YOUNG BOOKWIT, LATINE, SIMON, STORM, _with the crowd of Gaol-birds._
_Storm._ I apprehend, sir, by Mr. Turnkey, the gentleman there with a
broken nose, that you're brought in for murder. I honour you, sir; I
don't question but 'twas done like a gentleman.
_Y. Book._ I hope it will appear so.
_Storm._ I come, I fear, sir, to your acquaintance with some prejudice,
because you see me thus in irons. But affliction is the portion of the
virtuous and the gallant.
_Y. Book._ It does not depress, sir, but manifest the brave.
_Storm._ Right, sir, I find you're noble. You may, perhaps, have heard
of me. My name is Storm. This person, my friend, who is called Faggot,
and myself, being exposed by an ungrateful world to feel its cruelty
and contempt of ragged virtue, made war upon it, and in open day
infested their high road.
_Y. Book._ Your humble servant, gentlemen, I do conceive you. Your
spirits could not stoop to barter on the change, to sneer in courts, to
lie, to flatter, or to creep for bread. You, therefore, chose rather to
prey like lions, then betray like crocodiles, or fawn like dogs. You
took upon you to interrupt the commerce of a cheating world, to unload
the usurer of his anxious pelf, and save the thoughtless landed boy he
travelled to undo, with a thousand such good actions; by which means
you two are infamous, for what two millions of you had been glorious.
_Storm._ Right, sir; I see you're knowing, sir, and learned in
man. This gentleman, Mr. Charcoal, the chemist, was our secret
correspondent, and as we never robbed a poor man, so he never cheated a
fool, but still imposed on your most sprightly wits and genius--fellows
of fire and metal, whose quick fancies and eager wishes formed reasons
for their undoing. He is a follower of the great Raimundus Lullius; the
public think to frighten him into their own purposes. But he'll leave
the ungrateful world without the secret.
_Char._ You know, sir, he that first asserted the Antipodes died for
that knowledge; and I, sir, having found out the melioration of metals,
the ignorant will needs call it coining; and I am to be hanged for it,
would you think it?
_Y. Book._ When, pray sir, are you to be immortal?
_Char._ On Friday next. I'm very unhappy our acquaintance is to be
short. I'm very sorry your business is not over, sir, that, if it must
be, we might go together.
_Y. Book._ I'm highly obliged to you, sir.
_Char._ 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 each bar about us into golden ingots.[74] Sir, can
you lend me half-a-crown?
_Y. Book._ Oh, sir, a trifle between such old acquaintance.
_Storm._ You'll be indicted, sir, to-morrow. I would advise you, when
your indictment's read, to one thing: that is, don't cavil at false
Latin; but if by chance there should be a word of good, except to that,
and puzzle the whole court.
_Y. Book._ Sir, I'm obliged----
_Storm._ I defy the world to say I ever did an ill thing; I love my
friend. But there is always some little trifle given to prisoners they
call garnish; we of the road are above it, but o' t'other side of the
house, silly rascals that came voluntarily hither----such as are in
for fools, signed their own mittimus, in being bound for others,--may
perhaps want it. I'll be your faithful almoner.
_Y. Book._ Oh, by all means, sir. [_Gives him money._
_Storm._ Pray, sir, is that your footman?
_Y. Book._ He is my friend, sir.
_Storm._ Look you, sir, the only time to make use of a friend is in
extremity. Do you think you could not hang him and save yourself? Sir,
my service to you; your own health.
_1st Pris._ Captain, your health. [_Gives it to the next prisoner._
_2nd Pris._ Captain, your health.
_Storm._ But perhaps the captain likes brandy better. So-ho! brandy
there. [_Drinks._] But you don't, perhaps, like these strong liquors.
Cider, ho! [_Drinks to him in it._] Gentlemen all! But, captain, I
see you don't love cider neither. You and I will be for claret then.
Ay, marry! I knew this would please [_Drinks_] you. [_Drinks again._]
Faith, we'll make an end on't; I'm glad you like it.
_Turn._ I'm sorry, Captain Storm, to see you impose on a gentleman, and
put him to charge in his misfortune. If a petty larceny fellow had done
this----but one of the road!
_Storm._ I beg your pardon, sir, I don't question but the captain
understands there is a fee to you for going to the keeper's side.
[BOOK. _and_ LATINE _give him money. Exeunt with_ TURNKEY, SIMON
_following._] Nay, nay, you must stay here.
_Sim._ Why, I am Simon, Madam Penelope's man.
_Storm._ Then Madam Penelope's man must strip for garnish.[75] Indeed,
Master Simon, you must.
_Sim._ Thieves! Thieves! Thieves!
_Storm._ Thieves! Thieves! Why, you senseless dog, do you think there's
thieves in Newgate? Away with him to the tap-house. [_Pushes him off._]
We'll drink his coat off. Come, my little chemist, thou shalt transmute
this jacket into liquor; liquor that will make us forget the evil day.
And while day is ours, let us be merry.
For little villains must submit to fate,
That great ones may enjoy the world in state.
[_Exeunt._
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.--_Newgate._
YOUNG BOOKWIT _discovered on a couch asleep_, LATINE _looking on him._
_Lat._ How quietly he rests! Oh that I could,
By watching him, hanging thus over him,
And, feeling all his care, protract his sleep!
Oh, sleep! thou sweetest gift of Heaven to man,
Still in thy downy arms embrace my friend,
Nor loose him from his inexistent trance
To sense of yesterday and pain of being;
In thee oppressors soothe their angry brow,
In thee the oppressed forget tyrannic power,
In thee----
The wretch condemned is equal to his judge,
And the sad lover to his cruel fair;
Nay, all the shining glories men pursue,
When thou art wanted, are but empty noise.
Who then would court the pomp of guilty power,
When the mind sickens at the weary show,
And dies to temporary death for ease;
When half our life's cessation of our being----
He wakes----
How do I pity that returning life,
Which I could hazard thousand lives to save!
_Y. Book._ How heavily do I awake this morning! Oh, this senseless
drinking! To suffer a whole week's pain for an hour's jollity! Methinks
my senses are burning round me. I have but interrupted hints of the
last night----Ha! in a gaol! Oh, I remember, I remember. Oh, Lovemore!
Lovemore! I remember----
_Lat._ You must have patience, and bear it like a man.
_Y. Book._ Oh, whither shall I run to avoid myself?
Why all these bars? These bolted iron gates?
They're needless to secure me----Here, here's my rack,
My gaol, my torture----
Oh, I can't bear it. I cannot bear the rushing of new thoughts;
Fancy expands my senses to distraction,
And my soul stretches to that boundless space
To which I've sent my wretched, wretched friend.
Oh, Latine! Latine! Is all our mirth and humour come to this?
Give me thy bosom, close in thy bosom hide me
From thy eyes; I cannot bear their pity or reproach.
_Lat._ Dear Bookwit, how heartily I love you--I don't know what to say.
But pray have patience.
_Y. Book._ If you can't bear my pain that's but communicated by your
pity, how shall I my proper inborn woe, my wounded mind?
_Lat._ In all assaults of fortune that should be serene,
Not in the power of accident or chance----
_Y. Book._ Words! words! all that is but mere talk.
Perhaps, indeed, to undeserved affliction
Reason and argument may give relief,
Or in the known vicissitudes of life
We may feel comfort by our self-persuasion;
But oh! there is no taking away guilt:
This divine particle will ache for ever.
There is no help but whence I dare not ask;
When this material organ's indisposed
Juleps can cool and anodynes give rest;
But nothing mix with this celestial drop,
But dew from that high Heaven of which 'tis part.
_Lat._ May that high Heaven compose your mind,
And reconcile you to yourself.
_Y. Book._ How can I hope it?
No----I must descend from man,
Grovel on earth, nor dare look up again!
Oh, Lovemore! Lovemore! Where is he now?
Oh, thinking, thinking, why didst thou not come sooner?
Or not now!----
My thoughts do so confuse me now--as my folly and pleasures did before
this fatal accident--that I cannot recollect whence Lovemore was
provoked to challenge me.
_Lat._ You know, dear Bookwit, I feared some ill from a careless way of
talking. But alas! I dreamt not of so great----
_Y. Book._ Ay, there it was; he was naturally a little jealous.
Heavens, do I say he was? I talked to him of ladies, treats, and he
might possibly believe 'twas where he had engaged----I remember his
serious behaviour on that subject. Oh, this unhappy tongue of mine!
Thou lawless, voluble, destroying foe,
That still run'st on, nor wait'st command of reason,
Oh, I could tear thee from me----
_Lat._ Did you not expostulate before the action?
_Y. Book._ He would have don't; but I, flushed with the thoughts of
duelling, pressed on----Thus for the empty praise of fools, I'm solidly
unhappy.
_Lat._ You take it too deeply. Your honour was concerned.
_Y. Book._ Honour! The horrid application of that sacred word to
a revenge against friendship, law, and reason is a damned last
shift of the damned envious foe of human race. The routed fiend
projected this, but since the expansive glorious law from Heaven came
down----Forgive.[76]
_Enter_ TURNKEY.
_Turn._ Gentlemen, I come to tell you that you have the favour to be
carried in chairs to your indictment, to which you must go immediately.
_Lat._ We are ready, sir,
_Y. Book._ How shall I bear the eyeshot of the crowd in court?
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.--FREDERICK'S _Lodgings._
_Enter_ LOVEMORE, _in a serjeant's gown, and_ FREDERICK.
_Love._ Mankind is infinitely beholden to this noble styptic, that
could produce such wonderful effects so suddenly. But though my wound
was very slight, I'm weak by the effusion of so much blood.
_Fred._ Yet after all, you have not lost enough to cool your passion.
Your heart still beats, Penelope, Penelope----But in this disguise you
have opportunity for observation. You'll see whether you ought still to
value her or not. I'm glad you thought of being brought hither as soon
as you came to yourself. I expect old Bookwit every moment here----
_Enter_ OLD BOOKWIT.
There he is----
_O. Book._ Oh, Mr. Frederick! too late, too late was our care; they
met last night, and then the fatal act was done. You'll excuse, sir, a
father's sorrow----I can't speak much, but you may guess what I hope
from you.
_Fred._ You may depend upon ingenuous usage in the prosecution. I'm
going instantly to Penelope's with this learned gentleman, to know what
she can say to this matter. I desired you, in the note I sent you, to
purchase the favour of your son's being brought thither, where he and
you may be witnesses of what shall pass. I seek not his blood, nor
would neglect a justice to my deceased friend.
_O. Book._ I believe my son and the rest are going thither ere this;
and I desire this worthy serjeant's favour and advice, since we both
mean the same thing--only to act with honour, if his life may be saved.
_Love._ I'll do what's just to the deceased and the survivor.
_O. Book._ I'll leave you, but will take care to come in just afore the
criminals arrive. [_Exit._
_Love._ The poor old gentleman! Prithee, let's go; I long to see my
lovely torment, Penelope.
_Fred._ I'll but leave word within. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.--PENELOPE'S _Lodgings._
_Enter_ PENELOPE _and_ VICTORIA.
_Pen._ It seems Simon lay out all night, and was carried away by the
watch with some gentlemen in a quarrel.
_Vict._ I fancy the men who are always for showing their valour are
like the women who are always talking of their chastity, because they
are conscious of their defect in it.
_Pen._ Right; for we are not apt to raise arguments but about what we
think is disputable.
_Vict._ Ay, ay, they whose honour is a sore part are more fearful of
being touched than they in whom 'tis only a tender one. But tell me
honestly, Penelope, should poor Lovemore be in this rencounter, and
that for your sake, would it have no effect upon you in his favour?
_Pen._ I don't know how to answer you; but I find something in that
reflection which acquaints me 'tis very hard for one to know one's own
heart. [_Sighs._
_Vict._ However, let your heart answer me one question more, as well as
it can. Does it love me as well as ever it did?
_Pen._ Does not, madam, that question proceed from a change in your own?
_Vict._ It does, Penelope; I own it does----I had a long conflict with
myself on my pillow last night.
_Pen._ What were your thoughts there?
_Vict._ That I owed it to our friendship to acknowledge to you that all
the pleasure I once had in you is vanished. Ah, Penelope! I'm sorry for
every good quality you have.
_Pen._ Since you are so frank, I must confess to you something very
like this. But however I envied that sprightly, ingenuous, native
beauty of yours, I see it now so much the figure of your mind that I
can conquer, I think I can, any inclination in myself that opposes the
happiness of so sincere a friend.
_Vict._ Explain yourself, my dear.
_Pen._ I'll discountenance this Bookwit's ambiguous addresses; and if
Lovemore can forgive my late ill-usage----I need say no more.
_Enter_ SERVANT.
_Serv._ Mr. Frederick below desires to see you on some extraordinary
business.
_Vict._ I have not time, my dearest friend, to applaud or thank you,
but must run in----He comes from Lovemore----remember. [_Exit._
_Pen._ Let him come up----Now can't I for my life forbear a little
tyranny.
_Enter_ FREDERICK _and_ LOVEMORE.
_Pen._ Good morrow, sir. I believe I know your business: you're
officious for your friend----But I am deaf.
_Fred._ I know you are, and have been; but I come only to do him a last
office. He'll trouble you no more, but I must conjure you to read this,
and inform this learned gentleman what you know of this misfortune.
_Pen._ [_Reading._] "Your cruelty provoked me to desire the favour of
dying by Mr. Bookwit's hand, since he had taken from me more than life
in robbing me of you----farewell for ever----I direct Frederick not
to give you this till I am no more." Writ in his blood! "Till I am no
more!" Lovemore no more! Thou shalt not be no more----thou shalt live
here for ever. Here, thou dearest paper, mingle with my life's stream;
either the paper bleeds anew, or my eyes weep blood. So let 'em do
forever----Oh, my Lovemore! did the vanity of a prating boy banish thy
solid services and manly love?
_Fred._ This is no reparation to him for his lost life, nor me for
my lost friend. Yet when you please to receive 'em, I am obliged to
deliver you some papers, wherein he has given you all the fortune he
could bestow, nor would revoke it, even thus injured as he was.
_Pen._ Curse on all wealth and fortune! He--he is gone who only
deserved all, and whose worth I know too late!
_Love._ [_To_ FRED.] Oh, ecstasy! Why was I angry at her rejoicing at
my sorrow, when hers to me is such a perfect bliss? 'Tis barbarous not
to discover myself.
_Fred._ [_To_ LOVE.] Do, and be used barbarously----But, madam, you
must be composed. Your life, for ought I know, is at stake; for there
is no such thing as accessories in murder; and it can be proved you
knew of Lovemore's threatening to fight Bookwit. You must either take
your trial yourself, or be Mr. Bookwit's witness.
_Pen._ I his witness! No, I'll swear anything to hang him.
_Fred._ Ah, madam, you must consider yourself, however----Pray, sir,
read her indictment to her.
_Love._ [_Reading._] "That on the said third day of April the said
Penelope, of the parish of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, spinster,
without fear before her eyes, but by the instigation of the devil, and
through an evil pride of heart----"
_Pen._ 'Tis too true----[_Weeping._
_Love._ "Did contrive, abet, and consent to the death of John Lovemore,
Esq., of the age of twenty-eight years, or thereabouts."
_Fred._ I can't hear the mention of him without tears. He was the
sincerest friend.
_Love._ I think I have seen him. He was, I've heard, a man of honesty,
but of something a disagreeable make.
_Pen._ Oh, sir, you never saw him if you think so----His person was as
free as his mind was honest, nor had he imperfection, but his love of
me. [_Weeps._
_Love._ [_To_ FRED.] I tremble I shall disoblige her too much.
_Fred._ [_To_ LOVE.] You shan't discover yourself, you shall go through
her soul, now 'tis moved on our side. Win her now, or see my face no
more; I'll not have my wine spoiled every night with your recitals of
love, and asking advice, though you never mean to take it, like a true
lover.
_Pen._ When did that best of men expire, good Mr. Frederick?
_Fred._ This morning. But should I speak the manner? With a faint,
dying voice he called me to him. I went in tenderness to take my long
farewell. He, in a last effort of nature, pressed me to his breast,
and, with the softest accent, sighed in death--"Penelope."
_Pen._ Oh, the too generous man! Ungrateful I!
Curses on him first flattered with his tongue,
On her that first dissembled in her silence----
What miseries have they entailed on life
To bring in fraud and diffidence of love!
Simplicity's the dress of honest passion,
Then why our arts, why to a man enamoured,
That at her feet effuses all his soul,
Must woman cold appear, false to herself and him?
_Fred._ [_To_ LOVE.] Do you see there? You'd have spoke before she
considered that.
_Pen._ Oh, could I see him now, to press his livid lips,
And call him back to life with my complaints,
His eyes would glare upon my guilt with horror,
That used to gloat and melt in love before me.
Let mine for ever then be shut to joy,
To all that's bright and valuable in man!
I'll to his sacred ashes be a wife,
And to his memory devote my life. [_Exit._
_Love._ This is worth dying for indeed. I'll follow her.
_Fred._ No, you shan't; let her go in, throw herself upon her bed,
and hug, and call her pillow "Lovemore." 'Tis but what you've done a
thousand times for her.
_Love._ That's true too.
_Fred._ Let her contemplate on the mischief of her vanity. She shall
lament till her glass is of our side--till its pretty eyes be all
blubbered; its heart must heave and pant with perfect anguish before
'twill feel the sorrow of another's. Don't you know, pride, scorn,
affectation, and a whole train of ills must be sobbed away before a
great beauty's mortified to purpose?
_Enter_ SERVANT.
_Serv._ Old Mr. Bookwit enquires for you here, Mr. Frederick.
_Fred._ Pray, let him come up.
_Enter_ OLD BOOKWIT.
_Love._ What's the matter? You seem more discomposed than you were at
Mr. Frederick's. Something still new?
_O. Book._ I saw the boy a-coming in a chair; he looks so languid and
distressed, poor lad! He has all his mother's softness, by nature of
the sweetest disposition. Oh, gentlemen, you know not what it is to be
a father! To see my only child in that condition----My grief quickened
at the sight of him. I thought I could have patience till I saw him.
_Enter_ SERVANT.
_Serv._ There are two or three in chairs desire admittance by
appointment.
_O. Book._ 'Tis right, sir.
_Enter_ YOUNG BOOKWIT, LATINE, _and_ GAOLER.
Oh, my dear child! Oh, Tom! are all thy aged father's hopes, then, come
to this, that he can't see thee, his only son, but guarded by a gaoler?
Thy mother's happy that lived not to see this day. Is all the nurture
that she gave thy infancy, the erudition she bequeathed thy youth, thus
answered? Oh, my son! my son! rise and support thy father! I sink with
tenderness, my child; come to my arms while thou art mine.
_Y. Book._ Oh, best of fathers!
Let me not see your tears,
Don't double my afflictions by your woe----
There's consolation when a friend laments us, but
When a parent grieves, the anguish is too native,
Too much our own to be called pity.
Oh, sir, consider; I was born to die.
'Tis but expanding thought, and life is nothing.
Ages and generations pass away,
And with resistless force, like waves o'er waves,
Roll down the irrevocable stream of time
Into the insatiate ocean for ever----Thus we are gone.
But the erroneous sense of man--'tis the lamented
That's at rest, but the survivor mourns.
All my sorrows vanish with that thought,
But Heaven grant my aged father patience!
_O. Book._ Oh, child! [_Turning away._
_Y. Book._ Do not torment yourself, you shall promise not to grieve.
What if they do upbraid you with my death?
Consider, sir, in death that our relation ceases;
Nor shall I want your care, or know your grief.
It matters not whether by law, or nature, 'tis I die.
What, won't my father hear me plead to him?
Don't turn from me----
Yet don't look at me with your soul so full.
_O. Book._ Oh, my child! my child! I could hear thee ever.
'Twas that I loved thee that I turn away;
To hear my son persuade me to resign him,
I can't, I can't. The grief is insupportable.
_Y. Book._ You make a coward of me with your anguish.
I grow an infant, scarce can weep with silence;
But let me keep some decency in my distress.
_O. Book._ If we might be apart--
[_Looking at the company._
But that's too much to hope.
_Gaol._ No, no, we'll leave you to yourselves. [_Exeunt._
_O. Book._ I have too much upon me, child, to speak--and, indeed, have
nothing to say, but to feed my eyes upon thee e'er we part for ever, if
tears would let me. When you have slept in your cradle, I have waked
for you--and was it to this end! Oh, child, you've broke your father's
heart. [_Swoons._
_Y. Book._ Good Heav'n forbid it--guard him and protect him.
He faints, he's cold, he's gone; [_Running to him._
He's gone, and with his last breath called me parricide.
"You've broke your father's heart!" Oh, killing sound!
I'm all contagion; to pity me is death:
My griefs to all are mortal but myself.
"You've broke your father's heart!" If I did so,
Why thus serene in death, thou smiling clay?
Why that calm aspect to thy murderer?
Oh, big unutterable grief----merciful Heaven!
I don't deserve this ease of tears to melt
With penitence--Oh, sweet, sweet remorse;
Now all my powers give way
To my just sorrow, for the best of fathers. [_Aloud._
Thou venerable fountain of my life,
Why don't I also die, derived from thee?
Sure you are not gone--Is the way out of life
Thus easy, which you so much feared in me?
[_Takes him by the hand._
Why stay I after? But I deserve to stay,
To feel the quick remembrance of my follies.
Yet if my sighs, my tears, my anguish can atone----
_Re-enter_ FREDERICK, LOVEMORE, LATINE, GAOLER, VICTORIA, _and_
PENELOPE.
_Fred._ What is the matter? What----
_Y. Book._ Behold this sight! I am the guilty wretch--
_Fred._ Keep aside a little, sir, he only swoons, I hope. I think he
breathes--yes, he returns. You must compose yourself.
_Lat._ Poor Bookwit! how utterly he seems distressed!
_O. Book._ I will be calm--resign to Heaven--and hear you patiently.
_Fred._ You, sir, his favourite servant, pray speak honestly the truth
of what you know to this learned gentleman, who is counsel in this case.
_Y. Book._ Sir, he is not----
_Love._ Pray, sir, give the servant leave first.
_Lat._ Know, then, I am not what I seem, but a gentleman of a plentiful
fortune. I am thus dressed to carry on such gay pursuits as should
offer in this town. Not to detain you, Mr. Bookwit sent me late last
night with a letter to one of these ladies. Coming from thence, as I
crossed, I saw Lovemore in the Garden. He stopped me, and, after some
questions concerning my message to this house, to which he did not like
my answers, he struck me. We fought--I left him dead upon the spot; of
which this gentleman is guiltless.
_O. Book._ How! was it you, then, that killed Mr. Lovemore?
_Lat._ 'Twas this unhappy hand gave him his death, but so provoked--
_Y. Book._ Who could believe that any pleasing passion
Could touch a breast loaded with guilt like mine?
But all my mind is seized with admiration
Of thy stupendous friendship. What then--
Could'st thou hold thy innocent hand up at a bar
With felons, to save thy friend?
How shall I chide or praise thy brave imposture?
Ah, sir, believe him not! He cannot bear the loss of me whom he
o'ervalues; therefore with highest gallantry he offers a benefit which
'twere the meanest baseness to receive.
But death's more welcome than a life so purchased.
_Lat._ We all know you can talk, and gild things as you please, but the
lady's servant knows I was taken near the body when you----
_Y. Book._ Sir, do but hear me--[_Pushing away_ LAT.
_Lat._ I'll easily convince you--[_Pushing away_ BOOK.
_Y. Book._ Pray mind him not, his brain is touched--
_Lat._ I am the man, he was not near the place----
_Love._ I can hold out no longer.--Lovemore still lives to adore
your noble friendship, and begs a share in't. Be not amazed! but
let me grasp you both, who, in an age degenerate as this, have such
transcendent virtue--
_Y. Book._ Oh, Lovemore! Lovemore! how shall I speak my joy at thy
recovery--
I fail beneath the too ecstatic pleasure.
What help has human nature from its sorrows,
When our relief itself is such a burthen?
_O. Book._ Oh, the best burthen upon earth!--I beg your pardon, sir--I
never was so taken with a man in my life at first sight. [_Kisses_
LOVE.] Let me be known to you too. [_To_ LAT.
_Lat._ Sir, you do me honour.
_O. Book._ But you, ladies, are the first cause of the many errors we
have been in, and you only can extricate us with satisfaction. Such
is the force of beauty. The wounds the sword gave this gentleman were
slight, but you've transfixed a vital and a noble part--his heart. Had
I known his pretences, I had not interposed for my son.
_Fred._ Come, madam, no more of the cruel--go on, Lovemore; o' my
conscience, the man's afraid 'tis impudence to be alive again. You see
him now, madam; now you may press his livid lips, and call him back to
life with your complaints.
_Love._ I stand, methinks, on the brink of fate, in an ambiguous
interval of life, and doubt to accept of being till you smile. In every
human incident besides
I am superior, and can choose or leave;
But in minutest things that touch my love,
My bosom's seized with anguish or with transport.
_Pen._ You've shown your passion to me with such honour that if I am
confused, I know I should not be, to say I approve it; for I know no
rules should make me insensible of generous usage. My person and my
mind are yours for ever.
_Love._ Then doubts, and fears, and anxious cares be gone,
All ye black thoughts that did corrode my breast;
Here enter faith, and confidence, and love!
Love that can't live with jealousy, but dwells
With sacred marriage, truth, and mutual honour.
I knew not where you would bestow your vows,
But never doubted of your faith when given.
[_Kissing her hand._
_O. Book._ You see, my son, how constancy's rewarded!
You have from nature every quality
To make you well become what fortune gave you;
But neither wit nor beauty, wealth nor courage,
Implicitly deserve the world's esteem;
They're only in their application good.
How could you fight a man you knew not why?
You don't think that 'tis great merely to dare?
'Tis that a man is just he should be bold.
Indeed you've erred.
_Lat._ You give my friend, methinks, too much compunction for a little
levity in his actions--when he's too severe in his own reflections on
'em.
_Pen._ Well, Victoria, you see I take your advice at last in choice of
Lovemore.
_Vict._ I congratulate your missing of the other.
_Pen._ I heartily believe you, my dear friend.
_O. Book._ But we best guide our actions by hopes of reward. Could
but my son have such a glorious prospect as this fair one. [_To_
VICTORIA.] I doubt not but his future carriage would deserve her.
_Vict._ I believe I may safely promise to approve of all the truth he
tells me.
_Y. Book._ You've promised, then, to like all I shall say.
_O. Book._ These unexpected good events deserve our celebration with
some mirth and fiddles.
_Fred._ I foresaw this happy turn, therefore have prepared 'em. Call in
the dancers.
_Song, by_ MR. LEVERIDGE.
I.
The rolling years the joys restore,
Which happy, happy Britain knew,
When in a female age before
Beauty the sword of justice drew.
II.
Nymphs and fawns, and rural powers,
Of crystal floods and shady bowers,
No more shall here preside;
The flowing wave and living green,
Owe only to their present queen
Their safety and their pride.
III.
United air and pleasures bring,
Of tender note and tuneful string,
All your arts devoted are
To move the innocent and fair.
While they receive the pleasing wound,
Echo repeats the dying sound.
_Y. Book._ Since such deserved misfortunes they must share,
Who with gay falsehoods entertain the fair;
Let all with this just maxim guide their youth,
There is no gallantry in love but truth. [_Exeunt._
EPILOGUE.
Our too advent'rous author soared to-night
Above the little praise, mirth to excite,
And chose with pity to chastise delight.
For laughter's a distorted passion, born
Of sudden self-esteem and sudden scorn;
Which, when 'tis o'er, the men in pleasure wise,
Both him that moved it and themselves despise;
While generous pity of a painted woe
Makes us ourselves both more approve and know.
What is that touch within which nature gave
For man to man e'er fortune made a slave?
Sure it descends from that dread Power alone,
Who levels thunder from His awful throne,
And shakes both worlds--yet hears the wretched groan.
'Tis what the ancient sage could ne'er define,
Wondered--and called part human, part divine;
'Tis that pure joy which guardian angels know,
When timely they assist their care below,
When they the good protect, the ill oppose;
'Tis what our sovereign feels when she bestows,
Which gives her glorious cause such high success,
That only on the stage you see distress.
_THE TENDER HUSBAND:_
OR
_THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS._
"Oportet ut is qui audiat cogitet plura quam videat."[77]
CICERO DE ORATORE.
Steele's third play, _The Tender Husband: or, the Accomplished Fools, a
Comedy_, was given to Rich, of the Theatre Royal, in March, 1705, and
was produced on April 23, when it ran for five nights, "with several
entertainments of singing by Mrs. Tofts, and dancing"; and again in May
and June. The profits were but small. The play was published by Tonson
on the 9th of May. It was acted several times nearly every year between
1705 and 1736, and occasionally afterwards. In 1760, Garrick appeared
as Sir Harry Gubbin, and in 1802, Charles Kemble and Mrs. Jordan
acted in the piece. Mills (Clerimont, Sen.), Wilks (Capt. Clerimont),
Estcourt (Pounce), Bullock (Sir Harry Gubbin), Pinkethman (Humphry
Gubbin), Norris (Tipkin), Mrs. Powell (Aunt), and Mrs. Oldfield
(Niece), were in the original cast. Steele was indebted for some ideas
in the fourth Act to Molière's _Sicilien: ou, l'Amour Peintre_, and
possibly to Cibber's _Careless Husband_, which had recently appeared.
In No. 555 of the _Spectator_ he said that "many applauded strokes" in
the piece were from Addison's hand. Fielding, Goldsmith, and Sheridan
had Steele's play in view when they created the characters of Squire
Western, Tony Lumpkin, and Lydia Languish. The phrase "accomplished
fools" had been used by Steele in the _Lying Lover_ (p. 148).
_To_
MR. ADDISON.[78]
SIR,
You'll be surprised, in the midst of a daily and familiar conversation,
with an address which bears so distant an air as a public dedication.
But to put you out of the pain which I know this will give you, I
assure you I do not design in it, what would be very needless, a
panegyric on yourself, or what, perhaps, is very necessary, a defence
of the play. In the one I should discover too much the concern of an
author, in the other too little the freedom of a friend.
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. At the same time I hope I make the
Town no ill compliment for their kind acceptance of this Comedy, in
acknowledging that it has so far raised my opinion of it, as to make me
think it no improper memorial of an inviolable friendship.
I should not offer it to you as such, had I not 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.
Poetry, under such restraints, is an obliging service to human society;
especially when it is used, like your admirable vein, to recommend more
useful qualities in yourself, or immortalise characters truly heroic in
others. I am here in danger of breaking my promise to you, therefore
shall take the only opportunity that can offer itself of resisting my
own inclinations, by complying with yours. I am,
SIR,
Your most faithful,
Humble Servant,
RICHARD STEELE.
PROLOGUE.
_Written by_ MR. ADDISON.
_Spoken by_ MR. WILKS.[79]
In the first rise and infancy of farce,
When fools were many, and when plays were scarce,
The raw, unpractised authors could, with ease,
A young and unexperienced audience please;
No single character had e'er been shown,
But the whole herd of fops was all their own;
Rich in originals, they set to view,
In every piece, a coxcomb that was new.
But now our British theatre can boast
Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host!
Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows
Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and beaux;
Rough-country knights are found of every shire,
Of every fashion gentle fops appear;
And punks of different characters we meet,
As frequent on the stage as in the pit.
Our modern wits are forced to pick and cull,
And here and there by chance glean up a fool;
Long ere they find the necessary spark,
They search the Town and beat about the Park;
To all his most frequented haunts resort,
Oft dog him to the Ring,[80] and oft to Court;
As love of pleasure or of place invites,
And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's.[81]
However, to do you right, the present age
Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage,
That scorn the paths their dull forefathers trod,
And won't be blockheads in the common road.
Do but survey this crowded house to-night--
Here's still encouragement for those that write.
Our author, to divert his friends to-day,
Stocks with variety of fools his play;
And that there may be something gay and new,
Two ladies errant has exposed to view;
The first a damsel, travelled in romance,
The t'other more refined--she comes from France.
Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger,
And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger.
A SONG.
_Designed for the Fourth Act, but not set._
I.
See, Britons, see, with awful eyes,
Britannia from her seas arise!
Ten thousand billows round me roar,
While winds and waves engage,
That break in froth upon my shore,
And impotently rage.
Such were the terrors which of late
Surrounded my afflicted state;
United fury thus was bent
On my devoted seats,
Till all the mighty force was spent
In feeble swells, and empty threats.
II.
But now, with rising glory crowned,
My joys run high, they know no bound;
Tides of unruly pleasure flow
Through every swelling vein,
New raptures in my bosom glow,
And warm me up to youth again.
Passing pomps my streets adorn;
Captive spoils, in triumph borne,
Standards of Gauls, in fight subdued,
Colours in hostile blood embrued,
Ensigns of tyrannic might,
Foes to equity and right,
In courts of British justice wave on high,
Sacred to law and liberty.
My crowded theatres repeat,
In songs of triumph, the defeat.
Did ever joyful mother see
So bright, so brave a progeny!
Daughters with so much beauty crowned,
Or sons for valour so renowned!
III.
But oh, I gaze and seek in vain
To find, amidst this warlike train,
My absent sons, that used to grace
With decent pride this joyous place:
Unhappy youths! how do my sorrows rise,
Swell my breast, and melt my eyes,
While I your mighty loss deplore?
Wild, and raging with distress
I mourn, I mourn my own success,
And boast my victories no more.
Unhappy youths! far from their native sky,
On Danube's banks interred they lie.
Germania, give me back my slain,
Give me my slaughtered sons again.
Was it for this they ranged so far,
To free thee from oppressive war?
Germania, &c.
IV.
Tears of sorrow while I shed
O'er the manes of my dead,
Lasting altars let me raise
To my living heroes' praise;
Heaven give them a longer stay,
As glorious actions to display,
Or perish on as great a day.
_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._
Sir HARRY GUBBIN, brother-in-law to Mr. TIPKIN.
HUMPHRY GUBBIN, son of Sir HARRY GUBBIN, and suitor to BIDDY TIPKIN,
his cousin.
Mr. TIPKIN, a banker, BIDDY TIPKIN'S uncle.
CLERIMONT, SEN.
Capt. CLERIMONT, brother of CLERIMONT, SEN.
Mr. POUNCE, a lawyer, FAINLOVE'S brother.
Mrs. CLERIMONT.
AUNT (Mrs. TIPKIN).
NIECE (BIDDY TIPKIN), Mr. TIPKIN'S niece.
FAINLOVE, mistress to CLERIMONT, SEN.
JENNY, maid to Mrs. CLERIMONT.
SCENE.--LONDON.
_THE TENDER HUSBAND: OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS._
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.--CLERIMONT, SEN.'S _House._
_Enter_ CLERIMONT, SEN. _and_ FAINLOVE.
_Cler. Sen._ Well, Mr. Fainlove, how do you go on in your amour with my
wife?
_Fain._ I am very civil and very distant; if she smiles or speaks, I
bow and gaze at her; then throw down my eyes, as if oppressed by fear
of offence, then steal a look again till she again sees me. This is my
general method.
_Cler. Sen._ And it is right. For such a fine lady has no guard to her
virtue but her pride; therefore you must constantly apply yourself
to that. But, dear Lucy, as you have been a very faithful but a very
costly wench to me, so my spouse also has been constant to my bed, but
careless of my fortune.
_Fain._ Ah! my dear, how could you leave your poor Lucy, and run into
France to see sights, and show your gallantry with a wife? Was not that
unnatural?
_Cler. Sen._ She brought me a noble fortune, and I thought she had a
right to share it; therefore carried her to see the world, forsooth,
and make the tour of France and Italy, where she learned to lose her
money gracefully, to admire every vanity in our sex, and contemn every
virtue in her own, which, with ten thousand other perfections, are the
ordinary improvements of a travelled lady. Now I can neither mortify
her vanity, that I may live at ease with her, or quite discard her,
till I have catched her a little enlarging her innocent freedoms, as
she calls 'em. For this end I am content to be a French husband, though
now and then with the secret pangs of an Italian one; and therefore,
sir, or madam, you are thus equipped to attend and accost her ladyship.
It concerns you to be diligent. If we wholly part--I need say no more.
If we do not--I'll see thee well provided for.
_Fain._ I'll do all I can, I warrant you, but you are not to expect
I'll go much among the men.
_Cler. Sen._ No, no; you must not go near men; you are only (when
my wife goes to a play) to sit in a side box with pretty fellows. I
don't design you to personate a real man, you are only to be a pretty
gentleman; not to be of any use or consequence in the world, as to
yourself, but merely as a property to others; such as you see now and
then have a life in the entail of a great estate, that seem to have
come into the world only to be tags in the pedigree of a wealthy house.
You must have seen many of that species.
_Fain._ I apprehend you; such as stand in assemblies, with an indolent
softness and contempt of all around them; who make a figure in public
and are scorned in private; I have seen such a one with a pocket glass
to see his own face, and an effective perspective to know others.
[_Imitates each._
_Cler. Sen._ Ay, ay, that's my man--thou dear rogue.
_Fain._ Let me alone; I'll lay my life I'll horn you--that is, I'll
make it appear I might if I could.
_Cler. Sen._ Ay, that will please me quite as well.
_Fain._ To show you the progress I have made, I last night won of her
five hundred pounds, which I have brought you safe. [_Giving him bills._
_Cler. Sen._ Oh the damned vice! That women can imagine all household
care, regard to posterity, and fear of poverty, must be sacrificed to
a game at cards! Suppose she had not had it to pay, and you had been
capable of finding your account another way?
_Fain._ That's but a suppose--
_Cler. Sen._ I say, she must have complied with everything you asked.
_Fain._ But she knows you never limit her expenses.--I'll gain him from
her for ever if I can. [_Aside._
_Cler. Sen._ With this you have repaid me two thousand pounds, and if
you did not refund thus honestly, I could not have supplied her. We
must have parted.
_Fain._ Then you shall part--if t'other way fails--[_Aside._]--However,
I can't blame your fondness of her, she has so many entertaining
qualities with her vanity. Then she has such a pretty unthinking air,
while she saunters round a room, and prattles sentences.
_Cler. Sen._ That was her turn from her infancy; she always had a great
genius for knowing everything but what it was necessary she should. The
wits of the age, the great beauties, and short-lived people of vogue,
were always her discourse and imitation. Thus the case stood when she
went to France; but her fine follies improved so daily, that though I
was then proud of her being called Mr. Clerimont's wife, I am now as
much out of countenance to hear myself called Mrs. Clerimont's husband,
so much is the superiority of her side.
_Fain._ I am sure if ever I gave myself a little liberty, I never found
you so indulgent.
_Cler. Sen._ I should have the whole sex on my back, should I pretend
to retrench a lady so well visited as mine is. Therefore I must bring
it about that it shall appear her own act, if she reforms; or else I
shall be pronounced jealous, and have my eyes pulled out for being
open. But I hear my brother Jack coming, who, I hope, has brought yours
with him--Hist, not a word.
_Enter_ CAPTAIN CLERIMONT _and_ POUNCE.
_Cler._ I have found him out at last, brother, and brought you the
obsequious Mr. Pounce; I saw him at a distance in a crowd, whispering
in their turns with all about him. He is a gentleman so received, so
courted, and so trusted----
_Pounce._ I am very glad if you saw anything like that, if the
approbation of others can recommend me (where I much more desire it) to
this company.
_Cler._ Oh, the civil person--But, dear Pounce, you know I am your
professed admirer; I always celebrated you for your excellent skill and
address, for that happy knowledge of the world, which makes you seem
born for living with the persons you are with, wherever you come. Now
my brother and I want your help in a business that requires a little
more dexterity than we ourselves are masters of.
_Pounce._ You know, sir, my character is helping the distressed, which
I do freely and without reserve; while others are for distinguishing
rigidly on the justice of the occasion, and so lose the grace of the
benefit. Now 'tis my profession to assist a free-hearted young fellow
against an unnatural long-lived father; to disencumber men of pleasure
of the vexation of unwieldy estates; to support a feeble title to an
inheritance; to----
_Cler. Sen._ I have been well acquainted with your merits, ever since
I saw you with so much compassion prompt a stammering witness in
Westminster Hall, that wanted instruction. I love a man that can
venture his ears with so much bravery for his friend.
_Pounce._ Dear sir, spare my modesty, and let me know to what all this
panegyric tends.
_Cler. Sen._ Why, sir, what I would say is in behalf of my brother, the
Captain, here, whose misfortune it is that I was born before him.
_Pounce._ I am confident he had rather you should have been so than any
other man in England.
_Cler._ You do me justice, Mr. Pounce, but though 'tis to that
gentleman, I am still a younger brother, and you know we that are so,
are generally condemned to shops, colleges, or inns of court.
_Pounce._ But you, sir, have escaped 'em, you have been trading in the
noble mart of glory.
_Cler._ That's true. But the general makes such haste to finish the
war, that we red coats may be soon out of fashion; and then I am a
fellow of the most easy indolent disposition in the world! I hate all
manner of business.
_Pounce._ A composed temper, indeed!
_Cler._ In such a case I should have no way of livelihood, but calling
over this gentleman's dogs in the country, drinking his stale beer to
the neighbourhood, or marrying a fortune.
_Cler. Sen._ To be short, Pounce--I am putting Jack upon marriage, and
you are so public an envoy, or rather plenipotentiary, from the very
different nations of Cheapside, Covent Garden, and St. James's; you
have, too, the mien and language of each place so naturally, that you
are the properest instrument I know in the world, to help an honest
young fellow to favour in one of 'em, by credit in the other.
_Pounce._ By what I understand of your many prefaces, gentlemen, the
purpose of all this is, that it would not in the least discompose this
gentleman's easy indolent disposition to fall into twenty thousand
pounds, though it came upon him never so suddenly.
_Cler._ You are a very discerning man; how could you see so far through
me, as to know I love a fine woman, pretty equipage, good company, and
a clean habitation?
_Pounce._ Well, though I am so much a conjurer--what then?
_Cler. Sen._ You know a certain person, into whose hands you now and
then recommend a young heir, to be relieved from the vexation of
tenants, taxes, and so forth----
_Pounce._ What! My worthy friend and city patron Hezekiah Tipkin,
banker in Lombard Street; would the noble Captain lay any sums in his
hands?
_Cler._ No; but the noble Captain would have treasure out of his hands.
You know his niece?
_Pounce._ To my knowledge ten thousand pounds in money.
_Cler._ Such a stature, such a blooming countenance, so easy a shape!
_Pounce._ In jewels of her grandmother's five thousand.
_Cler._ Her wit so lively, her mien so alluring!
_Pounce._ In land a thousand a year.
_Cler._ Her lips have that certain prominence, that swelling softness
that they invite to a pressure; her eyes that languish, that they give
pain, though they look only inclined to rest; her whole person that one
charm----
_Pounce._ Raptures! Raptures!
_Cler._ How can it, so insensibly to itself, lead us through cares it
knows not, through such a wilderness of hopes, fears, joys, sorrows,
desires, despairs, ecstasies and torments, with so sweet, yet so
anxious vicissitude!
_Pounce._ Why, I thought you had never seen her?
_Cler._ No more I han't.
_Pounce._ Who told you then of her inviting lips, her soft sleepy eyes?
_Cler._ You yourself.
_Pounce._ Sure you rave, I never spoke of her afore to you.
_Cler._ Why, you won't face me down--Did you not just now say she had
ten thousand pounds in money, five in jewels, and a thousand a year?
_Pounce._ I confess my own stupidity and her charms. Why, if you were
to meet, you would certainly please her, you have the cant of loving;
but pray, may we be free--that young gentleman.
_Cler._ A very honest, modest gentleman of my acquaintance, one that
has much more in him than he appears to have. You shall know him
better, sir; this is Mr. Pounce; Mr. Pounce, this is Mr. Fainlove; I
must desire you to let him be known to you and your friends.
_Pounce._ I shall be proud. Well then, since we may be free, you must
understand, the young lady, by being kept from the world, has made a
world of her own. She has spent all her solitude in reading romances,
her head is full of shepherds, knights, flowery meads, groves, and
streams, so that if you talk like a man of this world to her, you do
nothing.
_Cler._ Oh, let me alone--I have been a great traveller in fairy-land
myself, I know Oroondates; Cassandra, Astræa and Clelia[82] are my
intimate acquaintance.
Go my heart's envoys, tender sighs make haste,
And with your breath swell the soft zephyr's blast;
Then near that fair one if you chance to fly,
Tell her, in whispers, 'tis for her I die.
_Pounce._ That would do, that would do--her very language.
_Cler. Sen._ Why then, dear Pounce, I know thou art the only man living
that can serve him.
_Pounce._ Gentlemen, you must pardon me, I am soliciting the marriage
settlement between her and a country booby, her cousin, Humphry Gubbin,
Sir Harry's heir, who is come to town to take possession of her.
_Cler. Sen._ Well, all that I can say to the matter is, that a thousand
pounds on the day of Jack's marriage to her, is more than you'll get by
the despatch of those deeds.
_Pounce._ Why, a thousand pounds is a pretty thing, especially when
'tis to take a lady fair out of the hands of an obstinate ill-bred
clown, to give her to a gentle swain, a dying enamoured knight.
_Cler. Sen._ Ay, dear Pounce, consider but that--the justice of the
thing.
_Pounce._ Besides, he is just come from the glorious Blenheim![83] Look
ye, Captain, I hope you have learned an implicit obedience to your
leaders.
_Cler._ 'Tis all I know.
_Pounce._ Then, if I am to command, make not one step without me. And
since we may be free, I am also to acquaint you, there will be more
merit in bringing this matter to bear than you imagine. Yet right
measures make all things possible.
_Cler._ We'll follow yours exactly.
_Pounce._ But the great matter against us is want of time, for the
nymph's uncle, and 'squire's father, this morning met, and made an end
of the matter. But the difficulty of a thing, Captain, shall be no
reason against attempting it.
_Cler._ I have so great an opinion of your conduct, that I warrant you
we conquer all.
_Pounce._ I am so intimately employed by old Tipkin, and so necessary
to him, that I may, perhaps, puzzle things yet.
_Cler. Sen._ I have seen thee cajole the knave very dexterously.
_Pounce._ Why, really, sir, generally speaking, 'tis but knowing what
a man thinks of himself, and giving him that, to make him what else
you please. Now Tipkin is an absolute Lombard Street wit, a fellow
that drolls on the strength of fifty thousand pounds. He is called on
'change, Sly-boots, and by the force of a very good credit, and very
bad conscience, he is a leading person. But we must be quick, or he'll
sneer old Sir Harry out of his senses, and strike up the sale of his
niece immediately.
_Cler._ But my rival, what's he?
_Pounce._ There's some hopes there, for I hear the booby is as averse
as his father is inclined to it. One is as obstinate as the other is
cruel.
_Cler. Sen._ He is, they say, a pert blockhead, and very lively out of
his father's sight.
_Pounce._ He that gave me his character called him a docile dunce, a
fellow rather absurd, than a direct fool. When his father's absent,
he'll pursue anything he's put upon. But we must not lose time. Pray
be you two brothers at home to wait for any notice from me, while that
pretty gentleman and I, whose face I have known, take a walk and look
about for 'em--So, so, young lady. [_Aside to_ FAINLOVE.] [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.--_St. James's Park._
_Enter_ SIR HARRY GUBBIN _and_ TIPKIN.
_Sir Har._ Look ye, brother Tipkin, as I told you before, my business
in town is to dispose of an hundred head of cattle, and my son.
_Tip._ Brother Gubbin, as I signified to you in my last, bearing date
September 13th, my niece has a thousand pounds per annum, and because
I have found you a plain-dealing man (particularly in the easy pad
you put into my hands last summer), I was willing you should have
the refusal of my niece, provided that I have a discharge from all
retrospects while her guardian, and one thousand pounds for my care.
_Sir Har._ Ay, but brother, you rate her too high, the war has fetched
down the price of women; the whole nation is overrun with petticoats;
our daughters lie upon our hands, Brother Tipkin; girls are drugs, sir,
mere drugs.
_Tip._ Look ye, Sir Harry, let girls be what they will, a thousand
pounds a year, is a thousand pounds a year; and a thousand pounds a
year is neither girl nor boy.
_Sir Har._ Look ye, Mr. Tipkin, the main article with me is, that
foundation of wive's rebellion, and husband's cuckoldom, that cursed
pin-money. Five hundred pounds per annum pin-money!
_Tip._ The word pin-money, Sir Harry, is a term.
_Sir Har._ It is a term, brother, we never had in our family, nor
ever will. Make her jointure in widowhood accordingly large, but four
hundred pounds a year is enough to give no account of.
_Tip._ Well, Sir Harry, since you can't swallow these pins, I will
abate to four hundred pounds.
_Sir Har._ And to mollify the article, as well as specify the uses,
we'll put in the names of several female utensils, as needles,
knitting-needles, tape, thread, scissors, bodkins, fans, play-books,
with other toys of that nature. And now, since we have as good as
concluded on the marriage, it will not be improper that the young
people see each other.
_Tip._ I don't think it prudent till the very instant of marriage, lest
they should not like one another.
_Sir Har._ They shall meet--As for the young girl, she cannot dislike
Numps; and for Numps, I never suffered him to have anything he liked in
his life. He'll be here immediately; he has been trained up from his
childhood under such a plant as this, in my hand--I have taken pains in
his education.
_Tip._ Sir Harry, I approve your method; for since you have left
off hunting you might otherwise want exercise, and this is a subtle
expedient to preserve your own health and your son's good manners.
_Sir Har._ It has been the custom of the Gubbins to preserve severity
and discipline in their families: I myself was caned the day before my
wedding.
_Tip._ Ay, Sir Harry, had you not been well cudgelled in your youth,
you had never been the man you are.
_Sir Har._ You say right, sir, now I feel the benefit of it. There's
a crab-tree near your house which flourishes for the good of my
posterity, and has brushed our jackets from father to son, for several
generations.
_Tip._ I am glad to hear you have all things necessary for the family
within yourselves.
_Sir Har._ Oh, yonder, I see Numps is coming--I have dressed him in the
very suit I had on at my own wedding; 'tis a most becoming apparel.
_Enter_ HUMPHRY GUBBIN.
_Tip._ Truly, the youth makes a good marriageable figure.
_Sir Har._ Come forward, Numps; this is your uncle Tipkin, your
mother's brother, Numps, that is so kind as to bestow his niece upon
you.--Don't be so glum, sirrah, don't bow to a man with a face as if
you'd knock him down, don't, sirrah. [_Apart._
_Tip._ I am glad to see you, cousin Humphry.--He is not talkative, I
observe already.
_Sir Har._ He is very shrewd, sir, when he pleases.--Do you see
this crab-stick, you dog? [_Apart._]--Well, Numps, don't be out of
humour.--Will you talk? [_Apart._]--Come, we're your friends, Numps;
come, lad.
_Hump._ You are a pure fellow for a father. This is always your tricks,
to make a great fool of one before company. [_Apart to his father._
_Sir Har._ Don't disgrace me, sirrah, you grim, graceless
rogue--[_Apart._]--Brother, he has been bred up to respect and silence
before his parents. Yet did you but hear what a noise he makes
sometimes in the kitchen, or the kennel--he's the loudest of 'em all.
_Tip._ Well, Sir Harry, since you assure me he can speak, I'll take
your word for it.
_Hump._ I can speak when I see occasion, and I can hold my tongue when
I see occasion.
_Sir Har._ Well said, Numps--Sirrah, I see you can do well, if you
will. [_Apart._
_Tip._ Pray walk up to me, cousin Humphry.
_Sir Har._ Ay, walk to and fro between us with your hat under your
arm.--Clear up your countenance. [_Apart._
_Tip._ I see, Sir Harry, you han't set him a-capering under a French
dancing-master. He does not mince it. He has not learned to walk by a
courant or a boree.[84] His paces are natural, Sir Harry.
_Hump._ I don't know, but 'tis so we walk in the West of England.
_Sir Har._ Ay, right, Numps, and so we do. Ha! ha! ha! Pray, brother,
observe his make, none of your lath-backed wishy-washy breed. Come
hither, Numps--Can't you stand still? [_Apart._]
[_Measuring his shoulders._
_Tip._ I presume this is not the first time, Sir Harry, you have
measured his shoulders with your cane.
_Sir Mar._ Look ye, brother, two foot and a-half in the shoulders.
_Tip._ Two foot and a-half? We must make some settlement on the younger
children.
_Sir Har._ Not like him, quotha'!
_Tip._ He may see his cousin when he pleases.
_Hump._ But harkee, uncle, I have a scruple I had better mention before
marriage than after.
_Tip._ What's that? What's that?
_Hump._ My cousin, you know, is akin to me, and I don't think it lawful
for a young man to marry his own relations.[85]
_Sir Har._ Harkee, harkee, Numps, we have got a way to solve all
that.--Sirrah! Consider this cudgel! Your cousin! suppose I'd have you
marry your grandmother; what then? [_Apart._
_Tip._ Well, has your father satisfied you in the point, Mr. Humphry?
_Hump._ Ay, ay, sir, very well. I have not the least scruple remaining;
no, no--not in the least, sir.
_Tip._ Then harkee, brother, we'll go take a whet and settle the whole
affair.
_Sir Har._ Come, we'll leave Numps here: he knows the way--Not marry
your own relations, sirrah! [_Apart._ [_Exeunt._
_Hump._ Very fine, very fine! How prettily this park is stocked with
soldiers, and deer, and ducks, and ladies!--Ha! where are the old
fellows gone? where can they be tro'----I'll ask these people.
_Enter_ POUNCE _and_ FAINLOVE.
_Hump._ Ha, you pretty young gentleman, did you see my father?
_Fain._ Your father, sir?
_Hump._ A weazel-faced cross old gentleman with spindle-shanks?
_Fain._ No, sir.
_Hump._ A crab-tree stick in his hand?
_Pounce._ We han't met anybody with these marks; but sure I have seen
you before--Are not you Mr. Humphry Gubbin, son and heir to Sir Henry
Gubbin?
_Hump._ I am his son and heir--but how long I shall be so I can't tell,
for he talks every day of disinheriting me.
_Pounce._ Dear sir, let me embrace you--Nay, don't be offended if I
take the liberty to kiss you. Mr. Fainlove, pray [FAINLOVE _kisses_]
kiss the gentleman--Nay, dear sir, don't stare and be surprised, for I
have had a desire to be better known to you ever since I saw you one
day clinch your fist at your father when his back was turned upon you;
for I must own I very much admire a young gentleman of spirit.
_Hump._ Why, sir, would it not vex a man to the heart to have an old
fool snubbing a body every minute afore company?
_Pounce._ Oh fie, he uses you like a boy.
_Hump._ Like a boy! He lays me on now and then as if I were one of his
hounds. You can't think what a rage he was in this morning because I
boggled a little at marrying my own cousin.
_Pounce._ A man can't be too scrupulous, Mr. Humphry--a man can't be
too scrupulous.
_Hump._ Sir, I could as soon love my own flesh and blood; we should
squabble like brother and sister; do you think we should not?
Mr.----Pray, gentlemen, may I crave the favour of your names?
_Pounce._ Sir, I am the very person that has been employed to draw up
the articles of marriage between you and your cousin.
_Hump._ Ay, say you so? Then you can inform me in some things
concerning myself--Pray, sir, what estate am I heir to?
_Pounce._ To fifteen hundred pounds a year, an entailed estate.
_Hump._ I am glad to hear it with all my heart; and can you satisfy me
in another question--Pray how old am I at present?
_Pounce._ Three-and-twenty last March.
_Hump._ Why, as sure as you are there, they have kept me back. I have
been told by some of the neighbourhood that I was born the very year
the pigeon-house was built, and everybody knows the pigeon-house is
three-and-twenty. Why! I find there have been tricks played me. I have
obeyed him all along, as if I had been obliged to it.
_Pounce._ Not at all, sir; your father can't cut you out of one acre of
fifteen hundred pounds a year.
_Hump._ What a fool have I been to give him his head so long!
_Pounce._ A man of your beauty and fortune may find out ladies enough
that are not akin to you.
_Hump._ Look ye, Mr. what d'ye call--as to my beauty, I don't know but
they may take a liking to that. But, sir, mayn't I crave your name?
_Pounce._ My name, sir, is Pounce, at your service.
_Hump._ Pounce, with a P?
_Pounce._ Yes, sir, and Samuel, with an S.
_Hump._ Why, then, Mr. Samuel Pounce, do you know any gentlewoman that
you think I could like? For, 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 balked.
_Pounce._ I have a thought just come into my head--Do you see this
young gentleman? He has a sister, a prodigious fortune. 'Faith, you two
shall be acquainted.
_Fain._ I can't pretend to expect so accomplished a gentleman as Mr.
Humphry for my sister, but being your friend, I'll be at his service in
the affair.
_Hump._ If I had your sister, she and I should live like two turtles.
_Pounce._ Mr. Humphry, you shan't be fooled any longer; I'll carry you
into company. Mr. Fainlove, you shall introduce him to Mrs. Clerimont's
toilet.
_Fain._ She'll be highly taken with him; for she loves a gentleman
whose manner is particular.
_Pounce._ What, sir, a person of your pretensions, a clear estate,
no portions to pay! 'Tis barbarous, your treatment.--Mr. Humphry,
I'm afraid you want money. There's for you--What, a man of your
accomplishments! [_Giving a purse._
_Hump._ And yet you see, sir, how they use me. Dear sir, you are the
best friend I ever met with in all my life. Now I am flush of money,
bring me to your sister, and I warrant you for my behaviour--A man's
quite another thing with money in his pocket, you know.
_Pounce._ How little the oaf wonders why I should give him money!
[_Aside_].--You shall never want, Mr. Humphry, while I have it, Mr.
Humphry; but dear friend, I must take my leave of you; I have some
extraordinary business on my hands. I can't stay; but you must not say
a word.
_Fain._ But you must be in the way half-an-hour hence, and I'll
introduce you at Mrs. Clerimont's.
_Pounce._ Make 'em believe you are willing to have your cousin Bridget,
till opportunity serves. Farewell, dear friend. [_Exit_ POUNCE _and_
FAIN.
_Hump._ Farewell, good Mr. Samuel Pounce.--But let's see my cash--
'tis very true, the old saying, a man meets with more friendship from
strangers than his own relations--Let's see my cash: 1, 2, 3, 4, there
on that side; 1, 2, 3, 4, on that side; 'tis a foolish thing to put
all one's money in one pocket; 'tis like a man's whole estate in one
county--These five in my fob--I'll keep these in my hand, lest I should
have a present occasion.--But this town's full of pickpockets; I'll go
home again. [_Exit whistling._
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE.--_The Park._
_Enter_ POUNCE, _and_ CAPTAIN CLERIMONT _with his arm in a scarf._
_Pounce._ You are now well enough instructed both in the aunt and niece
to form your behaviour.
_Cler._ But to talk with her apart is the great matter.
_Pounce._ The antiquated virgin has a mighty affectation for youth,
and is a great lover of men and money--One of these, at least, I am
sure I can gratify her in, by turning her pence in the annuities, or
the stocks of one of the companies; some way or other I'll find to
entertain her, and engage you with the young lady.
_Cler._ Since that is her ladyship's turn, so busy and fine a gentleman
as Mr. Pounce must needs be in her good graces.
_Pounce._ So shall you too--but you must not be seen with me at first
meeting; I'll dog 'em, while you watch at a distance. [_Exeunt._
_Enter_ AUNT _and_ NIECE.
_Niece._ Was it not my gallant that whistled so charmingly in the
parlour before he went out this morning? He's a most accomplished
cavalier.
_Aunt._ Come, niece, come; you don't do well to make sport with your
relations, especially with a young gentleman that has so much kindness
for you.
_Niece._ Kindness for me! What a phrase is there to express the darts
and flames, the sighs and languishings, of an expecting lover!
_Aunt._ Pray, niece, forbear this idle trash, and talk like other
people. Your cousin Humphry will be true and hearty in what he says,
and that's a great deal better than the talk and compliment of romances.
_Niece._ Good madam, don't wound my ears with such expressions; do you
think I can ever love a man that's true and hearty? What a peasant-like
amour do these coarse words import! True and hearty! Pray, aunt,
endeavour a little at the embellishment of your style.
_Aunt._ Alack-a-day, cousin Biddy, these idle romances have quite
turned your head.[86]
_Niece._ How often must I desire you, madam, to lay aside that familiar
name, cousin Biddy? I never hear it without blushing--Did you ever meet
with a heroine in those idle romances, as you call 'em, that was termed
Biddy?
_Aunt._ Ah! cousin, cousin, these are mere vapours, indeed; nothing but
vapours.
_Niece._ No, the heroine has always something soft and engaging in
her name; something that gives us a notion of the sweetness of her
beauty and behaviour; a name that glides through half-a-dozen tender
syllables, as Elismonda, Clidamira, Deidamia, that runs upon vowels
off the tongue; not hissing through one's teeth, or breaking them with
consonants. 'Tis strange rudeness those familiar names they give us,
when there is Aurelia, Sacharissa, Gloriana, for people of condition;
and Celia, Chloris, Corinna, Mopsa, for their maids and those of lower
rank.
_Aunt._ Look ye, Biddy, this is not to be supported. I know not where
you learned this nicety; but I can tell you, forsooth, as much as you
despise it, your mother was a Bridget afore you, and an excellent
house-wife.
_Niece._ Good madam, don't upbraid me with my mother Bridget, and an
excellent house-wife.
_Aunt._ Yes, I say she was; and spent her time in better learning
than you ever did--not in reading of fights and battles of dwarfs and
giants, but in writing out receipts for broths, possets, caudles, and
surfeit-waters, as became a good country gentlewoman.
_Niece._ My mother, and a Bridget!
_Aunt._ Yes, niece, I say again, your mother, my sister, was a Bridget!
the daughter of her mother Margery, of her mother Sisly, of her mother
Alice.
_Niece._ Have you no mercy? Oh, the barbarous genealogy!
_Aunt._ Of her mother Winifred, of her mother Joan.
_Niece._ Since you will run on, then I must needs tell you I am not
satisfied in the point of my nativity. Many an infant has been placed
in a cottage with obscure parents, till by chance some ancient servant
of the family has known it by its marks.
_Aunt._ Ay, you had best be searched--That's like your calling the
winds the fanning gales, before I don't know how much company; and the
tree that was blown by it had, forsooth, a spirit imprisoned in the
trunk of it.
_Niece._ Ignorance!
_Aunt._ Then a cloud this morning had a flying dragon in it.
_Niece._ What eyes had you, that you could see nothing? For my part I
look upon it to be a prodigy, and expect something extraordinary will
happen to me before night.--But you have a gross relish of things. What
noble descriptions in romances had been lost, if the writers had been
persons of your goût?
_Aunt._ I wish the authors had been hanged, and their books burnt,
before you had seen 'em.
_Niece._ Simplicity!
_Aunt._ A parcel of improbable lies.
_Niece._ Indeed, madam, your raillery is coarse----
_Aunt._ Fit only to corrupt young girls, and fill their heads with a
thousand foolish dreams of I don't know what.
_Niece._ Nay, now, madam, you grow extravagant.
_Aunt._ What I say is not to vex, but advise you for your good.
_Niece._ What, to burn Philocles, Artaxeres, Oroondates, and the rest
of the heroic lovers, and take my country booby, cousin Humphry, for a
husband!
_Aunt._ Oh dear, oh dear, Biddy! Pray, good dear, learn to act and
speak like the rest of the world; come, come, you shall marry your
cousin and live comfortably.
_Niece._ Live comfortably! What kind of life is that? A great heiress
live comfortably! Pray, aunt, learn to raise your ideas--What is, I
wonder, to live comfortably?
_Aunt._ To live comfortably is to live with prudence and frugality, as
we do in Lombard Street.
_Niece._ As we do! That's a fine life, indeed, with one servant of each
sex. Let's see how many things our coachman is good for--He rubs down
his horses, lays the cloth, whets the knives, and sometimes makes beds.
_Aunt._ A good servant should turn his hand to everything in a family.
_Niece._ Nay, there's not a creature in our family that has not two or
three different duties. As John is butler, footman, and coachman, so
Mary is cook, laundress, and chamber-maid.
_Aunt._ Well, and do you laugh at that?
_Niece._ No, not I; nor at the coach-horses, though one has an
easy trot for my uncle's riding, and t'other an easy pace for your
side-saddle.
_Aunt._ And so you jeer at the good management of your relations, do
you?
_Niece._ No, I'm well satisfied that all the house are creatures of
business; but, indeed, was in hopes that my poor little lap-dog might
have lived with me upon my fortune without an employment; but my uncle
threatens every day to make him a turn-spit, that he too, in his
sphere, may help us to live comfortably.
_Aunt._ Hark ye, cousin Biddy.
_Niece._ I vow I'm out of countenance when our butler, with his careful
face, drives us all stowed in a chariot drawn by one horse ambling
and t'other trotting, with his provisions behind for the family, from
Saturday night till Monday morning, bound for Hackney--then we make a
comfortable figure, indeed.
_Aunt._ So we do, and so will you always, if you marry your cousin
Humphry.
_Niece._ Name not the creature.
_Aunt._ Creature! What, your own cousin a creature!
_Niece._ Oh, let's be going. I see yonder another creature that does my
uncle's law business, and has, I believe, made ready the deeds--those
barbarous deeds!
_Aunt._ What, Mr. Pounce a creature too! Nay, now I'm sure you're
ignorant. You shall stay, and you'll learn more wit from him in an
hour, than in a thousand of your foolish books in an age----Your
servant, Mr. Pounce.
_Enter_ POUNCE.
_Pounce._ Ladies, I hope I don't interrupt any private discourse.
_Aunt._ Not in the least, sir.
_Pounce._ I should be loth to be esteemed one of those who think they
have a privilege of mixing in all companies, without any business but
to bring forth a loud laugh or vain jest.
_Niece._ He talks with the mien and gravity of a Paladin. [_Aside._
_Pounce._ Madam, I bought the other day at three and a-half, and sold
at seven----
_Aunt._ Then pray sir, sell for me in time. Niece, mind him; he has an
infinite deal of wit.
_Pounce._ This that I speak of was for you. I never neglect such
opportunities to serve my friends.
_Aunt._ Indeed, Mr. Pounce, you are, I protest without flattery, the
wittiest man in the world.
_Pounce._ I assure you, madam, I said last night, before an hundred
head of citizens, that Mrs. Barsheba Tipkin was the most ingenious
young lady in the Liberties.
_Aunt._ Well, Mr. Pounce, you are so facetious--But you are always
among the great ones; 'tis no wonder you have it.
_Niece._ Idle! Idle!
_Pounce._ But, madam, you know Alderman Grey-Goose, he's a notable
joking man. Well, says he, here's Mrs. Barsheba's health; she's my
mistress.
_Aunt._ That man makes me split my sides with laughing, he's such a
wag.--Mr. Pounce pretends Grey-Goose said all this, but I know 'tis his
own wit, for he's in love with me. [_Aside._
_Pounce._ But, madam, there's a certain affair I should communicate to
you. [_Apart._
_Aunt._ Ay, 'tis certainly so--he wants to break his mind to me.
[_Aside._]
[CAPTAIN CLERIMONT _passing._
_Pounce._ Oh, Mr. Clerimont, Mr. Clerimont----Ladies, pray let me
introduce this young gentleman; he's my friend, a youth of great virtue
and goodness, for all he's in a red coat.
_Aunt._ If he's your friend we need not doubt his virtue.
_Cler._ Ladies, you are taking the cool breath of the morning.
_Niece._ A pretty phrase. [_Aside._
_Aunt._ That's the pleasantest time this warm weather.
_Cler._ Oh, 'tis the season of the pearly dews and gentle zephyrs.
_Niece._ Ay! pray mind that again, aunt. [_Aside._
_Pounce._ Shan't we repose ourselves on yonder seat? I love improving
company, and to communicate.
_Aunt._ 'Tis certainly so. He's in love with me, and wants opportunity
to tell me so [_Aside._]--I don't care if we do--He's a most ingenious
man. [_Aside._ [_Exeunt_ AUNT _and_ POUNCE.
_Cler._ We enjoy here, madam, all the pretty landscapes of the country
without the pains of going thither.
_Niece._ Art and nature are in a rivalry, or rather a confederacy, to
adorn this beauteous park with all the agreeable variety of water,
shade, walks, and air. What can be more charming than these flowery
lawns?
_Cler._ Or these gloomy shades----
_Niece._ Or these embroidered valleys----
_Cler._ Or that transparent stream----
_Niece._ Or these bowing branches on the banks of it, that seem to
admire their own beauty in the crystal mirror?
_Cler._ I am surprised, madam, at the delicacy of your phrase. Can such
expressions come from Lombard Street?
_Niece._ Alas, sir! what can be expected from an innocent virgin that
has been immured almost one-and-twenty years from the conversation of
mankind, under the care of an Urganda[87] of an aunt?
_Cler._ Bless me, madam, how have you been abused! Many a lady before
your age has had an hundred lances broken in her service, and as many
dragons cut to pieces in honour of her.
_Niece._ Oh, the charming man! [_Aside._
_Cler._ Do you believe Pamela was one-and-twenty before she knew
Musidorus?[88]
_Niece._ I could hear him ever. [_Aside._
_Cler._ A lady of your wit and beauty might have given occasion for a
whole romance in folio before that age.
_Niece._ Oh, the powers! Who can he be?--Oh, youth unknown--But let
me, in the first place, know whom I talk to, for, sir, I am wholly
unacquainted both with your person and your history. You seem, indeed,
by your deportment, and the distinguishing mark of your bravery which
you bear, to have been in a conflict. May I not know what cruel beauty
obliged you to such adventures till she pitied you?
_Cler._ Oh, the pretty coxcomb! [_Aside._]--Oh, Blenheim, Blenheim! Oh,
Cordelia, Cordelia!
_Niece._ You mention the place of battle. I would fain hear an exact
description of it. Our public papers are so defective; they don't so
much as tell us how the sun rose on that glorious day--Were there not a
great many flights of vultures before the battle began?
_Cler._ Oh, madam, they have eaten up half my acquaintance.
_Niece._ Certainly never birds of prey were so feasted; by report, they
might have lived half-a-year on the very legs and arms our troops left
behind 'em.
_Cler._ Had we not fought near a wood we should never have got legs
enough to have come home upon. The joiner of the Foot Guards has made
his fortune by it.
_Niece._ I shall never forgive your General. He has put all my ancient
heroes out of countenance; he has pulled down Cyrus and Alexander, as
much as Louis-le-Grand--But your own part in that action?
_Cler._ Only that slight hurt, for the astrologer said at my nativity,
nor fire, nor sword, nor pike, nor musket shall destroy this child, let
him but avoid fair eyes----But, madam, mayn't I crave the name of her
that has so captivated my heart?
_Niece._ I can't guess whom you mean by that description; but 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.
_Cler._ Bridget?
_Niece._ Bridget.
_Cler._ Bridget?
_Niece._ Spare my confusion, I beseech you, sir; and if you have
occasion to mention me, let it be by Parthenissa,[89] for that's the
name I have assumed ever since I came to years of discretion.
_Cler._ The insupportable tyranny of parents, to fix names on helpless
infants which they must blush at all their lives after! I don't think
there's a surname in the world to match it.
_Niece._ No! What do you think of Tipkin?
_Cler._ Tipkin! Why, I think if I was a young lady that had it I'd part
with it immediately.
_Niece._ Pray, how would you get rid of it?
_Cler._ I'd change it for another. I could recommend to you three very
pretty syllables--What do you think of Clerimont?
_Niece._ Clerimont! Clerimont! Very well--but what right have I to it?
_Cler._ If you will give me leave, I'll put you in possession of it. By
a very few words I can make it over to you, and your children after you.
_Niece._ O fie! Whither are you running? You know 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. You should have told it to the echo half-a-year
before you had discovered it, even to my handmaid. And yet besides--to
talk to me of children! Did you ever hear of a heroine with a big belly?
_Cler._ What can a lover do, madam, now the race of giants is extinct?
Had I lived in those days there had not been a mortal six foot high,
but should have owned Parthenissa for the paragon of beauty, or
measured his length on the ground----Parthenissa should have been
heard by the brooks and deserts at midnight, the echo's burden and the
river's murmur.
_Niece._ That had been a golden age, indeed! But see, my aunt has left
her grave companion and is coming toward us----I command you to leave
me.
_Cler._ Thus Oroondates, when Statira[90] dismissed him her presence,
threw himself at her feet, and implored permission but to live.
[_Offering to kneel._
_Niece._ And thus Statira raised him from the earth, permitting him to
live and love. [_Exit_ CLER.
_Enter_ AUNT.
_Aunt._ Is not Mr. Pounce's conversation very improving, niece?
_Niece._ Is not Clerimont a very pretty name, aunt?
_Aunt._ He has so much prudence.
_Niece._ He has so much gallantry.
_Aunt._ So sententious in his expressions.
_Niece._ So polished in his language.
_Aunt._ All he says is, methinks, so like a sermon.
_Niece._ All he speaks savours of romance.
_Aunt._ Romance, niece? Mr. Pounce! what savours of romance?
_Niece._ No, I mean his friend, the accomplished Mr. Clerimont.
_Aunt._ Fie, for one of your years to commend a young fellow!
_Niece._ One of my years is mightily governed by example! You did not
dislike Mr. Pounce.
_Aunt._ What, censorious too? I find there is no trusting you out of
the house--A moment's fresh air does but make you still the more in
love with strangers, and despise your own relations.
_Niece._ I am certainly by the power of an enchantment placed among
you, but I hope I, this morning, employed one to seek adventures, and
break the charm.
_Aunt._ Vapours, Biddy, indeed! Nothing but vapours. Cousin Humphry
shall break the charm.
_Niece._ Name him not--Call me still Biddy rather than name that brute.
[_Exeunt_ AUNT _and_ NIECE.
_Enter_ CAPTAIN CLERIMONT _and_ POUNCE.
_Cler._ A perfect Quixote in petticoats! I tell thee, Pounce, she
governs herself wholly by romance--it has got into her very blood. She
starts by rule, and blushes by example. Could I but have produced one
instance of a lady's complying at first sight, I should have gained her
promise on the spot. How am I bound to curse the cold constitutions of
the Philocleas and Statiras? I am undone for want of precedents.
_Pounce._ I am sure I laboured hard to favour your conference, and
plied the old woman all the while with something that tickled either
her vanity or her covetousness; I considered all the stocks, Old and
New Company, her own complexion and youth, partners for sword-blades,
Chamber of London, banks for charity, and mine adventures, till she
told me I had the repute of the most facetious man that ever came to
Garraway's[91]--For you must know public knaves and stock-jobbers pass
for wits at her end of the town, as common cheats and gamesters do at
yours.
_Cler._ I pity the drudgery you have gone through; but what's next to
be done towards getting my pretty heroine?
_Pounce._ What should next be done in ordinary method of things? You
have seen her; the next regular approach is that you cannot subsist a
moment without sending forth musical complaints of your misfortune by
way of serenade.
_Cler._ I can nick you there, sir. I have a scribbling army friend that
has writ a triumphant, rare, noisy song in honour of the late victory,
that will hit the nymph's fantasque to a hair. I'll get everything
ready as fast as possible.
_Pounce._ While you are playing upon the fort, I'll be within and
observe what execution you do, and give you intelligence accordingly.
_Cler._ You must have an eye upon Mr. Humphry while I feed the vanity
of Parthenissa; for I am so experienced in these matters that I know
none but coxcombs think to win a woman by any desert of their own--No,
it must be done rather by complying with some prevailing humour of your
mistress, than exerting any good quality in yourself.
'Tis not the lover's merit wins the field,
But to themselves alone the beauteous yield.
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.--MRS. CLERIMONT'S _Room._
_Enter_ MRS. CLERIMONT, FAINLOVE _(carrying her lap-dog), and_ JENNY.
_Jen._ Madam, the footman that's recommended to you is below, if your
ladyship will please to take him.
_Mrs. Cler._ O fie; don't believe I'll think on't. It is impossible
he should be good for anything--The English are so saucy with their
liberty--I'll have all my lower servants French. There cannot be a good
footman born out of an absolute monarchy.
_Jen._ I am beholden to your ladyship for believing so well of the
maidservants in England.
_Mrs. Cler._ Indeed, Jenny, I could wish thou wert really French; for
thou art plain English in spite of example. Your arms do but hang
on, and you move perfectly upon joints; not with a swim of the whole
person--But I am talking to you, and have not adjusted myself to-day:
What pretty company a glass is, to have another self! [_Kisses the
dog._] To converse in soliloquy! To have company that never contradicts
or displeases us! The pretty visible echo of our actions! [_Kisses the
dog._] How easy, too, it is to be disencumbered with stays, where a
woman has anything like shape; if no shape, a good air--But I look best
when I'm talking. [_Kisses the lap-dog in_ FAINLOVE'S _arms._
_Jen._ You always look well.
_Mrs. Cler._ For I'm always talking, you mean so; that disquiets thy
sullen English temper; but I don't really look so well when I am
silent. If I do but offer to speak, then I may say that--Oh, bless me,
Jenny, I am so pale, I am afraid of myself--I have not laid on half red
enough--What a dough-baked thing was I before I improved myself, and
travelled for beauty! However, my face is very prettily designed to-day.
_Fain._ Indeed, madam, you begin to have so fine an hand, that you are
younger every day than other.
_Mrs. Cler._ The ladies abroad used to call me Mademoiselle Titian, I
was so famous for my colouring; but prithee, wench, bring me my black
eyebrows out of the next room.[92]
_Jen._ Madam, I have 'em in my hand.
_Fain._ It would be happy for all that are to see you to-day, if you
could change your eyes, too.
_Mrs. Cler._ Gallant enough--no, hang it, I'll wear these I have on;
this mode of visage takes mightily. I had three ladies last week came
over to my complexion. I think to be a fair woman this fortnight, till
I find I'm aped too much--I believe there are an hundred copies of me
already.
_Jen._ Dear madam, won't your ladyship please to let me be of the next
countenance you leave off?
_Mrs. Cler._ You may, Jenny; but I assure you it is a very pretty piece
of ill-nature, for a woman that has any genius for beauty to observe
the servile imitation of her manner, her motion, her glances, and her
smiles.
_Fain._ Ay, indeed, madam, nothing can be so ridiculous as to imitate
the inimitable.
_Mrs. Cler._ Indeed, as you say, Fainlove, the French mien is no more
to be learned than the language, without going thither. Then, again, to
see some poor ladies who have clownish, penurious, English husbands,
turn and torture their old clothes into so many forms, and dye 'em into
so many colours, to follow me--What say'st, Jenny? What say'st? Not a
word?
_Jen._ Why, madam, all that I can say----
_Mrs. Cler._ Nay, I believe, Jenny, thou hast nothing to say any more
than the rest of thy country-women. The splenatics speak just as
the weather lets 'em; they are mere talking barometers. Abroad the
people of quality go on so eternally, and still go on, and are gay and
entertain. In England discourse is made up of nothing but question
and answer. I was t'other day at a visit, where there was a profound
silence, for, I believe, the third part of a minute.
_Jen._ And your ladyship there?
_Mrs. Cler._ They infected me me with their dulness; who can keep up
their good humour at an English visit? They sit as at a funeral,
silent in the midst of many candles. One, perhaps, alarms the
room--"'Tis very cold weather"--then all the mutes play their fans till
some other question happens, and then the fans go off again.
_Boy._ Madam, your spinet-master is come.
_Mrs. Cler._ Bring him in; he's very pretty company.
_Fain._ His spinet is; he never speaks himself.
_Mrs. Cler._ Speak, simpleton! What then; he keeps out silence,
does not he?--Oh, sir, you must forgive me; I have been very idle.
Well, you pardon me. [_Master bows._] Did you think I was perfect in
the song? [_Bows_]--but pray let me hear it once more. Let us see
it----[_Reads._
SONG.
With studied airs, and practised smiles,
Flavia my ravished heart beguiles;
The charms we make, are ours alone,
Nature's works are not our own;
Her skilful hand gives every grace,
And shows her fancy in her face.
She feeds with art an amourous rage,
Nor fears the force of coming age.
You sing it very well; but, I confess, I wish you'd give more in to the
French manner--Observe me hum it à-la-Française.
"With studied airs," &c.
The whole person, every limb, every nerve sings. The English way is
only being for that time a mere musical instrument, just sending forth
a sound without knowing they do so. Now I'll give you a little of it,
like an Englishwoman: You are to suppose I've denied you twenty times,
looked silly, and all that--then, with hands and face insensible--I
have a mighty cold.
"With studied airs" &c.
_Enter_ SERVANT.
_Ser._ Madam, Captain Clerimont and a very strange gentleman are come
to wait on you.
_Mrs. Cler._ Let him and the very strange gentleman come in.
_Fain._ Oh! madam, that's the country gentleman I was telling you of.
_Enter_ HUMPHRY _and_ CAPTAIN CLERIMONT.
_Fain._ Madam, may I do myself the honour to recommend Mr. Gubbin, son
and heir to Sir Harry Gubbin, to your ladyship's notice?
_Mrs. Cler._ Mr. Gubbin, I am extremely pleased with your suit; 'tis
antique, and originally from France.
_Hump._ It is always locked up, madam, when I'm in the country. My
father prizes it mightily.
_Mrs. Cler._ 'Twould make a very pretty dancing suit in a masque. Oh!
Captain Clerimont, I have a quarrel with you.
_Enter_ SERVANT.
_Ser._ Madam, your ladyship's husband desires to know whether you see
company to-day or not?
_Mrs. Cler._ Who, you clown?
_Ser._ Mr. Clerimont, madam.
_Mrs. Cler._ He may come in.
_Enter_ CLERIMONT, SEN.
_Mrs. Cler._ Your very humble servant.
_Cler. Sen._ I am going to take the air this morning in my coach, and
did myself the honour, before I went, to receive your commands, finding
you saw company.
_Mrs. Cler._ At any time when you know I do, you may let me see
you. Pray, how did you sleep last night?--If I had not asked him
that question they might have thought we lay together. [_Aside.
Here_ FAINLOVE, _looking through a perspective, bows to_ CLERIMONT,
SEN.]--But captain, I have a quarrel with you--I have utterly forgot
those three coupees[93] you promised to come again and show me.
_Cler. Sen._ Then, madam, you have no commands this morning?
_Mrs. Cler._ Your humble servant, sir--But, oh! [_As she is going to be
led by the Captain._] Have you signed that mortgage to pay off my Lady
Faddle's winnings at ombre?
_Cler. Sen._ Yes, madam.
_Mrs. Cler._ Then all's well; my honour's safe. [_Exit_ CLERIMONT,
SEN.] Come, captain, lead me this step, for I'm apt to make a false
one; you shall show me.
_Cler._ I'll show you, madam; 'tis no matter for a fiddle; I'll give
you 'em the French way, in a teaching tune. Pray, more quick--Oh,
mademoiselle, que faites-vous?--A moi--There again--Now slide, as it
were, with and without measure--There you outdid the gipsy; and you
have all the smiles of the dance to a tittle.
_Mrs. Cler._ Why, truly, I think that the greatest part. I have seen an
English woman dance a jig with the severity of a vestal virgin.
_Hump._ If this be French dancing and singing, I fancy I could do it.
Haw! haw! [_Capers aside._
_Mrs. Cler._ I protest, Mr. Gubbin, you have almost the step, without
any of our country bashfulness. Give me your hand. Haw! haw! So, so;
a little quicker. That's right, haw!--Captain, your brother delivered
this spark to me, to be diverted here till he calls for him. [_Exit_
CLERIMONT.
_Hump._ This cutting so high makes one's money jingle confoundedly. I'm
resolved I'll never carry above one pocketful hereafter.
_Mrs. Cler._ You do it very readily; you amaze me.
_Hump._ Are the gentlemen in France generally so well bred as we are in
England? Are they, madam, ha?--But, young gentleman, when shall I see
this sister? Haw! haw! haw! Is not the higher one jumps the better?
_Fain._ She'll be mightily taken with you, I'm sure. One would not
think 'twas in you--you're so gay, and dance so very high.
_Hump._ What should ail me? Did you think I was wind-galled? I can
sing, too, if I please; but I won't till I see your sister--This is a
mighty pretty house.
_Mrs. Cler._ Well, do you know that I like this gentleman extremely? I
should be glad to inform him--But were you never in France, Mr. Gubbin?
_Hump._ No; but I'm always thus pleasant, if my father's not by.--[_To_
FAINLOVE.] I protest I'd advise your sister to have me: I'm for
marrying her at once. Why should I stand shilly-shally, like a country
bumpkin?
_Fain._ Mr. Gubbin, I daresay she'll be as forward as you; we'll go in
and see her. [_Apart._
_Mrs. Cler._ Then he has not yet seen the lady he is in love with! I
protest very new and gallant--Mr. Gubbin, she must needs believe you a
frank person--Fainlove, I must see this sister, too, I'm resolved she
shall like him.
There needs not time true passion to discover;
The most believing is the most a lover.
SCENE II.--NIECE'S _Lodgings._
_Enter_ NIECE.
_Niece._ Oh, Clerimont! Clerimont! To be struck at first sight! I'm
ashamed of my weakness; I find in myself all the symptoms of a raging
amour. I love solitude, I grow pale, I sigh frequently, I call upon the
name of Clerimont when I don't think of it--His person is ever in my
eyes, and his voice in my ears--Methinks I long to lose myself in some
pensive grove, or to hang over the head of some warbling fountain, with
a lute in my hand, softening the murmurs of the water.
_Enter_ AUNT.
_Aunt._ Biddy, Biddy; where's Biddy Tipkin?
_Niece._ Whom do you inquire for?
_Aunt._ Come, come; he's just a-coming at the Park door.
_Niece._ Who is coming?
_Aunt._ Your cousin Humphry. Who should be coming? Your lover, your
husband that is to be--Pray, my dear, look well, and be civil for your
credit, and mine too.
_Niece._ If he answers my idea, I shall rally the rustic to death.
_Aunt._ Hist--Here he is.
_Enter_ HUMPHRY.
_Hump._ Aunt, your humble servant. Is that--ha! Aunt?
_Aunt._ Yes, cousin Humphry, that's your cousin Bridget--Well, I'll
leave you together. [_Exit_ AUNT. _They sit._
_Hump._ Aunt does as she'd be done by, cousin Bridget, does not she,
cousin? Ha! What, are you a Londoner, and not speak to a gentleman?
Look ye, cousin, the old folks resolving to marry us, I thought it
would be proper to see how I liked you, as not caring to buy a pig in a
poke, for I love to look before I leap.
_Niece._ Sir, your person and address bring to my mind the whole
history of Valentine and Orson.[94] What, would they marry me to a wild
man? Pray answer me a question or two.
_Hump._ Ay, ay; as many as you please, cousin Bridget.
_Niece._ What wood were you taken in? How long have you been caught?
_Hump._ Caught!
_Niece._ Where were your haunts?
_Hump._ My haunts!
_Niece._ Are not clothes very uneasy to you? Is this strange dress the
first you ever wore?
_Hump._ How?
_Niece._ Are you not a great admirer of roots, and raw flesh? Let me
look upon your nails--Don't you love blackberries, haws, and pig-nuts,
mightily?
_Hump._ How?
_Niece._ Can'st thou deny that thou wert suckled by a wolf? You have
not been so barbarous, I hope, since you came among men, as to hunt
your nurse, have you?
_Hump._ Hunt my nurse? Ay, 'tis so, she's distracted, as sure as a gun.
Hark ye, cousin, pray will you let me ask you a question or two?
_Niece._ If thou hast yet learned the use of language, speak, monster.
_Hump._ How long have you been thus?
_Niece._ Thus! What would'st thou say?
_Hump._ What's the cause of it? Tell me truly, now; did you never love
anybody before me?
_Niece._ Go, go, thou'rt a savage. [_Rises._
_Hump._ They never let you go abroad, I suppose.
_Niece._ Thou'rt a monster, I tell thee.
_Hump._ Indeed, cousin, though 'tis a folly to tell thee so--I am
afraid thou art a mad woman.
_Niece._ I'll have thee carried into some forest.
_Hump._ I'll take thee into a dark room.
_Niece._ I hate thee.
_Hump._ I wish you did--There's no hate lost, I assure you, cousin
Bridget.
_Niece._ Cousin Bridget, quoth'a! I'd as soon claim kindred with a
mountain bear--I detest thee.
_Hump._ You never do any harm in these fits, I hope.--But do you hate
me in earnest?
_Niece._ Dost thou ask it, ungentle forester?
_Hump._ Yes; for I've a reason, look ye. It happens very well if you
hate me and are in your senses, for, to tell you truly, I don't much
care for you; and there is another fine woman, as I am informed, that
is in some hopes of having me.
_Niece._ This merits my attention. [_Aside._
_Hump._ Look ye, d'ye see--as I said, since I don't care for you,
I would not have you set your heart on me; but if you like anybody
else let me know it, and I'll find out a way for us to get rid of one
another, and deceive the old folks that would couple us.
_Niece._ This wears the face of an amour.--There is something in that
thought which makes thy presence less insupportable.
_Hump._ Nay, nay, now you're growing fond; if you come with these
maid's tricks, to say you hate at first and afterwards like me, you'll
spoil the whole design.
_Niece._ Don't fear it--When I think of consorting with thee, may the
wild boar defile the cleanly ermine; may the tiger be wedded to the
kid.
_Hump._ When I of thee, may the pole-cat caterwaul with the civet.
_Niece._ When I harbour the least thought of thee, may the silver
Thames forget its course.
_Hump._ When I like thee, may I be soused over head and ears in a
horsepond--But do you hate me?
_Enter_ AUNT.
_Niece._ For ever; and you me?
_Hump._ Most heartily.
_Aunt._ Ha! I like this. They are come to promises and protestations.
[_Aside._
_Hump._ I am very glad I have found a way to please you.
_Niece._ You promise to be constant?
_Hump._ Till death.
_Niece._ Thou best of savages!
_Hump._ Thou best of savages! Poor Biddy.
_Aunt._ Oh! the pretty couple, joking on one another--Well, how do you
like your cousin Humphry now?
_Niece._ Much better than I thought I should. He's quite another thing
than what I took him for--We have both the same passion for one another.
_Hump._ We wanted only an occasion to open our hearts, aunt.
_Aunt._ Oh, how this will rejoice my brother and Sir Harry! we'll go to
'em.
_Hump._ No, I must fetch a walk with a new acquaintance, Mr. Samuel
Pounce.
_Aunt._ An excellent acquaintance for your husband; come, niece, come.
_Niece._ Farewell, rustic.
_Hump._ Bye, Biddy.
_Aunt._ Rustic! Biddy! Ha! ha! pretty creatures. [_Exeunt._
ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE.--_A Street._
_Enter_ CAPTAIN CLERIMONT _and_ POUNCE.
_Cler._ Does she expect me then, at this very instant?
_Pounce._ I tell you, she ordered me to bring the painter at this very
hour, precisely, to draw her niece; for, to make her picture peculiarly
charming, she has now that downcast pretty shame, that warm cheek,
glowing with the fear and hope of to-day's fate, with the inviting, coy
affection of a bride, all in her face at once. Now I know you are a
pretender that way.
_Cler._ Enough, I warrant, to personate the character on such an
inspiring occasion.
_Pounce._ You must have the song I spoke of performed at this window,
at the end of which I'll give you a signal. Everything is ready for
you; your pencil, your canvas stretched, your----Be sure you play
your part in humour. To be a painter for a lady, you're to have the
excessive flattery of a lover, the ready invention of a poet, and the
easy gesture of a player.
_Cler._ Come, come, no more instructions, my imagination out-runs all
you can say. Be gone, be gone! [_Exit_ POUNCE.
A SONG.
I.
Why, lovely charmer, tell me why,
So very kind, and yet so shy?
Why does that cold forbidding air
Give damps of sorrow and despair?
Or why that smile my soul subdue,
And kindle up my flames anew?
II.
In vain you strive with all your art,
By turns to freeze and fire my heart:
When I behold a face so fair,
So sweet a look, so soft an air,
My ravished soul is charmed all o'er,
I cannot love thee less nor more.
[_After the song_ POUNCE _appears beckoning the_ CAPTAIN.]
_Pounce._ Captain, captain. [_Exit_ CAPTAIN.
SCENE II.--NIECE'S _Lodgings; two chairs and a table._
_Enter_ AUNT _and_ NIECE.