my dear----

_Bet._ How civilly people of quality hate one another. [_Aside._

_Pen._ Well, my dear, were not you strangely surprised to see that this

young Bookwit should be the soldier we met this morning?

_Vict._ The confident lying creature! Indeed, I wondered you'd suffer

him to entertain you so long.

_Pen._ You must know, madam, he's married too at Oxford.

_Vict._ The ugly wretch! I think him downright disagreeable.--But

perhaps this is a fetch of hers; he had no married look. [_Aside._

_Pen._ Yet I am resolved to go to your assignation, if it be but to

confront the coxcomb, and laugh at his lie. Such fellows should be

made to know themselves, and that they're understood.

_Vict._ I'll wait upon you, my dear.--She's very prettily dressed.

[_Aside._]--But indeed, my dear, you shan't go with your hood

so; it makes you look abominably, with your head so forward.

There--[_Displacing her head_]; that's something. You had a fearful,

silly blushing look; now you command all hearts.

_Pen._ Thank you, my dear.

_Vict._ Your servant, dearest.

_Pen._ But alas, madam, who patched you to-day? Let me see. It is the

hardest thing in dress--I may say, without vanity, I know a little of

it. That so low on the cheek pulps the flesh too much. Hold still,

my dear, I'll place it just by your eye.--Now she downright squints.

[_Aside._

_Vict._ There's nothing like a sincere friend, for one is not a judge

of one's self. I have a patch-box about me. Hold, my dear, that gives

you a sedate air, that large one near your temples.

_Pen._ People, perhaps, don't mind these things. But if it be true, as

the poet finely sings, that "all the passions in the features are," we

may show or hide 'em, as we know how to affix these pretty artificial

moles----

_Vict._ And so catch lovers, and puzzle physiognomy.

_Pen._ 'Tis true; then pray, my dear, let me put a little disdain in

your face: for we'll plague this fop. There--that on your forehead does

it.

_Vict._ Hold, my dear; I'll give indifference for him, a patch just at

the point of your lip exactly shows it--and that you're dumb to all

applications.

_Pen._ You wish I would be. [_Aside._

_Vict._ There, my dear.

_Pen._ But, dear madam, your hair is not half powdered. Betty, bring

the powder-box to your lady. It gives one a clean look (though your

complexion does not want it) to enliven it.

_Vict._ Oh! fie, this from you! But I know you won't flatter me, you're

too much my friend.

_Pen._ Now, madam, you shall see. [_Powders her._]--Now she looks like

a sprite. [_Aside._

_Vict._ Thank you, my dear; we'll take an hack. Our maids shall go with

us. Come, dear friend. [_Exeunt arm in arm._

_Bet._ Pray, Madam Lettice, be pleased to go on.

_Lett._ Indeed, Madam Betty, I must beg your pardon.

_Bet._ I am at home, dear Madam Lettice.

_Lett._ Well, madam, this is unkind. I don't use you with this

ceremony. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II._--Covent Garden._

_Enter_ YOUNG BOOKWIT _and_ LATINE _after a flourish._

_Y. Book._ Victoria! Victoria! Victoria!

_Lat._ Make way, make way. By your leave. Stand by. Victoria!

"_Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas._"[65]

_Y. Book._ Well said, Jack. Let me see any of your sparks besides

myself keep such an equipage. I don't question but in a little time I

shall be a finer fop than the town has yet seen. All my lackeys shall

be linguists as thou art. While thus I ride immortal steeds--how my

horses stare at me! They see I am a very new sort of beau.

_Lat._ This is rare--the having this noise of music. But won't it be

reckoned a disturbance?

_Y. Book._ No, no; it is a usual gallantry here. But the vocal

is an elegance hardly known before me here--who am the founder of

accomplished fools, of which I'll institute an order. All coxcombs

of learning and parts shall after me be called Bookwits--a sect will

soon be more numerous, and in more credit, than your Aristotelians,

Platonists, and Academics.

_Lat._ Sir, 'twill be extraordinary, and you are really a wise

person--you put your theory of philosophy into practice; 'tis not with

you a dead letter.

_Y. Book._ Oh! sir, no. The design of learning is for the use of life;

therefore I'll settle a family very suddenly, and show my literature in

economy.

_Lat._ As how, pray?

_Y. Book._ I'll have four peripatetic footmen, two followers of

Aristippus for valets de chambre, and an epicurean cook--with an

hermetical chemist (who are good only at making fires) for my scullion;

and then I think all is disposed. But, methinks this fair one takes

state upon her. But I am none of your languishers; I am not known in

town, and if I misbehave, 'tis but being sent back again to my small

beer and three-halfpenny commons; and I, like many another beau, only

blazed and vanished----

_Lat._ But you know I love music immoderately. How do you dispose your

entertainment? Let 'em begin.

_Y. Book._ Well, give me but leave. The fiddles will certainly

attract the ladies, I mean the nymphs who have grottos round this

enchanted forest. In the first place, you intelligences that move this

vehicle--how the fellows stare!

_Chair._ Good your honour, speak to us in English.

_Y. Book._ Why then, you chairmen, wherever I move, you are to follow

me; for I mean to strut, shine through the dusk of the evening, and

look as like a lazy town-fool as I can, to charm 'em.

_Lat._ Well, but the music?

_Y. Book._ But remember, ye sons of Phœbus, brethren of the string

and lyre, that is to say, ye fiddlers--Let me have a flourish as I

now direct. When I lift up my cane, let it be martial. If I but throw

myself just forward on it, or but raise it smoothly, sigh all for love,

to show, as I think fit, that I would die or fight for her you see me

bow to. Well, then, strike up:--

_Song, by_ MR. LEVERIDGE.[66]

I.

Venus has left her Grecian isles,

With all her gaudy train

Of little loves, soft cares and smiles,

In my larger breast to reign.

II.

Ye tender herds and list'ning deer,

Forget your food, forget your fear,

The bright Victoria will be here.

III.

The savages about me throng,

Moved with the passion of my song,

And think Victoria stays too long.

_Y. Book._ There's for you, Jack; is not that like a fine gentleman

that writes for his own diversion?

_Lat._ And nobody's else.

_Y. Book._ Now I warrant one of your common sparks would have stamped,

fretted, and cried, what the devil! fooled! jilted! abused!--while I,

in metre, to show you how well nothing at all may be made to run--

The savages about me throng,

Moved with the passion of my song,

And think Victoria stays too long.

_Lat._ I begin to be one of those savages.

_Enter_ VICTORIA, PENELOPE, LETTICE, _and_ BETTY.

_Vict._ We had better have stayed where we were, and listened to that

charming echo, than have come in search of that liar.

_Lat._ Do you see yonder?

_Y. Book._ [_Gives the sign and sings himself._] Thus, madam, have I

spent my time almost ever since I saw you, repeated your name to the

woods, the dales, and echoing groves.

_Pen._ Prithee observe him. Now he begins.

_Y. Book._ I had not time to carve your name on every tree, but that's

a melancholy employment, not for those lovers that are favoured with

assignation.

_Vict._ Prithee, cousin, do you talk to him in my name. I'll be silent

till I see farther.[67]

_Pen._ The spring is now so forward, that it must indeed be attributed

to your passion that you are not in the field.

_Y. Book._ You do me justice, madam, in that thought, for I am

strangely pestered to be there. Well, the French are the most

industrious people in the world. I had a letter from one of their

generals, that shall be nameless (it came over by the way of Holland),

with an offer of very great terms, if I would but barely send my

opinion in the use of pikes, about which he tells me their Prince and

generals have lately held a grand court martial.

_Both._ Ha! ha! ha!

_Lat._ These cunning things keep still together to puzzle us.--I'll

alarm him.--Sir, one word----

_Vict._ Come, come, we'll have no whispering, no messages at present.

Some other ladies have sent, but they shan't have you from us.

_Both._ Ha! ha! ha!

_Y. Book._ I hold myself obliged to be of the same humour ladies are

in--ha! ha! ha! Now pray do me the favour to tell me what I laughed at.

_Pen._[68] Why, you must know, your talking of the French and war put

us in mind of a young coxcomb that came last night from Oxford, calls

himself soldier, treats ladies, fights battles, raises jealousies with

downright lies of his own inventing--ha! ha! ha!

_Y. Book._ That must be an impudent young rascal certainly--ha! ha! ha!

_Vict._ Nay, this is beyond comparison----

_Y. Book._ I can't conceive how one of those sneaking academics could

personate such a character; for we, bred in camps, have a behaviour

that shows we are used to act before crowds.

_Pen._ 'Tis certainly so; nay, he has been confronted with it, as

plainly as I speak to you, and yet not blushed for it, but carried it

as if he knew not the man----

_Y. Book._ That may be; 'tis want of knowing themselves makes those

coxcombs so confident.

_Pen._ The faithless! shameless! Well, then, to see, if possible, such

a one may be brought to that sense, I tell you, this worthy hero two

days ago was in hanging-sleeves at Oxford, and is called Mr. Bookwit.

Ha! ha!

_Y. Book._ Well, was it not well enough carried? Pooh, I knew you well

enough, and you knew me, before you writ to me for Mr. Bookwit's son.

But I fell into that way of talking purely to divert you. I knew you

a woman of wit and spirit, and that acting that part would at least

show I had fire in me, and wished myself what I would be half an age to

serve and please you--suffer in camps all the vicissitudes of burning

heats and sharp afflicting colds--

_Vict._ Look you, sir, I shall tell Mrs. Matilda Newtown, your spouse

at Oxford, what you are saying to another lady.

_Pen._ Prithee cousin, never give yourself the trouble to meddle in

such a work; one hardly knows how to speak it to a gentleman, but don't

touch the affairs of so impudent a liar.

_Y. Book._ Ha! ha! ha!--Why, madam, have they told you of the marriage

too? Well, I was hard put to it there. I had like to have been

gravelled, faith. You were more beholden to me for that than anything.

Had it not been for that, they had married me to Mrs. Penelope, old

Getwel's granddaughter, the great fortune; but I refused her for

you--who are a greater. [_Aside._

_Lat._ Sir! sir! pray sir, one word----

_Pen. and Vict._ Stand off, sirrah.

_Vict._ You shan't come near him; none of your dumb signs.

_Pen._ Then you have refused Penelope, though a great fortune! What

could you dislike in her?

_Y. Book._ The whole woman. Her person, nor carriage please me. She

is one of those women of condition, who do and say what they please

with an assured air, and think that's enough, only to be called fine

mistress such-a-one's manner.

_Pen._ This is not to be endured.--I do assure you, sir, Mrs. Penelope

has refused your betters.

_Y. Book._ I don't much value my betters in her judgment, but am sorry

to see you concerned for her. When I have been at church, where I first

saw you, I've seen the gay giddy thing in a gallery watching eyes to

make curtsies. She is indeed a very ceremonious churchwoman, and never

is guilty of a sin of omission to any lady of quality within eye-shot.

In short, I don't like the woman, and would go to Tunis or Aleppo for a

wife before I'd take her.

_Vict._ I cannot bear this of my friend; if you go on, sir, at this

rate, Tunis or Aleppo are the properest places for you to show your

gallantry in; 'twill never be received by any here--I hope she believes

me. [_Aside._

_Pen._ The lady's in the right on't; who can confide in a known common

impostor?

_Y. Book._[69] Ah, madam! how can you use a man that loves you so

unjustly? But call me what you will, liar, cheat, impostor--do but add,

your servant, and I am satisfied. I have, indeed, madam, ran through

many shifts in hopes to gain you, and could be contented to run through

all the shapes in Ovid's Metamorphoses, could I but return to this on

my bended knees, of my fair one's humble servant.

_Vict._ Prithee let us leave him, as you told me; I wonder you can

suffer him to entertain you so long. Leave him, let him kneel to the

trees and call to the woods if he will.--Oh, I could brain him--how

ugly he looks kneeling to her! [_Aside._

_Pen._ No, I'll stay to plague him more.--But what opinion can I

have of this sudden passion? You hardly know me, I believe, or my

circumstances?

_Y. Book._ No, no, not I; I don't know you. Your mother was not

Alderman Sterling's daughter; your father, Mr. Philips, of Gray's Inn,

who had an estate and never practised? You had not a brother killed at

Landen? Your sister Diana is not dead? nor you are not co-heiress with

Miss Molly? No, madam, I don't know you; no, nor love you.

_Pen._ I wish I had taken her advice in going; he means her all this

while [_Aside._]--Pshaw, this is downright fooling. Let's go, my

dear; leave him to the woods, as you say--I wish 'twas full of bears.

[_Aside._

_Vict._ No; now I'll stay to plague him.

_Pen._ No, you shan't stay.--Sir, we have given ourselves the diversion

to see you, and confront you in your falsehoods; in which you have

entangled yourself to that degree, you know not even the woman you

pretend to; and therefore, sir, I so far despise you, that if you

should come after me with your fiddles, I'll have a porter--ready to

let you in. [_Aside._

_Vict._ I don't know how to threaten a gentleman in that manner, but

I'm sure I shall never entertain any man that has disobliged my friend,

while my name's Victoria! [_Exeunt arm in arm._

_Lat._ Master, methinks these ladies don't understand wit. They were

very rough with you.

_Y. Book._ Ay, they were somewhat dull. But really Victoria discovered

herself at her going, methinks, agreeably enough.

_Lat._ I believe they are irrecoverably lost. Pox on't, when I gave you

so many signs, too.

_Y. Book._ Well, hang thinking. Let's to the tavern, and in every glass

name a new beauty, till I either forget, or am inspired with some new

project to attain her.

While in a lovely bowl I drown my care,

She'll cease to be, or I to think her, fair. [_Exeunt._

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.--_Covent Garden._

_Enter_ YOUNG BOOKWIT _and_ LATINE.

_Young Book._ This Roebuck has almost done my business. Rigby's an

honest fellow, and would not poison us. The wine had good-humour,

mirth, and joy in it. My blood beats high and frolic. What says my dear

lackey? Ha!

_Lat._ Why, sir, I say, sir, that I am in so noble, so exalted a

condition, that I almost forget I am your honour's footman.

_Y. Book._ Do but your business well to-night.

_Lat._ Who says the tongue stutters, legs falter, and eyes fail with

drink? 'Tis false, my dear master, my tongue runs faster than ever;

my legs so brisk and nimble, that I can't stand still; and my eyes

are better than ever they were; for I see everything double--But the

letter, the letter, I warrant I give it her.

_Y. Book._ Here, here, Jack, take it.

_Lat._ Let's come nearer the lamp. This is the foul copy of it that

'tis wrapped in. Let me judge. Now I'll be sedate. Let me read it again.

_Y. Book._ But you look cursedly fluttered; they'll say you're drunk.

Let's see, I must comb your wig a little.

_Lat._ I shall be kicked for this letter here about the middle. You

should not talk of joys so soon; you should write miserable a fortnight

or three weeks longer--I shall be kicked.

_Y. Book._ What then? what then? A man of your philosophy must needs

remember, the body's but the mere organ of the mind. Kicks come under

the topic of things without. What shall I do for powder for this smart

bob? [_Combs out his own wig into_ LAT'S.

_Lat._ 'Tis no matter, sir; powder comes under the notion of things

without.

_Y. Book._ Oh! but ladies are no philosophers; but as to being drubbed

(these stockings too), you must fix your imagination upon some other

object, and you may, by force of thought, suspend your feeling.

The body is but the instrument of the mind, and you may command an

instrument.

_Lat._ No, sir, I'll have you to know, I'll save my carcass by mere

dint of eloquence. You have no other orders?

_Y. Book._ No; but may persuasion, grace, and elocution hang on thy

lips. But if you can come in to Victoria, she and the wine you've drank

will inspire you. Farewell. [_Exit._

_Lat._ This is the enchanted castle which the lady fair inhabits. Ha!

Mr. Simon, sir, I am your most humble servant. My dear friend----

_Enter_ SIMON.

_Sim._ Your servant, good sir; my lady is with Madam Victoria at cards.

She'll lie here to-night--but all's ruined; they are both huge angry

with your master. But Lettice, having taken a fancy to you, Mr. John,

spoke up rarely, that she did indeed.

_Lat._ Can't one come to the speech of her?

_Sim._ I was ordered to have a strict eye to the door, and let nobody

in whatever. I don't care for going up, because she'll see I have made

a cap of one of the finest napkins, for which she'll make a plaguy

noise.

_Lat._ Nay, nay, you are exactly of my mind; I love to avoid anger.

_Sim._ You are a little disguised in drink, though, Mr. John--but

I ain't seen you, not I. Go straight up: Mrs. Lettice is in the

ante-chamber.

_Lat._ I thank you, dear friend. My master bids me upon these

occasions----[_Gives him money._

_Sim._ I beg your pardon, good Mr. John.

_Lat._ Look you, I am a servant as well as you; what do you mean, Mr.

Simon? Come, come, time's precious. When your lady's married, all these

vails will end.

_Sim._ Nay, I said behind your back, Mr. John, that you were very well

spoken. Well, put up briskly. I'll stand your friend as much as one

servant can to another, against all masters and mistresses whatever.

_Lat._ Thanks, good Mr. Simon. [_Exeunt._