PR3702.A77903"'™""''-""^^ ''.j^.^af'J Steele.Edited, with an introd. 3 1924 013 199 231 Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013199231 RICHARD STEELE THE MERMAID SERIES. Literal Reproduction of the Old Text, with etched ■ Frontispiece. The Best Plays of Christopher Marlowe. Edited, with Critical Memoir and Notes by Havelock Ellis; and containing a General Introduction to the Series by JOHN Addington Symonds. The Best Plays of Thomas Otway. Introduction and Notes by the Hon. Roden Noel, The Complete (Plays of William Congreve, Edited by Alex. C. Ewald. The Best Plays of John Ford. Edited by Havelock Ellis. The Best Plays of Philip Hassinger. With Critical and Biographical Essay and Notes by Arthur Symonds. The Best Plays bt THdinas Hj^^olbd. Edited by A. W. Verity. With liitroduction by J. A. SymO'ndS. The Complete .Plays of William Wycherley. Edited, with Introduction and Notes, by W. C. Ward Nero and Other Plays. Edited by H. P. Hosne, Arthur Symonds, A. W. Verity, and H. Ellis. The Best Plays of Beaumont and Fletcher. Introduction and Notes by J. ST. LOE Strachey. The Best Plays of Webster and Tournenr. With an Introduction and Notes by John Addington Symonds. The Best Plays of Thomas Middleton. With an Intro- duction by Algernon Charles Swinburne. 'J be Best Plays of James Shirley. With Introduction by Edmond Gosse. The Best Plays of Thomas Dekker. Notes by Ernest Rhys. The Best Plays of Ben Jonson. Vols, i, 2 & 3. Edited, with Introduction and Notes, by Brinsley Nicholson and C. H. Herford. Tne Complete Plays of Kichard Steele. Edited, with Introduction and Notes, by G. A. Aitken. The Best Plays of George Chapman. Edited by William Lyon Phelps, Instructor of English Literature at Yale College. The Select Plays of Sir John Yanbrugh. Edited, with an Introduction and Notes, by A. E. H. SWAIN. Otker Volumes in Preparation. THE MERMAID SERIES Richard Steele EDITED, WITH AN INTRSDUCtlOfT AND NOTES. BY G. A. AITKEN LONDON T. FISHER UNWIN NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS " What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid I heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that every one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Ofhis dull life." Master Francis Beaumont to Ben Jonson. oXKo " Souls of Poets dead and gone. What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? " Keats. Richard Steele . ... PAGE vii The Funeral . . I The Lying Lover '. . ... 97 The Tender Husband. ... . . i8g The Conscious Lovers 265 The School of Action (A Fragment) 361 The Gentleman (A Fragment) . . . 399 Appendix . . . 407 mCHoA'RT^ STEELE. T is as an essayist rather than a! dramatist that men now think of Steele ; and this is rightly so, for his best work is to' "be found in the periodical papers which he edited. There is, however, in his plays the same wit and huttiour that is to be found in the Tatter and' Spectator, a.nd his four comedies occupy ah important position in the history of the English drama. in this introduction it will be sufficient to give a brief sketch of Steele's life, with especial reference to his relations with 'the theatre, which were intimate and varied.^ ' Readers desirous of knpwipg mojre about Steele may be referred to Forster's Essay, first printed' in the Quarterly Reif&iJo for 1855 "• to Mr. Dobson's'" Richard Steele," 1886, dn.the English Worthies serie^: ^114 fp tli^e, Life of Ric^rd Steele,.2 xols., 1889, Ijy the present writer. From the last-mentioned work I haVe occasionally borrowed a pirase oi* sentence in tMs Introduction. viii RICHARD STEELE. Richard Steele was born in Dublin in 1672 ; his father was an attorney who married a widow named Elinor Symes, but both his parents died while he was a child, and Steele passed into the care of a kind uncle, Henry Gascoigne, private secretary to the Duke of Ormond, and by his influence was placed upon the foundation of the Charterhouse in 1684. Two years later Joseph Addison, who was only a few weeks younger than Steele, entered that famous school, and the two boys formed the closest of friendships. In 1689 Steele followed Addison to Oxford, entering at Christ Church ; but in 1691 he was made a post- master of Merton College. He would have many introductions, for, his uncle was well known at tljie .. University, and .his friend Addison was a distinguished scholar at Magdalen. We are told that he wrote a comedy while at college, but burned it on being told by a friend that it was worthless. When he left Oxford he took with him the love of "the whole society." Steele enlisted in 1 694 as a private in the Duke of Ormond's regiment of Guards. Private sol- diers in the Guarijs were often gentlemen's sons, and Steele was in reality a , cadet, looking for- ward to the position of ensign. When Queen Mary died in the following year he published an anonymous poem, The Procession, the work of "a gentleman of the army," and dedicated it to Lord Cutts, Colonel of the Coldstream (Gruards. He was rewarded by being made a confidential RICHARD STEELE. ix agent to Lord Cutts, who also obtained for him an ensign's commission in his own regiment. By 1 700 we find Steele referred to as " Captain Steele," and in friendly intercourse with Sir Charles Sedley, Vanbrugh, Garth, Congreve, and other wits. In that year, too, he fought a duel with a Captain Kelly, " one or two of his acquaintances having," as he says, "thought fit to misuse him, and try their valour upon him." The event made a serious impression upon Steele, who, much in advance of his age, never ceased to remonstrate in his after writings against the " barbarous custom of duelling." The life of a soldier stationed at the Tower was certain to lead a young man of Steele's soci- able, hearty nature, into excesses. It was, as he says, "a life exposed to much irregularity" ; and as he often did things of which he repented, he wrote, for hiss own use, a little book called The Christian Hero ; and finding that this secret admonition was too weak he published the volume in 1701, with his name on the title-page. It was " an argument proving that no principles but those of religion are sufficient to make a great man." A second edition was called for in three months, but the only effect of the publica- tion in the regiment was " that from being rec- koned no undelightful companion he was soon reckoned a disagreeable fellow." Under these circumstances he says he felt it to be " incum- bent upon him to enliven his character, for which r^3,$pn he ^rotp ^:he comedy 5^^^d The Funeral, ii^ V^h-l^y^ (t:hough fu|| cif incidgpt? tiiat move laughter) virtue i^Rd yipQ P-ppear just as they ought fo dp. I^Jothing can pi^lf^ the, tqjvn sja fojid pj 3. i]iai^ fiSi a sufjpgs^d^l play," Let u§ Ipoit for a jiipfn§nt ^t thp con£|i|;i9n of the drania at the oppning f)f tjie eighteenth peiitiiFy. 11. Dryden ha4 |d,i^4 W i7Po. ^"4 i^-QPSf^ve pro- duced his last impprt^nt play jn that ypar. "Vy^icherlpy, thpijgh .^till liyjng, ^^^ long peaggd tp write, l)ut Farquhair an^.yapbrugh -jypre. busy ^JDQUt this fime 5fi/rith tl>eir bpst work. Ofother d,rp.inatists ^hp were t)iein wrij^ing ^erf are npne mpre impprtaiit fl^an Rpwe, penjjip, Ciblser, GJWpP, fP'Urfey, I^rs,. Manley, ^ijd Mrs. p^ji.t- liyre. The lipen|;ioupne,§s pf tlj.q, I^pstora^jpffj playg 113,4 been fuljy g{ju^l|ed by tl^^ CQ9.rsg11.pss of niany of thpse w4|t^p HR>4^P Wm^fJH JIJ-.s and ^t tjip pn4 pf.the seypiij^enth cgritury a 4etermi)a,p4 protect ]j^d hepj\ Rl^^^ by pien wllP re^Jisejd, t^e Byil qffjsgtji^f wh^t w^^S actfi4 for th^ amusement . of thg people. Jeremy CpUier, a npnjurjng lepgyman, J^d the ^Jta,(:]|; t^y pub- lishing, in 1698, i^. iS^^oxi Vie:p. of the Profane- n^^S ci(Vtd Jpff^ora^litjf of ^he English Stage. Oo\- |i^r was intemperate,,, ^n^ there were numer; ous rgpl|ep ; i)ut )ii§ pi^jfi . position w£^s not ^hg,5^qn, In the, mieg-^tiinf propl^iflatiqiis were i^guec} against the acting of anything immoral o;r irreligious, g,j:ffi a ^opiety for th,e IS-eforina- tipn of Manners was fovin,de4> ^Jjich was soqn fQll!3TS?gd l^y similar sqcietiea in yarious parts of the cpuntry. , f n October, 1701, Steele, who says that; he was "^ grep-t ^4"lir?'^ " pf Collipr's work, arranged witlj Christopher Rich? of th§ The,4t;re Royal, Drury Lane, for the production of hj^ conjqdy, T^^ ft(:tief(f.l, or Grief a-la-Mode, as soon ^s they c,qij,ld cqnvpnig|ij:ly.^ ^he play was acted sj^qrfly aftervyjards, ,,^nd it sivas printed in Deceniber. In the prologue l^tppje s^i,d tl}a|: he ]^ew h^.]i^4 W^T^erqijs fri^pds presefit, p,nd tha^: they wq}il,4 show it, " ^nd for the fellqw-soldier s^ve; tlie poet." T^he vpry franfenes^ of this half- s,frious appeal shows ^h^t ]thfi play did noj: ne^ ^j-^ifjfi^l support, .^nd, iCjbber §?.ys that it pi^t ■s^j.^;^ " more than expected SH^cess." It i^ very- sprightly, but §teele 414 "^Ot on^it, by the legit;!,-: m^te use of satire, tp 3.ttack tjip mockej?y of grief by his ridicule qf the iin4ert:3.ker, an4 the pipckery of justice in tlje person qf Puzzle, fjie lawyer. As in all his writings, he shows, by the ch§j-actgr,^ qf jLady ^harlot and Lady H^j-riot, thf respect ]ae felt for true women. " I^e wa,s," s^ys Thacl^epy, W WPrd^ whiqli are pertainly tr|;,e pf.^t^ele'^ irpipedi^|q predecessors, "t:l>e , ' See Appendix. xii RICHARD STEELE. first of our writers who really seemed to admire and respect them." The contrast betweeri virtue and vice, to the ad' all flowing natur- ally, and the moral, which is the true result of the piece. Ramble adds warm praises of the author— who is described as " indued with sin- gular honesty, a noble disposition, and a con- formity of good manners " — an^ his Avorks, and ' This is not true. The second edition was coneeted and en* larged. i RICHARD STEELE. xvii the Critic hopes, if he will divert the town with another play, that it may be more "correct." The author does not want understanding. III. Steele says that The Funeral, " with some particulars enlarged upon to his advantage," had obtained for him the notice of the king, and that " his name, to be provided for, was in the last table-book ever worn by the glorious and immortal William the Third." He was, how- ever, disappointed, for King William died in March, 1702. But about that time Steele was made a Captain of Foot in a new regiment whose Colonel was Lord Lucas, whom Steele had known at the Tower. Each officer raised a company, and Steele was sent to Landguard Fort, opposite Harwich, where he did every- thing in his power for the good of the men under him. At the end of the year, or at the beginning of 1703, he agreed to sell to Christo- pher Rich a comedy, which was nearly finished, called The Election of Gotham. Of that play nothing further is known ; but Steele obtained ^72 from Rich, to be repaid in March. ^ Rich said that Steele was in want of money and in danger of arrest, and it is a fact that the first of 1 See Appendix, Steele. ff xviii RICHARD STEELE. a, long series of actions for debt hdd some time before been commenced against bim. Steele, howevefi said that the money was paid to induce him to write more, and upon condition that he should bring his next play to Rich, whom he charged with oppression and extortion. We shall hear more of this quarrel. Complaints against the immorality of the stage increased in number. In 1702 Queen Anne directed that certain actors at Lincoln's Inn Fields should be prosecuted, and they were found guilty of "littering impious, lewd, and iminoral expressions." Collier wrote A Dis- suasive from the Play Rouse, which was answered by Dehnis, and the Lord Chamberlain ordered that ail plays ihust be licensed by the Master of the Rfevels, who was hot to pass anything not strictly agreeable to religion and good manners. At that time, it should be remembered, the play begati about five, and ended at eight, " for the convenience of the Qualities resorting to the Park after." Such was the condition of affairs when Steele's second comedy, The Lying Lover, or the Ladies' Friendship, was produced, in December, 1763, to run for six nights. In his Apology Steele afterwards wrote of the Lying Lover :—" Mr. Collier had, about the time wherein this was piiblislied, written against the imnioirality of the stage. I was (as far as I durfet for fear of witty men, upon whom he had been too severe) a great admirer of his work. Richard si:eels. xtx atid took it into my head to Write a comedy in the Severity he required. In this play I make the spark ot- heto kill a itoah in his drink, and finding- himself in prison the next morning, I give him the contrition Whicli he ought to have on that occasion. ... I can't tell, sir, ^*hat they would havi^ me do to prove me a Church- In an ; but I think 1 have appeared one even in 'so trifling A thing as a comedy; and considering me as a comic poet, I have befeh a mat^:yr and Confessor for the Church; fof this play was damned for its piety." In the Dedication of the play to the Duke of Ormond, he sajrs, " The design of it is to banish out of Cbnvetsation all entertainment Which dofes hot procfefed from simplicity of mind, gobd nature, friendship, and honour ; " and in the Preface he again refers to the manner in which the English stage had oflfehded against thfe laws of morals and t^li- gibn; "I thought; therefore, it would be an honest ambition to attempt a comedy which might be no imptoper finteftainment in a Chris- tikn commonwealth." He admits that the an- guish and sorrow in the prison scene "are, perhaps, an injury to the rules of comedy ; but I am sure they arfe a justice to those of morality." It was to be hoped that wit WOtild now recover from its apostacy, for the Queen had " taken the stage undet hlet consideration." The play was based upon Comeille's Le Me7iieur, but the latter aiid more serious portion XX RICHARD STEELE. is entirely Steele's. Alarcon, from whom Cor- neille borrowed^ made his liar marry a girl he did not care for instead of the one he loved; Corneille made the liar's love change, so that his marriage met his wishes ; while Steele represents Bookwit's inveterate love of romanc- ing, generally in self-glorification, as leading to a duel with Penelope's lover, and to his own 4mprisonment in Newgate. This trouble teaches him the necessary lesson, and the hope is held out to him, at the end, of the hand of Penelope's friend, Victoria. " There is no gallantry in love but truth," are his last words. There are many amusing passages in the Lying Lover, and young Bookwit is very enter- taining in the earlier acts, especially in his boastful account to the ladies of his imaginary campaigns : — " There's an intimate of mine, a general oificer, who has often said, *Tom, if thou would'st but stick to any one application, thou might'st be anything.' 'Tis my misfortune, madam, to have a mind too extensive." In the second act there is a pleasant account of " the pretty merchants and their dealers" at the New Exchange, where Bookwit was bewildered by the darts and glances against which he was not impregnable; and in the third act, Penelope and Victoria, who are both fascinated by the young liar, be -patch and be-powder each other in the hope of making their rival ugly, while they profess — like their maids— to be on the RICHARD STEELE. xxi closest terms of friendship. In the fourth act, after the duel, the constable remarks, " Sir, what were you running so fast for ? There's a man killed in the garden, and you're a fine gentle- man, and it must be you — for good honest people only beat one another." And there is an admirable scene in Newgate, where Bookwit is received with respect by highwaymen and others because he is supposed to have killed a man. An alchemist — "the ignorant will needs call it coining "^who is about to be hung, says, " Yet let me tell you, sir, because by secret sympathy I'm yours, I must acquaint you, if you can obtain the favour of an opportunity and a crucible, I can show projection — directly Sol, sir, Sol, sir, more bright than that high luminary the Latins called so — wealth shall be yours ; we'll turn every bar about us into golden ingots. — Sir, can you lend me half-a-crown ? " It is only in the last act that art is sacrificed to the moral purpose that Steele had in his view. The ladies repent of their mutual plottings ; and Bookwit, who believes that he has killed his opponent, looks forward to death, and makes many solemn speeches, printed in blank verse, which will to a great extent account for the failure of the piece. Bookwit's father is broken- hearted; and a friend heroically declares that it was he, and not Bookwit, who killed Love- more ; whereupon Lovemore says, " I can hold out no longer," and brings matters to a happy ending by ejipl^ining t]b, but by, moviipLg compassion." It wa§, S,tee])e,,rath^j; thgj;!, youjjg Bpo^iwit,- wjxo, says in the.,f}rsjtr scepjC,, " I don't ]j;npw how to ^r pijess 9iy§^f-7=^but a woman,, met};iin,lf ^, i^ abjeing between us and. angels. She-has somethi^ag in, h^C that at the. §am,e ti^e giyes. a\ye ajid{iayitatji£!;p,; and I swear to you, I was, ue.ver out iiU^t yet, but \ ajway§, j.u^e4 of men a^ I Q]?s,ejfYe/i|they. judgjed of women,: tjjiere is nothing sh,o?vs. a ipai^i.sja much as, the object pf ];iis. ay^e^tjonis^." IV'. The ba^-tlft of Blenheim, was won, in August, 1704, and^ in DAQSmfeer A4dison ob)t;ained fame and office by hi*, poem> Xhe Campaign. Steele, who was in- constant inlWCowrse.T^jth.him, said in, after years, thaJi Ad with smiles of joy on receipt of a bit of ore which is superfluous and otherwise useless in a man's own pocket." He even remembers to praise Addison : " The moral writers practise virtue after death • This charming Vision of Mirza! Such an author consiilted in a morn- ing sets the spirit for the vicissitudes of the day better than the glass does a man's person." And when Sir John Bevil obseirves that, "Whdt RICHARD STEELE. Ixiii might injure a citizen's credit may be no strain to a gentlenian's honour," Mr. Sealand saysj " Sir John, the honour of a gentleman is liable to be tainted by as small a matter as the credit of a trader." Much the same lesson is taught, less sententiously, when Phillis exclaims, " Oh, Tom ! Tom ! thou art as false and as base as the best gentlfeman of them all." Parson Adams said that he thought The Con- scious Lovers the only play fit for a Christian to see ; ifadeed," he added, " it contains some things almost solemn enough for a sermon." In this kindly satire Fielding indicated the weak- ness of the play. The chief interest of the piece is sentimental, and the hero is not always free from priggishness. Yet the duelling scene, for which, as Steele says, the whole was written, has much dramatic interest, and the protest against false ideas of honour — " decisions a tyrant custom has introduced, to the breach of all laws both divine and human " — was at that time cbtiragebus, and much needed. If some of the things expressed in this play are more suited for a paper iti the Spectator, there is nothing in true comedy which tnakes it incongruous to convey, in a manner suited to that form of art, s serious lesson of life. If, again, as some say, there is more J)athos than is allowable in the scene ill which Sealand recovers his long-lost daughter and sister, the fend is that of true comedy ; the " pedantic cox- comb" Cimberton no longer wants Sealand's Ixiv RICHARD STEELE. daughter when he finds thatj. by the discovery of Indiana, Lucinda's fortune will be halved ; Bevil is able, in marrying Indiana, the lady he loves, to comply with, his father's wish .that he should be united to Sealand's daughter^ and Bevil's friend, Myrtle, the true lover whose affection is not lessened by change in the. lady's . dowry, is rewarded with the hand of Lucinda. The friends, formerly supposed ; by one of them to be rivals, thus become brothers. . Steele -alluded to current criticism when he said, in his Preface^ that the incident of the threatened duel and the case of the father and daughter were thought by some to be no sub- jects of comedy ; " but I cannot," he continued, "be of their mind, for anything that has its foundation in. happiness and success must be allowed to be the object of comedy." His object, as Welsted said in the Prologuej-was to ■ " please by -wit that scorns the aid of vice ; The praise he seeks, from worthier motixes springs, Such praise, as' praise to those that give, it brings." It was for the audience " To chasten wit, and moralise the stage." If success is to be measured by the amount of discussion caused by a work. The Conscwtis Lovers was, indeed, fortunate.. . Dennis.began.the attack in a pamphlet before the play was publicly acted, and afterwards returned to the charge. Much of what he said was personal abuse, but some of his remarks are interesting, and show what were RICHARD STEELE. Ixv then held to be the weak points in the piece. He •complained that Bevil was given the qualities of an old man, and maintained that the characters were not just images of their contemporaries, that patterns for imitation were set up instead of follies and vices being made ridiculous, and that the subject of the comedy was not by its consti- tution comical. Bevil's filial piety, he said, was carried too far, and his behaviour to Indiana was still more unaccountable, for though he had in one sense concealed his passion, there was no retreat with honour for him, because by his gene- rosity and constant visits he had raised a passion for him in Indiana, and had compromised her. The catastrophe, he confessed, was very moving, but it might have been more surprising, if handled differently. The action in Terence's play was natural, as, for example, the conduct of Gly- cerium at the funeral of Chrysis ; but the scene at the masquerade between Bevil and Indiana was an absurd imitation, for Indiana did not know that her affection was returned. As for Bevil, " this man of conscience and of religion is as arrant an hypocrite as a certain author," and was constantly dissimulating. Dennis concluded by saying that the sentiments were often frivo- lous, false, and absurd ; the dialogue awkward, clumsy, and spiritless ; the diction affected, bar- barous, and too often Hibernian. There were other pamphlets for and against the play, and the newspapers contained many Steele. " e Ixvi RICHARD STEELE. articles on the subject. Gne writer remarked that a great part of Squire Cimberton's conver- sation, " some of which has since been omitted," could not be reconciled with rules often laid down by Steele. " He [Steele] "must always be agreeable, till he ceases to be at all; and yet ; . . it has been always fashionable to use him ill : Blockheads of quality, who are scarce capa- ble of reading his works, have affected a sort of ill-bred merit in despising 'em ; and they who have no taste for his writings, have pretended to a displeasure at his conduct." X. The remaining years of Steele's life need not detain us long. In 1723 he wrote to his eldest daughter, Betty, " I have taken a great deal of pains to serve the world, and hope God will allotv me some time to serve my own family. My good girl, employ yourself always in some good work, that you may be as good a woman as your mother." A few days later Vanbrugh wrot^, "Happening to meet with Sir Richard Steele t'other day at Mr. Walpole's in town, he seemed to me to be (at least) in the declining way I had heard he was." The complications arising from the mortgage of Steele's interest in the theatre still troubled him, and from the 1 8th of June the RICHARD STEELE. Ixvii Other managers each took, for his owri use, £^\ 13s. 4d. for .every day upon which a play was acted, an arrangement from which Steele was excluded. The . success of The Conscious Lovers encou- raged Steele to endeavour to finish another play ; and the newspapers reported that it would be acted that winter. This was The School of Action, which has for its scene a theatre, mistaken by a lady's guardian for an inn ; but the piece was left in a very incomplete condition. There is also a fragment of another play, The Gentle- man ; it was a dramatised version of a paper in the Spectator upon high life below stairs. In September illness forced Steele to go to Bath, and a few weeks later his only surviving son, Eugene, died. " Lord, grant me patience ; pray write to me constantly," the father wrote to Betty : "Why don't you mention Molly ? Is she dead, too?" In the spring of 1724 he was again in London, and in April a proposal for the payment of his debts was drawn up, from which it appears that, as he lived for more than five years after- wards, his liabilities were probably all met before his death. There was again reference to " a new play, which Sir Richard may produce next winter." In June an indenture quadrupartite was made between Steele, of the first part ; Wilks, Gibber, and Booth, of the second part ; a number of creditors, of the third part ; and the Rev. David Scurlock, of the fourth . part, to provide for the Ixviii RICHARD STEELE. payment of debts out of Steele's share of the profits of the theatre. For this purpose Mr. Scurlock — Lady Steele's cousin— was appointed trustee. The autumn: of 1724 was spent at Carmarthen, in February, 1725, Steele was at Hereford, where he received ;£ 1 00 from the King's bounty; and in July he was again at Carmarthen. He retired to the country from " a principle of doing justice to his creditors," and not, as Swift said after his death, becaiase of the " perils of a hundred gaols." In December, 1724, the other managers urged him to return to town at once ; the audiences decreased daily, and it was impossible to contend against other forms of entertainment ; the profits had fallen by more than a half. Nothing came of this application, and in September, 1725, pro- tracted law proceedings were instituted in the Court of Chancery, by Steele and Scurlock, against Wilks, Cibbeir, Booth, Castleman, and Woolley. An abstract of the pleadings will be found in the Appendix. The Court gave judg- ment in February, 1728, confirming the allow- ance of ;^i 13s. 4d. a day to each of the three managers ; but the case was not brought to a close until July, when, as Cibber says, " Sir Richard hot being advised to appeal to the Lord Chan- cellor; both parties paid their own costs, and thought it their mutual interest to let this be the last of their law suits." During the remaining three years of his life RICHARD STEELE. Ixix Steele lived chiefly at Tygwyn, a fartn-house overlooking the Towy, and within sight of; Car- marthen. There he had a stroke of paralysis, which was accompanied by a partial loss of speech, but he kept his sweetness of temper, and kindliness towards others to the last. There is a pleasant anecdote, told by Victor, and fully con- firmed elsewhere, that he " would often be carried out on a summer's evening, where the country lads and~ lasses were assembled at their rural sports, and, with his pencil, give an order on his agent, the mercer, for a new gown to the best dancer." By his will, made in 1727, and wit- nessed by John Dyer, the poet, he left the residue of his small property, after certain legacies, to his " dear and well-beloved daughters, Elizabeth and Mary." Elizabeth, who had many admirers, afterwards married Lord Trevor ; Mary died shortly after her father. Before his death Steele was moved to a house in King Street, Carmar^ then, where he passed away on September i, 1729. On the 4th he was privately buried in the vault of the Scurlocks, in St. Peter's Church. This vault was accidentally opened in 1876, and Steele's remains exposed to view ; but they were carefully re-^interred, and the skull enclosed in a small lead coffin. Steele's faults are apparent, and they have not been allowed to be forgotten by writers of his own day or of later times.' That he was thrifts less is manifest, but his income, though it came Ixx RICHARD STEELE. from various sources, was uncertain and irfegular, and, he had passed, the prime of: life before he had anything like handsome, means. Many of his debts, too,. are to, be accounted for by the gene- rosity and open-haodedness which are a charac- teristic of the i nation in, which he was borii. That he sometimes drank more than was wise is equally well known, but that fault does, not strike us so much when we remember that hard drink* ing. was then the common practice, and that many could consume, with impunity, an amount which would . undoubtedly have upset; Steele entirely. Against these defects^ and a certain general weakness of character . to which: they were due, we have to set his unselfish patriotism, the high aims of his writings, which had a most beneficial effect upon his own and future generations, his affection for wife and children, and his loyalty to his friends. Whatever there is to forgive is more than made up for by these qualities, which have made him, to this day^ one of the best- loved characters of his time. - • Steele's -comedies were often reprinted in separate form during the century following their production, and' there were about a dozen edi- tions in which these separate plays were col- lected together^' with a general title-page. The last of these bears the . date 1761.; In 1809 Nichols published the fragments of two un- finished comedies in his edition of Steele's Cor- RICHARD STEELE. Ixxi respondence. In the present volume all Steele's dramatic works have for the first time been gathered together, and an attempt has been made to provide such annotation as seemed necessary. Changes of scene, sometimes not noticed in the old copies, have been indicated, and modern con- ventions respecting spelling and the like have been adopted, while punctuation, which was very erratic in the early issues, has, where necessary, been modified. The text has been collated with the first and later editions of each play. G. A. AlTKEN. THE FU^E\cAL: OR G1{IEF cJ-LA-mOVE. *' Ut qnl conduct! plbrant in funere, dicunt, Et faciunt'propd plura dolentibus ex animo, sic Derisor vero plus laudatpre movetur." ^ Horace, Ars. Poet, 431 — 3. 1 " Hired mourners at a funeral say and do 'A little' more than they whose grief is true; *Tis just so here : false flattery displays More show of sympathy than honest praise." CONINGTON. B HE Fune7'al : or^ Grief A- la -Mode, a Comedy, was written in the summer of 1 70 J, and given to Christopher Rich, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in October. Soon afterwards it was acted, and it was puljHshed by Jacob Tonson between December i8 ^nd 20, with the date 1702 on the title-page. The music to the songs, by William Croft, appeared between December 16 and 18. The original cast included Cibber (Lord Hardy), Wilks (Campley), Mills (Trusty), Pinkethraan (Trim), Norris (Mrs. Fardingale), and Bullock (Kate Match- lock) ; with Mrs. Verbruggen (Lady Brumpton), Mrs. Rogers (Lacly. Harriot), and Mrs. Oldfield (Lkdy Shar- lot). The play was revived occasionally in most of the years between 1703^ and 1734, and from time to time during the following half- century, the last date, apparently, being April 17, 1799, The plot is entirely original. To the Jii^ht Honoural)U the COUNTESS OF ALBEMARLE.* i ' Madam, MO!NG the inany novelties with which your ladyship,. a stranger in our nation, is daily entertained, you have not yet l?een made acquainted with the poeti- cal English liberty, the right of dedica^ tion ; wiiph entitles us to a privilege of celebrating whatever for its native excellence is the just object of praise, and is an ancient charter, by which the Muses have always a free access to the habitation of the Graces. Hence it is that this Comedy waits on your Ladyship, and presurnes to welcome you amongst us ; though in- deed, madam, we are surprised to see you bring with you, what we thought was of our own growth only, an agreeable beauty ; nay, we must assure you, that we can- not give up so dear an article of our glory, but assert it by our right in you : for if 't is a maxim founded on the noblest human law, that of hospitality, that every soil is a brave man's cbunti^y; England has a very just pretence of claiming as a native a daughter of Mr. Scravenmore. Isabella, second daughter of the Lord of St. Gravemoer, General of the Forces to the States General, and wife of Arnold Joost van Keppel, Earl of Albemarle, and Colonel of the first troop of Horse Guards. 4 THE FUNERAL. But your Ladyship is not only endeared to us by the great services of your father, but also by the kind offices of your husband, whose frank carriage falls in with our genius, which is free, open, and unreserved. In this the generosity of your tempers makes you both excel in so peculiar a manner, that your good actions are their own reward ; nor can they be returned with ingratitude, for none can forget the beneifits you confer so soon as you do yourselves. But ye have a more indisputable title to a dramatic performance than all these advantages ; for you are your- selves, in a degenerate low age, the noblest characters which that fine passion that supports the stage has in- spired ; and as you have practised as generous a fidelity as the fa,ncies of poets have ever drawn in their expecting lovers, so may you enjoy as high a prosperity as ever they have bestowed on their rewarded. This you may possess in an happy security, for your fortunes cannot move so much envy as your persons love. I am. Madam, Your Ladyship's most devoted Humble Servant; Richard Steele. PREFACE. HE rehearsal of this Comedy was honoured with the presence of the Duke of Devonshire," who is as dis- tinguished by his fine understanding as high quality. The innocence of it moved him to the humanity of ex- pressing himself in its favour. 'Tis his manner to be pleased where he is not offended ; a condescension which delicate spirits are obliged to for their own ease, for they would have but a very ill time of it if they suffered themselves to be diverted with nothing but what could bear their judgment. That elegant and illustrious person will, I hope, pardon my gratitude to the town, which obliges me to report so substantial a reason for their approbation of this play, as that he permitted it. But I know not in what words to thank my fellow-soldiers for their warmth and zeal in my behalf, nor to what to attribute their undeserved favour, except it be that 'tis habitual to 'em to riin to the succour of those they see in danger. Thb subject of the drama 'tis hoped will be acceptable to all lovers of mankind, since ridicule is partly levelled ' William Cavendish, fourth Earl of Devonshire ; created in 1694 Marquis of Hartington and Duke of Devonshire. The Duke was a Knight of the Garter, and Lord Steward of the Household. He married Mary, second daughter of the first Duke of Ormond, and he died in 1707. j . > 6 ^ THE FUNERAL : at a set of people who live in impatient hopes to see us out of the world, a'' flock of ravens that attend' this numerous city for their carcases ; but, indeed, 'tis not in the power of any pen to. speak 'em better than they do themselves. As, for example, on a door I just now passed by, a great artist thus informs us of his cures upon the dead : — W. W., known and approved for his art of embalming, having preserved the corpse of a gentlewoman, sweet and entire, thirteen years, without embowelling, and has reduced" the bodies of several persons of quality to sweetness, in Flanders and Ireland, after nine inoptha' piitrefaction in thp groui)d, and they were known by their friends in England. Np man performeth the like. He must needs be strangely in Ipve with this life who is not touched wjth this kipd invitation to be pickled ; an,d the noble operator must be allowed a very useful person for bringing old friends together ; nor would it be unworthy his labour to give us an account at large of the sweet conversation that arose upon meeting gucli an eiitire friend as he mentions. But to be serious: Is there anything, tjut its beiing dovynright fact, could make a rational creature believe 't were possible to arrive at this fantastic posthump^s folly ? Not at the same time but that it wefg bviffppnery rather than satire to explode all funeral honours; but then it is certainly necessary to make 'em such that the mourners should be in earnest, and the lamented worthy of our sorrow. But this purpose is so far frorn being served, that it is utterly destroyed by the mariner of pro- ceeding among us, where the obsequies, which are due only to the best and highest of human race (to admonish their short survivors that neither wit, nor valour, nor wisdom, nor glory can suspend our fate), are prostituted and bestowed upon such as have tiothing in common ■yvith rnen but their inqrtality. But the dead man is not to pass off so easily, for his last thoughts are also to suffer dissection, and it seems there is an art to be earned to speak our own sense in OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 7 other men's words, and a rtian in a gOwn that never saw his face shall tell you immediately the design of the deceased, better than all liis old acquaintance; which 4s so perfect an hocus-pocus that, without ypu can repeat such and such words, you cannot convey what is in your hands into another's ; but far b.e it from any man's thought to say there are not men of strict integrity of the long robe, though it is not everybody's good fortune to meet with 'em. . .1 .: ' - However, the daily legal villanies we see committed will also be esteeme4 things proper to be prosecuted by satire, nor could our ensuing Legislative do their country a more seasonable office than to look irito the distresses of an unhappy people, who groan perhaps iii as much misery under entangled as they cOuld do under broken laws ; nor could there be a reward high enough assigned for a great genius, if such iriay be found, who has capa- city sufficieiit to glance through the false colours that are put upon us, arid propose to the English world a method of making justice flow in an uninterrupted stream ; there is so clear a mind in being, whom we Will name in words that of all men breathing Can be only said of him ; 'tis he ' that is excellent — " Seu lingUam causis acnit, seu eivica jura Responsare parat, seu condit amabile carmen. " * Othei; enemies that may arise against this poor play are indeed less terrible, but niuch more powerful than thesej and they are the ladies ; but if there is anything that argues a soured man, who lashes all for Lady Brqmpton, we may hope there will be seen also a devoted heart that esteeins all for Lady Sharlot. \ Perhaps the reference is to Charles Montagu, Lord Halifax, who, as Pope says, was '^fed with dedications." ' " Whether he trains fqr jileading, oi- essays To practise law, or frame some graceful lays." (Coiiingto'ii's Hvrdce, Ep. I, iii, 23 — 4, adapted to suit Steele's modification of the original.) spoken by Mr. Wilks.' Nature's deserted, and dramatic art, To dazzle now the eye, has left the heart ;,' Gay lights and dresses, long extended scenes, Demons and angels rnoving in macliines, All that can now, or please, or fright the fair, May be performed without a writer's care. And is the skill of carpenter, not player. 1 WilUs was Campley. In the Tatler{^a. rSj), Steele says : "To beseech gracefully, to approach respectfully, to pity, to liidurn, to love, are the places wherein Wilts may be said to shine with theutmost beaiitij!!" He had "a singular talent in repre- senting the graces of nature " and " the easy frankness of a geiitle; mm." ''■ Contemporary writers loudly complained lofi the; neglect, of ordinary plays at this time, owing to the importation of French tumblers and rope-dancers, performing animals, and Italian singers. " The town ran mad," says Gildpn {Comparison between the two Stages), iftef^some of these entettainments. The theatres in Drury Lane and Lincoln's Inn Fields tried to outdo each other in every iiew attempt made<^by either of them: The. "Celebrated Virgin." in a machine, shining in a full zodiac, and "Harlequin and Scara- mouch,*' with plenty of grimaces and table-jiinipiiig, were favourite amusements. The cleverest plays would rarely secure a reasonable audience unless they were accompanied by dances, songs, .^nd clowns. Colley Gibber (A^olog'y, chap', x), sSys that Rich paid "extraordinary prices to' smgers; dancers, and other exotic per^ formers, which were as constantly deducted out of the sinking salai ies of his actors." The majority' of the people " could rriore easily apprehend anything they saw, than the daintiest things that could be said to theni." Rich was only prevented bringing an elephant on to the stage by " the jealousy which so formidable a rival had raised in his dancers," and by the bricklayers assuring him that the safety, of the building would, b,e imperilled. The complaint that what pleases is " the skill of carpenter, not player," is exactly what we hear continually at the present day. THE FUNERAL. 5 Old ShakespM.r£'^ days could not thus far advance ; But what's ms buslcin to pur ladder dance ? ' In the mid region a silk youth to stand, With that unwieldly engine at command ! Gorged with intemperate meals while here you sit, Well may you take activity for wit : Fie, let confusion on such dulness seize. ; Blush, you're so pleaded, as we that so we please. But we, still kind to your inverted sense. Do most unnatural things once more dispense. For since you're still preposterous in delight, Our Author made, a fiill house to invite, A funeral a Comedy to night. Nor does he fear that you will take the hint. And let the funeral his own be meant ; No, in old England nothing can be.won Without a faction, good or ill be done ; To own this our frank Author does not fear ; , But hopes for a prevailing party here ; He knows he 's numerous friends ; nay, knows they'll show it, ' • : And for the fellow-soldier, save the poet. ' ' An Older of the Lord Chamberlain to the Managers of the Haymarket and Drury Lane Theatres, dated 24 Dec, 1709, directed tliat all agreements with actors, &c., were to be sutiniitied to the Lord Chamberlain ; that all players were to be sworn in ; that all new plays, &c., lyere to be re-licensed by the Master of the Revels ; and " that from and after the first day of January next no new Repiesentations be brought upon the Stage which are not Neces- sary to the better performance of Comedy or Opera, such as ladder- dancing, antic postures, &c., without my leave and approbation first had." (Lord Chamberlain's Records, Warrant Book No. 22, end). See Tatler, Nos. 12, 99. The author of a book called The Antier.t and Modern Stages surveyed (1699), attributed to Dr. James Drake, and written in reply to Collier's Short View, says (p. 99) : " As for the dancing, which he calls bold, it may in one sense be allowed him ; for it must be granted that he that ventures his neck to dance upon the top of a ladder is a very bold lellow." Lord BRUMProtf. Lord Hardy, Soh to Lord Brxmpton, in love with Lady Sharlot. Mr. Campley, in love with Lady Harriot. Mr. Trusty, Steward tq .Lqrd Bri/mpton, Cabinet. Mr. Sable, an Undertaker. Puzzle, a Lawyer. Trim, Servant tb Lord Hardy. Tom, the Lawyeir's Clerk. Lady BruMptOnI Lady Sharlot ) Orphan Sisters, left: in ward to tiORD Lady Harriot i Brumpton. Madamoiselle D'EJpingle. Taitleaid, Lady Brumpton's Woman. Mrs., Fardingale. ^ATE Matchlock. Visitant Ladies, Sable's Servants, ReCriiits, &c. SCENE.— CovENT Garden. THE FU^ET{cAL: oil a\IEF oA^LA-mOVE. ACT THE FIRST. SCENE— Coz/ewi? Garden. Enter CabineTj Sable, and Campley. ' AB. I burst into laughter, I ean't bear to see writ over an undertaker's door, " Dresses for the Dead; and Neces- saries for Funerals ! " Ha ! ha ! ha ! Sab. Well, gentlemen, 'tis very well ; I know you are of the laugh- ers, the wits that take the liberty to deride all things that are magnificent and solemn. Cam. Nay, but after all, I can't but admire Sable's nice discerning on the superfluous cares of mankind, that could lead thetn to the thought of raising an estate by ptoviding horses, equipage, and furniture, for those that no longer need 'em, Cai. But is it not strangely contradictory, that men 12 THE FUNERAL : [ACT I. can come to so open, so apparent an hypocrisy, as in the face of all the world, to hire professed mourners to grieve, lament, and follow in their stead their nearest relations, and suborn others to do by art what they themselves should be prompted to by nature ? Sai. That's reasonably enough said, but they regard themselves only in all they act for the deceased, and the poor dead are delivered to my custody, to be embalmed, slashed, cut, and dragged about, not to do them honour, but to satisfy the vanity or interest of their survivors. Cam. This fellow's every way an undertaker ! How well and luckily he' talks ! His prating so aptly has methinks something more ridiculous in it than if he were absurd. [Asiife to Cabinet. Cab. But, as Mr. Campley says, how could 'you dream of making a fortune from so chimerical a foundation as the provision of things wholly needless and insignificant ? Sab. Alas, gentlemen, the value of all things under the sun is merely fantastic. ■ We fiiri, we strive, and purchase things with our blood and money, quite foreign to our ' intrinsic real happiness, and which have a being in imagi- nation only, as you may see by the piidder' that is made about precedence, titles,, court favour, maidenheads, and ' china-ware. , , , £ain. Ay, Mr. Sabje, but all those are objects that pro- mote our joy, are bright to the eye, or stamp upon our minds pleasure and self-satisfaction. Sab. Yow. are extremely mistaken, sir; for one would wonder tp consider that after all pur outcries against self- interested men, there are few, very few, in the whole, world that liye to themselvps, but sacrifice their bosom-bliss to enjoy a, vain show, and appearance of prosperity in the eyes of otliers; and there is- often nothipg more inwardly distressed than a young bride in her glittering, retinue, or deeply joyful than a young widow in her weeds and black .v: ;;.;..... :j,. ■■> Pother. , , . : •., SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 13 train ; of both which, the lady of this house may be an instance, for she has been the one, and is, I'll be sworn, the other. Cab. You talk, Mr. Sable, most learnedly ! Sab. I have the deepest learning; sir, experience. Remember your widow cousin th^t married last month. Cab. Ay ! But how could you imagine she was in all that grief an hypocrite ? Could all those shrieks, those swoonings, that rising, falling bosom be constrained ? You're uncharitable. Sable, to believe it What colour, what reason had you for it? Sab. First, sir, her carriage in her concerns with me, for I never yet could meet with a sorrowful relict, but was herself enough to make an haTd bargain with me.' — Yet I must confess they have frequent interruptions of grief and sorrow when they read my bill — but as for her, nothing, she resolved, that looked bright or joyous should after 'her love's death approach her. All her servants that were not coal black must turn out ; a fair complexion made her eyes and heart ache, she'd none but downright jet, and to exceed all example she hired my mourning furniture by the year, and in case of my mortality tied my son to the same article ; so in six weeks' time ran away with a young fellow Prithee push on briskly, Mr. Cabinet, now is your time to have this widow, for Tattleaid tells me she always said she'd never marry Cab. As you say, that's generally the most hopeful sign. Sab. I tell you, sir, 'tis an infallible one; you know 1 In a letter written in August, 17 10, to her future husband, Mr. E. Wortley Montagu, Lady Maty PieiTepqint says: "People talk of being in love just as widows do of aiffiction. Mr. Steele ibias observed in one of his plays, ' the most passionate among them^have always calmness enough to drive a hard bargain with the upholders.' I never knew a lover that would not wiUingly secure hjs interest as well as his mistress ; or, if one must be abandoned, had not the prudence (among all his distractions) to consider that a woman was but a woman, and money was a thing of more real merit than the whole sex put together." 14 THE FU.NSRAi. : ^ [act Jr those professions are only to introduce ^gcpvsrse of matrix mony and ydung fellows* Cad. But I swear I could not have confidence even after all oilr long acquaintance, and the piitual Ipve which his lordship (who indeed has now been so kind as to leave us) has so long interrupted, to mention a thing of such a nature so unseasonably Sal>. Unseasonably ! Why, I tisll you 'tis the only season (granting her sorrow unfeigned) ; When would you spfeak of passion, but in the midst of passion^? There's a what d'ye call, a crisis'— the lucky minute that's so italked of, is a moment between joy and grief, which you must take hold of and push your fortune But g^t you in, and you'll be^t rggd your fate ip t|ie reception Mrs. Tattleaid gives you. All she says, and all she does, nay, her very love and hatred are mere repetition of h?r ladyship's passions. I'll say that for her, she's a true lady's womaii, and is herself a,s inuqh a second-hand thing as her clothes,' But I must beg your pardon, gentle- men, my people are come I see \Exeunt Cab. and, Cam?. Enter Sab;,e's Men. Where in the name of goodness have you all been ? Have you brought the sawdust and tar for embalming ? Have you the hangings and the sixpenny nails, and my lord's eoat-of-arms? Enter Servakt. Seri Yes, sir, and had come sopner, bv(t I went to the Herald's for st Coat for Aldermah Gathergrease that died last night He has protnised to invent one against to-mOrroW. Sahi Ah ! Pox take som^ of our cits, the first thirig aft^r their death is to take cafe of their birth Pojc, 1 See p. 91, note'.. SCENE I.] OR, GM-IBF A-LA^ODE. 15 let him b^ar a- pair of stocjtings, he's the ^\^X of tiis: family that ever wore one. Well, come you tliat are to be mourners in this house, put on your sad looks, and walk by me that I may sort you. Ha, you ! a little more upon the d|isrpal \f arming their countenances^ ; this fellow has a good piortal look — place him near the. corpse. That wainscot f^^e must bg o'top of thes|airs; that fellow's almost in a fright (that loqks as if he were full of some str9,nge misery) at the entrance of the hall — so — but I'll- fix you all iiiyself rLetfs have po laughing now on any prpyacatipii \makes faces]. l,pok yonder, that hale, welUlpoking puppy ! You ungrateful scoundrel, did not I pity you, take you out of a great man's service, and show you the pleasure of receiving wages ? Did hot 1 give you ten, then fiftperi, now twenty shillings a week, to be sorrowful? aiid the more I give you, I think, the gladder you are. Enter a Boy. Boy. Sir, the gravedigger of St. Timothy's-iri-the- Fields wpuld spegk with you. Sept., Let him come in. Enter GRAVEi)iGGEii. Grav. I carried home to ypur house the shroad the gentleman was buried itj last night. I could not get his ring off very easily, therefore I brpvight the finger and all; and sir, the sexton gives his service to you, and desires to know whiBther you'd have any bodies removed or not. If not, he'll let 'ein lie in their graves a week longer. Sab. Give him my service, I can't tell readily; but our friend, t^ll hirp, Dr. Passeport, with the powder, has pro- njised me six pr swen funerals this week. I'll send to bur cpuntry-farm at Kensington Gravel Pits, and our 0117- hpuse in Wf^rwick Lane for news ; you shall know time enough. Harkee, bp sure there's care taken tP give my i6 THE FUNERAL: [ACT I. Lady Languishe's woman a fee to keep out that young fellow came laist from Oxford ; h'e'll ruin us all. Enter Goody Trash. I wonder, Goody Trash, you could not be more punc- tual, when I told ydu I wanted you, and your two daughters, to be three virgins to-night to stand in white about my Lady K.4therine Grissel's body; and yfau know you were privately to bring her home from the man- midwife's, where She'died in Childbirth, to- be buried like a maid ; but there is nothing minded. Well, I have put oif that till to-rriorrow ; go and get your bag of brick-dust and your whiting. GO and sell to the cook-maids ; know who has surfeited about town. Bring me no bad news, none of your recoveries agkin. And you, Mn Blockhead I warrant you 'have not called at Mr. Pestle's, the apothe- cary : Will that fellow never pay me? I stand bound for all the poison in that starving murderer's shop. He serves me just ^s, Dr. Quibus did, who promised to write a treatise against water-gruei,'a damned healthy slop, that has done me more injury tHan all the faculty. Look ybii now, you are all upon the sneer; let me have none but downright stupid countenances— — - I've a good mind to turn you all off, and take people out of the play-house ; but, hang 'eni, they are as ignorant of their parts as you are of yours, they never act but when they speak; when the chief indication of the mind is in the 'gesture, or indeed in case of sorrow in no gestiire, except you were to act a widow, or so— ^ — But yours, you dolts, is all in dumb show; dumb show ? I mean expressive eloquent show : As who can see such an horrid ligly phiz as that fellow's and not be shocked, offended, and killed of all joy while he beholds it? But we must not loiter Ye stupid rogues, whom I have picked out of all the rubbisfi of mankind, and fed for your eminent worthlessness, attend, and know that I speak you this moment stiff SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 17 and immutable to all sense of noise, mirth, or laughter \Makes mouths at them as they pass by him to bring them Jo a constant countenance\. So, they are pretty well — pretty well Enter Trusty and I^ord Brumpton. Tru. 'Twas fondness, sir, and tender duty to you, who have been so worthy and so just a master to me, made me stay near you ; they left me so, and there I found you wake from your lethargic slumber ; on which I will assume an authority to beseech you, sir, to make just use of your revived life, in seeing who are your true friends, and knowing her who has so wrought upon your noble nature as to make it act against itself in disinheriting your brave son. Ld. B. Sure 'tis impossible she should be such a creature as you tell me My mind reflects upon ten thousand endearments that plead unanswerably for her. Her chaste reluctant love, her easy observance of all my wayward humours, to which she would accommodate herself with so much ease, I could scarce observe it was a virtue in her ; she hid her very patience. Trti. It was all art, sir, or indifference to you, for what I say is downright matter of fact. Ld. B. Why didst thou ever tell me it ? or why not in my lifetime, for I must call it so, nor can I date a minute mine, after her being false ; all past that moment is death and darkness : Why didst thou not tell me then, I say ? Tru. Because you were too much in love with her to be informed ; nor did I ever know a man that touched on conjugal affairs could ever reconcile the jarring humours but in a common hatred of the intermeddler. But on this most extraordinary occasion, which seems pointed out by Heaven itself to disengage you from your ••cruelty and banishment of an innocent child, I must, I Steele. C i8 THE blJNERAt: [Act i. will conjuf-e ydu to be concealed, and but contain yotit- self, in hearing one discourse with that curbed instrUtaent of all her secrets, that Tattleaid, and you'll see what I tell you ; you'll call me then your guardian and good genius. Ld. B. Well, you shall govern me, but would I had died in earnest ere I'd known it ; my head swims, as it did when I fell ihto my fit, at the thoughts of it How dlziy a pilate is this world you live in ! All hiitoan life's a inere vertigo ! Trii. Ay, aj', my lord, fine reflections — fine feflections, —but that doe^ no busirifess. Thus, Sir', we'll stand con- cealed, and hear, I doubt nOt, a much sinfcerer dialogue than usual between vitioiis persoris ; for a late actident has given a little jealousy, which makes 'em over-act their love and confidence in each other. \They retire. Enter Widow and Tattleaid meetingi and running to each other. ' Wid. O, Tattleaid ! His and our hour is Come ! Tat. I always said, by his churchyard cough, you'd bury him, but still you were impatient Wid. Nay, thou hast ever been my comfort, my Confi- dant, my friend, and my servant j and now I'll reward thy pains ; for though I scorn the 'ivhole sex of fellbws, I'll give 'em hopes for thy sake ; every smile, every froVn, every gesture, Tiumbur, caprice and whimsey of mine Shall be gold to thee, girl \ thou shalt feel all the sweet and wealth of being a fine rich widow's woman. Oh ! how my head runs uly first year out, and jumps to all the joys of widowhood ! If thirteen months hence a friend should haul one to a play one has a mind to see, what pleasure 'twill be when my Lady Brumpton's footman's called (who kept a place for that \e.ty purpose) td make a sudden insurrection of fine wigs in the pit and side-boxes. Then, ^ith a pretty sOrro* in one's face and a willing blush fot scENfe I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. ig. being stared at, one ventures to look round and boiv to ohe of one's own quality. Thus \very direcUy\ to a smug pre- tending fellow of no fortune : THus \as scarce seeing hirH\ to one that writes Idtnjioons : Thus \fearfully\ to dne one really loves ; Thus \looking down\ to one's womari- acquaihtance ; from box to box thus \tuiih looks differerttly familiar\ : And when orie has dorie one's part, observe the actors do their's, but with my mind fixed riot on those I look at, but those that look at me Then the serenades ! The lovers ! Tdt. O, madam, you make my heart bound within nle. I'll warrant yoii, liiadam, I'll manage 'em all ; and indeed, iriadam, the men are really very silly creatures, 'tis no stich hatd matter They rulers ! They gover- nors ! I warrant you indeed ! Wid. Ay, Tattleaid, the^ imagine themselves mighty things'; but goverttment founded on force only is a brutal power. We rule them by their affections, which blrnds thetW into faeKef that they rille us, or at least are in the government with us But in this nation our power is absolute. Thus, thus, we sway — \playing her fah\. A fan is both the standard and the flag of England. I litigH to see the! men go on our errands ; strut in great offices; Jive in cdres, ha^rards, and scanda!Is ; to come home and be fools to us in brags Of' their dispatches, negotii- tions, ind their wisdom— as my good, dear deceased (ised to entertain me ; v^hich I, to relieve myself from, would lisp some silly reqriest, pat hirfl on the face He shakes his head at my pretty folly, calls me srfripleton, gives me a jewel, then goes' to bed so wise, so satisfied, and so deceived \ Tut. But I protest, madam', I've always wondered ho'vi' you could accortf^lish my yoting lord's being disinherited. Wid. Why, Tatty, you must know my lalte lord — how pfetrily that Sounds, my late lord I Btit I say, itly late Lord Frible was gA^foslty — I f)rfessed h'iirt there, and 20 THE FUNERAL : [ACT I. whenever you, by my order, had told him stories to my son-in-law's disadvantage, in his rage and resentment I (whose interest lay otherwise) always fell on my knees to implore his pardon, and with tears, sighs, and importuni- ties for him, prevailed against him, ; besides this, you know, I had, when I pleased, fits— fits are a mighty help in the government of a good-natured man ; but in an ill- natured fellow have a care of 'em — he'll hate you for natural infirmities, will remember your face in its distor- tion, and not value your return of beauty. Tat. O rare madam ! your ladyship's a great head- piece ; but now, dear madam, is the hard task, if I may take the liberty to say it — to enjoy all freedoms, and seem to abstain, to manage the number of pretenders, and keep the disobliged from prating Wid. Never fear, Tattleaid ; while you have riches, if you affront one to abuse, you can give hopes to another to defend you. These maxims I have been laying up all my husband's life-time, for we must provide against calamities. Tat. But now, madam, a fine young gentleman with a red coat, that dances Wid. You may be sure the happy man (if it be in fate that there is an happy man to make me an unhappy woman) shall not be an old one again. Age and youth married, is the cruelty in Dryden's Virgil, where Mezentius ties the dead and living together, I'm sure I was tied to a dead man many a long day before I durst bury him But the day is now my own. Yet now I think , on't, Tattleaid, be sure to keep an obstinate shyness to all our old acquaintance. Let 'em talk of favours if they please ; if we grant 'em, still they'll grow tyrants to us ; if we discard 'em, the chaste and innocent will not believe we could have confidence to do it, were it so ; and the wise, if they believe it, will applaud our prudence. SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 21 Tat. Ay, madam — I believe, madam — I speak, madam, but my humble sense — Mr. Cabinet would marry you. Wid. Marry me ! No, Tattleaid. He that is so mean as to marry a woman after an affair with her, will be so base as to upbraid that very weakness. He that marries his wench will use her like his wench. — Such a pair must sure live in a secret mutual scorn of each other ; and wedlock is hell if at least one side does not love, as it would be Heaven if both did ; and I believe it so much Heaven, as to think it was never enjoyed in this world. Enter a Woman. Worn. A gentleman to Mrs. Tattleaid {Exit Tattleaid. Wid. Go to him. — Bless me, how careless and open have I been to this subtle creature in the case of Cabinet ; she's certainly in his interests We people of condition are never guarded enough against those about us. They watch when our minds boil over with joy or grief, to come in upon us. How miserable it is to have one one hates always about one, and when one can't endure one's own reflection upon some actions, who can bear the thoughts of another upon 'em ? But she has me by deep, deep secrets. — The Italians, they say, can readily remove the too much intrusted Oh ! their pretty scented gloves ! This wench I know has played me false and horned me in my gallants. O Italy, I could resign all my female English liberty to thee, for thy much dearer female pleasure, revenge ! Enter Tattleaid. Well, what's the matter, dear Tatty ? Tat. The matter, madam ? why, madam. Counsellor Puzzle is come to wait on your ladyship about the will. 22 TliM FUNERAL : [ACT i. and the conveyance of the estate. There must, it spems, be no time lost for fear of things. Fie, fie,, madam, you a widow these three hours and not looked on a parch- ment yet Oh, impious, to neglect the will of the dead ! Wid. As you say, ijndeed, there is no will of an hus- band's so willingly obeyed as his last- But I must go in and receive him in roy formalities, leaning on a couch, as necessary a posture as hjs g&ing behind his desk when he speaks to a chent But do you bring him in hither till I am ready. [Exit- Tat. Mr. Counsellor, Mr. Counsellor [Calling. Enter PusZ?LE and Clerk. Puz. 'Servant, good madam Tattleaid ; my anpient friend is gone, bijt business must be minded Tat. I told my lady twice or thrice, as jshe lies in dumb grief on the couch within, that you were h.ere, but she regarded me jiqt ; however, sinpe you say 'tis of such moment, I'll venture to introduce you. Please but to repose here a little while I step in ; for raethinks I woijld a little prepare her. Puz. Alas ! alas ! Poor lady ! \Exit Tattleaid. Damned hypocrites ! Well, thi§ nqble's de^th is a little sudden. Therefore, pray, let me rpcoUect. Opei) the bag, good Tom. Now, Tom, tbou art my nephew, my dear sister Kate's only son and rny heir, therefore I wijl conceal from thee on no occasion anything, for I would enter thee into business as soon as possible, Know then, child, that the lord of this house was one of your men of honour and sense whp Ipse the latfer iji the former, and are apt to take all men to be like themselves. Now this gentleman entirely trusted me, and I made the only use a man of business can of a trust — I cheated him. For I, imperceptibly, before his face, made his whole estate liable to an hundred per annum for myself, SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 23 for good services, &c. As for legacies, tljey are good or not as I pleasp ; for, let me tell -you, a man must t3,}ce pen, ink, and paper, sit down by an old fellow, and pre- tend to take directions ; but a true lawyer never makes any man's will but his own ; and as the priest of old among us got near the dying man and gave all to the church, so now the lawyer gives all tp the lg,w. Clerk. Ay, sir ; but priests then cheat^ed the nation by doing their offices in an unknown language. Puz. True; but oufs is a way much surer, for we cheat in no language at all, but loll in our own coaches, eloquent in gibberish, and learned in juggle Pull out the parchment ; there's the deed, I made it as long as I could. Well, I hope to see the day when the indepture shall be the exact measure of the land that passes by it ; for 'tis a discouragement to the gown that every ignorant rogue of an heir should, in a word or two, understand his father's meaning, and hold ten acres of land by half-an- acre of parchment. Nay, I hope to see the time when that there is, indeed, some progress made in, shall be wholly effected, and by the improvement of the noble art of tautology every inn in Holboru an inn of court. Let others think of logic, rhetoric and I know not what impertinence, but mind thou tautology. What's the first excellence in a lawyer ? Tautology. What the second ? Tautology. What the third? Tautology — as an pld pleader said of action. But turn to the deed \pulk out an immeasurable parchment], for the will is of no force if I please, for he was not capable of making one aft.er the former — as I managed it; upqn which account I now wait upon my lady. By the way, do you know the true meaning of the word, a deed ? Clerk. Ay, sir ; a deed is as if a man should say the deed. Fuz. Right. 'Tis emphatically so-called because ?yfter it all deeds and actions are of no effect, and yo» have 24 THE FUNERAL: [act I. nothing to do but hang yourself, the only obliging thing you can then do But I was telling you the use of tautology. Read toward the middle of that instrument. Clerk \reads\. " I, the said Earl of Brampton, do give, bestow, grant, and bequeath, over and above the said premises, all the site and capital messuage called by the name of Oatham, and all out-houses, barns, stables, and other edifices and buildings, yards, orchards, gardens, fields, arbours, trees, lands, earths, meadows, greens, pastures, feedings, woods, underwoods, ways, waters, watercourses, fishings, ponds, pools, commons, common of pasture, paths, heath-thickets, profits, commodities and emoluments, with their and every of their appur- tenances [Puzzle nods and sneers as the synonimous words are repeating, whom Lord B. scornfully i7d7nics\ whatso- ever, to the said capital messuage and site belonging, or in £iny wise appertaining, or with the same heretofore used, occupied or enjoyed, accepted, executed, known, or taken as part, parcel, or member of the same ; containing in the whole, by estimation, four hundred acres of the large measure, or thereabouts, be the same more or less ; all and singular, which the said site, capital messuage, and other the premises, with their and every of their appurtenances are situate, lying, and being " Puz. Hold, hold, good Tom ; you do come on indeed in business, but don't use your nose enough in reading. \Reads in a ridiculous law-to?ie until out of breathJ\ Why, you're quite out — You read to be understood. Let me see it. — " I, the said Earl." — Now again, suppose this were to be in Latin. \Jiu9is into Latin, terminations.^ Making Latin is only making it no English — " Ego predict — Comes de Brumpton — tolas meas barnos — otU- housas et stabulas — yardos " — But there needs no further perusal — I now recollect the vs^hole. My lord, by this instrument, disinherits his son utterly, gives all to my lady, and moreover, grants the wards of two fortune- ■SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 25 wards to her — id est, to be sold by her, which is the subject of my business to her ladyship, who, methinks, a little overdoes the affair of grief, in letting me wait thus long on such welcome articles. But here Enter Tati'Leaid, wiping her eyes. Tat. 1 have in vain done all I can to make her regard me. Pray, Mr. Puzzle — you're a man of sense — come in yourself, and speak reason, to bring her to some consideration of herself, if possible. Puz. Tom, I'll come down to the hall to you; dear madam, lead on. \Ex. Clerk one way, Puzzle and Tattleaid another. Lord Brumpton and Trusty advance from their con- cealment, after a long pause, and staring at each other. Ld. B. Trusty, on thy sincerity, on thy fidelity to me, thy friend, thy patron, and thy master, answer me directly to one question : am I really alive ? Am I that identi- cal, that numerical, that very same Lord Brumpton, that Tru. That very lord — that very Lord Brumpton, the very generous, honest, and good Lord Brumpton, who spent his strong and riper years with honour and repu- tation ; but in his age of decay declined from virtue also. That very Lord Brumpton, who buried a fine lady who brought him a fine son, who is a fine gentleman ; but in his age, that very man, unreasonably captivated with youth and beauty, married a very fine young lady, who has dis- honoured his bed, disinherited his brave son, and dances o'er his grave. Ld. B. Oh ! that damned tautologist, too — that Puzzle and his irrevocable deed ! [Pausing.] Well, I know I do not really live, but wander o'er the place where once I had a treasure. I'll haunt her. Trusty, gaze in that false beauteous face, till she trembles — till she looks pale — nay, till she blushes 26 THE FUNERAL. [ACT I. Tru. Ay, ay, my lord, you speak a ghost very much ; there's flesh and blood in that expression, that false beauteous face ! Ld. B. Then since you see my weakness, be a friend, and arm me with all your care and all your reason Tru. If you'll condescend to let me direct you — you shall cut off this rotten limb, your false disloyal wife, and save your poble parts, your son, your family, yojjr honour. Short is the date in which ill acts prevail, But honesty's a rock can never fail. ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I.— LORR Hardy's Zo, Enter Lord Hardy. D. H. Now, indeed, I am utterly un- done ; but to expect an evil softens the weight of it wlien it happens, and pain no more than pleasure is in reality so great as in expectation. Bi|t what will become of me ? Hpjy sh^ll I keep myself even above worldly want ? Shall I live at home a stiff, roelanclioly, poor man of quality, grow uneasy to my acquaintance as well as myself, by fancying I'm flighted where I am "not; with all the thousand particularities which attend those whom low fortune and high spirit make malcontents? No ! We've a brave prince on the throne, whose com- mission I bear, and a glorious war in an honest cause approaching \clapping his hand ott his sword} , in which this shall cut bread for me, and may perhaps equal that estate to which my birth entitled me. But what to do in present pressures— Ha ! Trim. ICa/iing. Enter TRiiyj, Trim. My Jord. 28 THE FUNERAL ; [ACT ll. Ld. H. How do the poor rogues that are to recruit my Company ? Trim. Do, sir ! They've ate you to your last guinea. Ld. H. Were you at the agent's ? Trim. Yes. Ld. H. Well ? And how ? Trim. Why, sir, for your arrears, you may have eleven shillings in the pound ; but he'll not touch your growing subsistence under three shillings in the pound interest ; besides which you must let his clerk, Jonathan Item, swear the peace against you to keep you from duelling — or insure your life, which you may do for eight per cent. On these terms he'll oblige you, which he would not do for anybody else in the regiment ; but he has a friendship for you. Ld. H. Oh, I'm his Tiumble servant ; but he must have his own terms. We can't starve, nor must my fellows want. But methinks this is a calm midnight, I've heard no duns to da)' Trim. Duns, my lord ? Why now your father's dead, and they can't arrest you. I shall grow a little less upon the smooth with 'em than I have been. Why, friend, says I, how often must I tell you my lord is not stirring : His lordship has not slept well, you must come some other time ; your lordship will send for him when you are at leisure to look upon money-affairs ; or if they are so saucy, so impertinent as to press to a man of your quality for their own — there are canes, there's Bridewell, there's the stocks for your ordinary tradesmen. But to an haughty, thriving Covent Garden mercer, silk or lace- man, your lordship gives your most humble service to him, hopes his wife's well. You have letters to write, or you'd see him yourself, but you desire he would be with you punctually such a day, that is to say the day after you are gone out of town. Ld. H. Go, sirrah, you're scurrilous ; I won't believe SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 29 there are such men of quality. D'ye hear, give my service this afternoon to Mr. Cutpurse, the agent, and tell him I'm obliged to him for his readiness to serve me, for I'm resolved to pay my debts forthwith \A voice without. I don't know whether he is within or not. Mr. Trim, is my lord within ?] Ld. H. Trim, see who it is. I ain't within, you know. \Exit T'Siiiii. Trim. [ Without^ Yes, sir, my lord's above ; pray walk up Ld. H. Who can it be ? he owns me, too. Enter Campley and Trim. Dear Tom Campley, this is kind ! You are an extra- ordinary man indeed, who in the sudden accession of a noble fortune can be still yourself, and visit your less happy friends. Cam. No ; you are, my lord, the extraordinary man, who, on the loss of an almost princely fortune, can be master of a temper that makes you the envy, rather than pity, of your more fortunate, not more happy friends. Ld. H. O, sir, your servant — but let me gaze on thee a little, I han't seen thee since I came home into England — most exactly, negligently, genteelly dressed ! I know there's more than ordinary in this \beating Cam- pley's breast\ Come, confess, who shares with me here ? I must have her real and poetical name. Come ; she's in sonnet, Cynthia ; in prose, mistress. Cam. One you little dream of, though she is in a manner of your placing there. Ld. H. My placing there ? Cam. Why, my lord, all the fine things you've said to me in the camp of my Lady Sharlot, your father's ward, ran in my head so very much, that I made it my business 3' . .-,1 'fSir, ,,, *' Your humble servant, " Thomas Campley." [^Pulling off his hat and bowing,^ Your very humble servant, good Mr. Campley. Ay, this is poetry — this is a song indeed ! Faith, I'll set it, and sing it myself. Pray pay to Mr. William Trim — so far in recitative — three hundred \singing ridiculously\ — hun— dred — hun- dred — hundred thrice repeated, because 'tis three hundred pounds — : I love: repetitions .in music, when there's a good reason for it,— po — unds after the Italian manner. If they'd bring me supji sensible words as these, I'd out- strip a,ll your comi^ipsers for the inusic prize. This was honestly done of Mr. Campley, though I, have carried Mm, many a, purse from my master \vhen he was ensign to. our Company in jFlanjders-- — Enter Lord Hardy. My, lord, I am your lordship's htimble servant. Ld. H. Sir, your humble servant. But pray, ttiy good bteelei D 34 THS FUNERAL: [act il, familiar friend, how come you to be so very much my humble servant all of a sudden ? Trim. I beg pardon, dear sir, my lord, I am not your humble servant. Ld. H. No ! Trim. Yes, my lord, I am, but not as you mean ; but I am — I am, my lord — in short, I'm overjoyed. Ld. H. Overjoyed ! thou'rt distracted, what ails the fellow ? Where's Gatapley's song ? Trim. Oh! my lord, one would not think 'twas in him. Mr. Campiey's really a very great poet; as for the song, 'tis only as they all end in rhyme : Ow-^-woe — isses — kisses — boy — joy. But, my lord, the other in Ibhg heroic blank verse. \Rtading it tailii a grtat tume. Pray pay to Mr. William Trim, or order, the sum of — How sweetly it runs ! Pactoliah guineas chink every line. . Ld. H. How very handsomely this was done in Campley! I wbbdettid, indeed, hfe was so willing to show his verses. In hme intelligence, but you unfortunately recovered, and I lost my obliging pains for your service. Ld. B. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Sable, thou art a very impudent fellow ; half-a-crown a day to attend my decease,, and dost thou reckon it to me ? : i : : ; i • Sab. Look you, gentlemen,, don't stand staring at me. I have a book at home which I call my Doomsday book, where I have every jnan: of quality's age and , distemper in town, and know when you should drop. Nay, my lord, if you had reflected upon your mortality half so much as poor I have for you, you would not desire to return to life thus ; in short, I cannot keep this a secret, under the whole money I am to have for burying you. Ld. B. Trusty, if you think it safe in you to obey my orders after the deed Puzzle told his clerk of, pay it to him. Tru. I should be glad to give it out of my own pocket, rather than be without the satisfaction of seeing you witness to it. Ld. B. I heartily believe thee, dear Trusty. Sab. Then, my lord, the secret of your being alive, is now safe with me. y.. .■ , Tru. I'll warrant I'll be revenged of this unconscionable dog \Aside\ — My lord, you must to your closet, I fear somebody's coming. \Exeunt Sable one way, Ld. B. -and Trustv: another.^ SCENE m.] OR, GklEF A'LA-MODE. 37 SCENE III. — Lord Brumpton'S House. Lady Sharlot discovered reading at a table ; Lady YLhVJKvyx playing at a glass to and fro, and viewing her- self. " L. Ha. Nay, good sage sister, you may as well talk to me \Looking at herself as she speaks], as sit staring at a book, which I know you can't attend. Good Dr. Lucas' may have writ there what he pleases, but there's no put- ting Francis Lord Hardy, now Earl of Brumpton, out of your head, or making him absent from your eyes ; do but look at me now, and deny it ifyou can. Z. Sh. You are the maddest girl [Smiling. L. Ha. Look, ye-, I knew you could not say it and forbear laughing [Looking over Sharlot]. Oh, I see his name as plain as you do — F — r — a — n Fran, c — i — s cis, Francis, 'tis in every line of the book. L. Sh. [Jiising] 'Tis in vain, I see, to mind anything in such impertinent company, but granting 'twere as you say as to my Lord Hardy, 'tis more excusable to admire another than one's, self. Z. Ha. No, I think not ; yes, I grant you than really to be vain at one's person, but I don't admire myself. Pish ! I don't believe my eyes have that softness [Looking in the glass], they ain't so piercing. No, 'tis only stuff the men will be talking. Some^ psoplfe are such admirers of teeth. Lord, what sigiiifies teeth? [Showing her teethi] A very black-a-moor has as white teeth as I. No, sister, I don't admire myself, but I've a spirit of contradiction in me ; I don't know I'm in love myself, only to rival the men. ' Richard Lucas, CD. (1648 — 1715), wrote, among other things, TTie Enquiry after Happiness, and Practical Christianity. The latter, published in 1 700, was afterwards referred to in the Guardian, No. 63, and there are quotations from both works in Steele's Ladies' Library, 17 14. ' - 38 7H£ •PUNSMAZ, : [act H. L. Sh. Ay, but Mr. Campley will gain ground even of that rival of his, your dear self.^ , . . ; Z. Ha. Oh ! what have I done to you, that you should napie that insolent intruder, a confident' opjnionative fpp. No indeed, if I am, as a poetical lover of mine sighed and sung of both sexes — • The public envy, and the public' cg,re, , I shan't be so easily catched-r^I-. thank hirii^-il want but to be sure I should heartily torment iim; by banishing him, and then consider whether be, should depart- this life, or not. L. Sh. Indeed, sister, to .be serious with, you, this vanity in your humour does not at all become you.! ,. La. H. "Vanity ! All the matter, is we. gay people, are more sincere than.. you wise folks: All your life's an art. Speafc^ur soul^oofc y«u.there— r[j^(»A'«^^«f- A> theglass\ are not you struck with a secret pleasure,. when you view that bloom in your looks, that harinony in your shape, that promptitude of your mien ? Z. Sh. "Well, simpleton, if I am at first so silly, as to be a little taken with myself, I know it a fault, .and take pains to correct it.. Z. Ha. Pshaw ! pshaw 1 talk this musty tale tg old Mrs. Fardingale, 'tis too soon for me to think at that rate. . . Z. Sh. They that think it too soon to understand themselves, will very soon find it too. late. But tell me honestly, don't .you like. Campley? Z. Ha. The fellow is not to be abhorred, i£the forward thing did not think of getting me so easily. Oh ! I hate a heart I can't break when I please. 'What makes the value of dear china, but th^t 'tis so brittle ? "Were it not for that, you might as well have stone mugs in ypur closet, Z. Sh. Hist, hist, here's Fardingale. SCENE. in.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 39 Enter Fardingale. Far. Lady Harriot, Lady Shj^rjot ! I'll entertain yoa now, I've a new song just come hot out of the poet's brjan. Lady Sharlpt, njy pousin Cairiple}!: writ it, a,nd 'tis set to a pretty air, I warrant yovt. L, ffa, 'Tis like to be pretty indeedj of his writings \Flings- aw<^. Ear. Come, come, this is not one of your tringhanj tranghara- witty things, that your poor peeta write; no, 'tis well known my eousia Campley has two thousjind pounds a year. But this is all dissiinulation in you. L. Sh. 'Tis so, indeed, for your cousin's song is very pretty, Mrs. Fardingale; \Readsi\ Let not love on me bestow Soft distress and tender woe ; ■ I know none but substantial blisses, Eager glances, solid kisses ; I knovt- not what the lovers feign, Of finer pleasure mixed *ith pain Then prithee give me, gentje boy. None of thy grief, but all thy joy.' But Harriot thinks that a little unreasonable, to expect one without enduring t'other. ^ Enter Servant. Ser, There's your cousin Campley to wait on you with- out. Ear. Let him.come in, we shall have the song now. Enter Campley. Cam. Ladies, your most obedient servant ; your ser- vant. Lady Sharlot — servant Lady Harriot — [Harriot ' Daniel Purcell composed music for these verses. 40 THE FUNERAL : [ACT II. looks grave upon hini\ What's the matter, dear Lady Harriot, not well? I protest to you I'm mightily con- cerned [Fulls out a bottle]. This is a most excellent spirit, snuff it up, madam. L. Ha. Pish — the familiar coxcomb frets me heartily. Cain. 'Twill over, I hope, imriiediately. L. Sh. Your cousin Fardingdale has shown us some of your poetry ; there's the spinet, Mr. Campley, I know you're musical. Cam. She should not have called it my poetry. Far. No — whb waits there-^pray bring my lute out of the next room. . Enter Servant with a Lute. You must know I conned this song before I came in, and find it will go to an excellent air of old Mr. Lawes's, who was my mother's, intimate acquaintance ; my mother's, what do I talk of? j mean my grandmother's. Oh, here's the lute ; cousin Campley, hpld the song upon your hat. — \Aside to hiin\ 'Tis a pretty gallantry to a relation. \Siiigs and Sgualls.'\ Let not love, &c Oh ! I have left off these things many a day. Cam. No ; I profess, madam, you do it admirably, but are not assured enough. Take it higher \in her own squair\. Thus — I know your voice will bear it. L. Ha. hideous ! O the gross flatterer — I shall burst. Mrs. Fardiiigale, pray go on, the music fits the words most aptly. Take it higher, as your cousin advises. Far. Oh ! dear madam, do you really like it? I do it purely to please you, for I can't sing, alas ! Z. Sh. We know it, good madam, we know it. But pray 1 Henry Lawes, the friend of Milton, and his associate in the production of Comus, died in 1662. SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 41 Far. " Let not love," and " substantial blisses," is lively enough, and ran accordingly in the tune. [Curtsies to the company^ Now I took it higher. L. Ha. Incomparably done ! Nothing can equal it, except your cousin sang his own poetry. Cam. Madam, from my Lord Hardy. [Delivers a letter to Lady Sharlot.] — How do you say, my Lady Harriot, except I sing it myself? Then I assure you I will L. Sh. 1 han't patience. I must go read my letter. [Exit. Cam. [Sings\ Let not love, &c. Far. Bless me, what's become of Lady Sharlot ? [Exit. L. Ha. Mrs. Fardingale, Mrs. Fardingale, what, must we lose you ? [Going after her. Campley runs to the door, takes the hey out, and locks her in. What means this insolence ? a plot upon me — Do you know who I am ? Cam, Yes, madam, you're my Lady Sharlot Lovely, with ten thousand pounds in your pocket ; and I am Mr. Campley, with two thousand a year, of quality enough to pretend to you. And I do design, before I leave this room, to hear you talk like a reasonable woman, as nature has made you. Nay, 'tis ■ in vain to flounce, and discompose yourself and your dress. L. Ha. If there are swords, if they are men of honour, and not all dastards, cowards that pretend to this injured person-^ [Runnifig round the room. Cam. Ay, ay, madam, let 'em come. That's puttingi me in my way, fighting's my trade ; but you've used all mankind too ill to expect so much service. In short, madam, were you a fool I should not desire to expostu- late with you. [Seizing her hand.'\ But L. Ha. Unhand me, ravisher. [Fulls her hand from him, chases round the room, Campley after her. 42 THERUNKRAZ: . [act JL. Qam. But madam, madam, madam,, why madam ! Prithee Cynthisk look behind you, . \Sings, . Age and wrinkles will o'ertake you. ._ L.. Ha. Age, wriakles, srnaU'pox, aay, any tiling that's most, abhorrent to youth, and^ Woom, were welcome in the place of so detested a creature. Cam. No such matter, Lady Harriot. I would_aQt, be a vain coxcomb, but I know I am not detestable, nay, know where you've said as much before you understood me for your servant. 3¥as I iijimediat&ly tr^nsforrt^d because I became your lover ? L. Ha. My lover, sir ! did I ever give you reason^ to think I admitted you as such ? Cam. Yes, you did in your using me ill ; for if you did not assume upon the score of my pretending to you, how do you answer to yourself some parts of your be- haviour to me as a gentleman ? 'Tis trivial, all this, in you, and derogates from the good sense I know you mistress of. Do but consider, madam, I have long loved you, bore with your fantastic humour through all its mazes. . Nay, do not frown, for 'tis no better. I say I have bore with this humour, hut would you have me with an unmanly servitude feed it ? No, I love you with too sincere, too honest a devotion, and would have your mind as faultless as your person, ^which 'twould be, if you'd lay aside this vanity of being pur- sued with sighs, with flatteries, with nonsense \She walks about less violently, but more confused.'\ — ^Oh ! my heart aches at the disturbance which I give her, but she must not see it. [Aside.] — Had I not better tell you of it now, than when your are in my power ? I should be then too generous to-thwart your inclination. Z. Ha. That is indeed very handsomely said. Why should I not obey reason as soon as I see it ? \AsideI\ — SCENi:iii.] OR, QRJEF 4.-LA-MQDE. 43 Since so, Mr. Campley, I can as ingenuously as I should then, acknowledge that J haye been in an error. , '\Lpokin^ down on her fan. Cam. Nay, that's tod great "a condescension. Oh! excellence ! I repent ! I see 'twas but justice in you to demand my knees [^^ae//^^], my sighs, my constant, tenderest regard and service. And you shall have '^m, since you are above 'em. L. Ha. Nay, Mr. Campley, you won't recall me to a fault yqu have so lately shown me. I will not suffer this — no more ecstasies ! But pray, sir, what was't you did to get my sister out pf th^ room? Cam. You ;iiay knovif it, and I must desire you to assist, my Lord Hardy there, who writ to her by me ; for he- is no ravisher, as you called me just now. He is now in the house, and I would fain gain an interview. L. Ha. That they may have, but they'll make little use of it ; for the tongue is the instrument of speech to us of a lower form : They are of that high order of lovers, who know none but eloquent silence, and can utter themselves only by a gesture that speaks their passion inexpressible, and what not fine things. C(?«. But pray let's go -into your sister's closet while they are together. L. Ha. I swear I don't know how to see my sister^^ she'll laugh me to death to see me out of my paHtofles,iand you and I thus familiar. However, I know she'll approve it Cam. You may boast yourself an heroine to her, and the first woman that was ever vanquished by hearing truth, and had sincerity enough to receive so rough an obligation as being made acquainted with her faults. Come, madam, stand your ground bravely, we'll march in to her thus. \Sh& leaning on Campley. L. Ha. Who'll believe a woman's anger more ? I've betrayed the whole sex to you, Mr, Campley. \Exeunt. ' Slippers. 44 THE FUNERAL : [act ir. Re-enter Lord Hardy and Campley. Ca7n. My lord, her sister, who now is mine, will im- mediately send her hither. But be. yourself : Charge her bravely. I wish she were a cannoih, an eighteen- pounder, for your sake. Then I know, were there occa- sion, you'd be in the mouth of her. Ld. H. I long, yet fear to see her. I know I am unable to utter myself. Cam. Come, retire here till she appears. \They go back to the door. Enter Lady SharLot. L. Sh. Now is the tetider moment now approaching. [Aside.] Th6re he is. [Tkey approach and salute each other trembUdg.] Your lordship will please to sit. [After a very long pause, stolen gla7ices, arid irresolute gesture^ Your lordshi^j, I think, has travelled those parts of Italy where the armies are. Ld. H. Yes, madam. ' L: Sh. I think I have letters from you, dated Mantua. Ld. H. I hope you have, madam, and that their pur- pose ■ ' ' L. Sh. My lord? [Looking serious and confused. Ld. H. Was not your ladyship going to say some- thing? ' ".'•'■■ L. Sh. I only attended to what your lordship was going to Say — That is, my lord — But you were, I believe, going to say something of that garden of the world, Italy. I am very sorry 'your 'misfortunes in Eng- land are such as make you justly regret your leaving that place. •' Ld. H. There is a person in England may make those losses insensible to me. L. Sh. Indeed, my lord, there have so very few of quality attended his Majesty in the war, that your bitth and merit may well hope for his favour. SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 45 Ld. H. I have, indeed, all the zeal in the world for his Majesty's service, and most grateful affection for his person, but did not then mean him. L. Sh. But can you indeed impartially say that our island is really preferable to the rest of the world, or is it an arrogance only in us to think so ? Ld. H. I profess, madam, that little I have seen has but more endeared England to me ; for that medley of humours which perhaps distracts our public affairs, does, methinks, improve our private lives^^^and makes conversation more various, and consequently more pleasing. Everywhere else both men and things have the same countenance. In France you meet much civility and little friendship ; in Hollaiid, , deep attention, but little reflection ; in Italy, all pleasure, but no mirth. But here with us, where you have everywhere pretenders or masters in everything, you cah't fall into company wherein you shall not be instructed or diverted. L. Sh. I never had an account of anything from you, my lord, but I mourned the loss of my brother j you would have been so happy a companion for him, with that right sense of yours. My lord, you need not bow so obsequiously, for I do you but justice. But you sent me word of your seeing a lady in Italy very like me. Did you visit her often ? Ld. H. Gnce or twice, .but I observed her so loose a creature, that I could have killed her for having your person. L. Sh. I thank you,. sir; but Heaven that preserves me unlike her, will, I hope, make her; more hke me. But your fellow traveller -^ his- relations themselves know not a just account of him. Ld. H. The original cause of his fever was a violent passion for a fine young woman he had not power to speak to, but I told her his regard for her as passionately as possible. 46 THE FUNERAL : [ACT II. L. Sh. You were to him what Mr. Gampley has been to you— Whither am I running ?— Poor, your frifehd — poor gentleman Ld. H. I hope then as Campley's eloquence is greater, so has been his succesSi L. Sh. My lord ? Ld. H. Your ladyship's- Enter. Lady Harriot. Z. Ha. Undone ! Undone ! Tattleaid has found, by so^e means Or other, that Gampley brought My Lord HaMy hither; we are utterly ruined, itiy lady's cobiiiig. Ld. H. I'll Stay atld cbnfront her. Z. Sh. It ttiuSt not ht ; we are too much ill hei* power. . JSti^er Gampley. , Cam. Gom«, come, my lord,- we're hsuted horse ahd foot. Down the back stairs, and so out. Ladies. Ay, ay. \Exeuni. L. Ha. I tremble every joint of me. L. Sh. I'm at a stand a little, but rage will recover me; she's coming in. Enter Widow. Wid. Ladies, your servant. I fear I interrupt you; have you compaiiy? Lady Harriot, your servant; Lady Sharlot, your servant. What, not a word ? Oh, I beg your ladyship's pardon.. Lady Shallot, did I say ? My young Lady Brumpton, I wish you joy. L. Sh. Oh> your servant, Lady Dowager BrumptoH. That's an appellation of much more joy to you. Wid. So smart, madam ! but you should, tiiethinks, have made one acquainted — Yet, madam, your conduct is seen throughi L, Sh. My conduct, Lady Brumpton ! SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA'MODE. 4; Wid. Your conduct, Lady Sharlot ! \C^>ming up to each other. L. Sh. Madam, 'tis you are seen through all your thin disguises. Wid. I seen ? By whom ? I/. Sh^ By an all-piercing eye, nay, by what you much more fear, the eye of the world. The world sees you, or shall see you. It shall know your secret intem- perance, your public fasting — Loose poems in your closet, an homily on your toilet— Your easy, skilful, practised hypocrisy, by whith you wrought upon your husband, basely to transfer the trust and ward of us, two helpless virgins, into the hands and care of — I cannot name it. You're a wicked woman. L. iia. \Aside!\ O rare sister I 'Tis a fine thing to keep one's anger in stock by one. We that are angry and pleased every half-hour have nothing at all of all this high-flown fury ! Why, she rages like a princess in a tragedy ! Blessings on her tongue. Wid. Is this the effect of your morning lectures, your self-examination, all this fury ? L. Sh. Yes it is, madam ; if I take pains to govern my passions, it shall not give licence to others to govern them for me. Wid. Well, Lady Sharlot, however you ill deserve it of me, I shall take care, while there are locks and bars, to keep you from Lord Hardy — from being a leager lady, from carrying a knapsack. L. Sh. Knapsack ! Do you upbraid the poverty your own wicked arts have brought him to ? Knap- sack ! O grant me patience ! Can I hear this of the man I love ? Knapsack ! I have not words. \Stainps about the room. Wid. I leave you to cool upon it ; love and anger are very warm passions. \Exit. L. Ha. She has locked us in. 48 THE FUNERAL. [ACT II. L. Sh. Knapsack? Well, I will break walls to go to him. I could sit down and cry my eyes out ! Dear sister, what a rage have I been in? Knapsack! I'll give vent to my just resentment. Oh, how shall I avoid this base woman ; how meet that excellent; man ! What an helpless condition are you and I in now ! If we run into the world, that youth and innocence which should demand assistance does but attract invaders. Will Providence guard us ? How do I see that our sex is naturally indigent of protection ! I hope 'tis in fate to crown our loves ; for 'tis only in the protection of men of honour that we are naturally truly safe— , And woman's happiness, for all her scorn, Is only by that side whence she was born. WswrnmsiMmMssimssss^mMssmj^isis^^m'. ACT THE THIRD. SCENE I.— Lord Hardy's Lodgings. Enter Lord Hardy, Campley, and Trim. D. H. That jade Tattleaid saw me upon the stairs, for I had not pati- ence to keep my concealment, but must peep out to see what was become of you. Cam. But we have advice, however, it seems, from the garrison aheady — this mistress of Trim's is a mighty lucky accident. Trim. Ay, gentlemen, she has free egress and regress, and you know the French are the best-bred people in the world — she'll be assistant. But, 'faith, I have one scruple that hangs about me; and that is, look you, my lord, we servants have no masters in their absence. In a word, when I am with mademoiselle I talk of your lordship as only a particular acquaintance ; that I do business indeed for you sometimes. I must needs say, cries I, that indeed my Lord Hardy is really a person I have a great honour for. Ld. H. Pish ! is that all ? I understand you ; your mistress does not know that you do me the honour to clean my shoes or so, upon occasion. Pr'ythee, Will, make yourself as considerable as you please. Steele. B 50 THE RUNERAL . [act |I|. Trim. Well, then, yo^ur IpsQn is, tliis. She, out oE respect to me, apd understanding Mr. Carnpley \vas ^p Intimate of my friend, my Lord Hardy, ancj condescend- ing (though she is of a great house in France) to make manteaus for the improvement of the English — which gives her easy admittance — she, I say, moved by these promises,' has vouchsafed to bring a letter from my Lady Harriot to Mr. Campley, and came to me to bring her to him. You are to understand also that she is dressed in the latest French cut ; her dress is the model of their habit, and herself of their manners. For she is — but you shall see her. [Exit. Ld. H. This gives ine sc^me life ! Che^r up, Tom— but behold the solemnity. Do you see Trim's gallantr;^ ? I shall laugh out. Enter Trim leading in Mademoiselle. Jrim. My dear Lord Hardy, this is Matjemoiselle 4'Epingle, ycjipse ii3,me you'ye pften he^rc| me sigh. [Lord H^^dy ^a/itjes, ^e,r.] ^;. Campley — Made- moiselle d'Epifigle. [Cami^ley i^/jt^s^ Aer.'] Mad, Yotrg s^tya.n\^, gentlemen, Yfttfe sej-yante. C^i^. I protest IP ypu I rieyer saw anytjiipg sp bs- ppfpiijg as you^ f^r^^g. Shjijl I beg t^e fevpijr, yoij^ pppdescend j:o l§j: Mi;. Trin} \e.^d you pncg rpund thg ^qom, that I may ^.dipirp the elggatiqe pf ypur Ijaljit ? [Tri5«i iea,dj her rojiv-du Zif. H. Hovy could ypu agk spch a thjog? CaMi. Psh^\!(, my loji^, you ^\& a b^asl^fvil English fellqv)(. Ypu see sh^ i^ not surpri^gfl g.t '% hut thinks me gallant in desiring it. Oh, m^d^m ! your ajr 1 the negjigepce, the disengagement of your maqper ! ph hpw ^elicate ijs yo)ir iipble n^tioti ! I svypaj there's non^ but y Gildori suggests that this should be '\ premises ',' ; buf ll}e ■word was not altei-edin Mei^'Witfeiii'of tTiepjiy. ' '•- " • ' ■"■ SCENE I.] OR, ORIE^ 4-LA-MODE. 51 the clumsy Dutch and English would oppose such polite cpnquerprs. Wheri shajl you see an Englishwoman. so dressed ? S^ad. Eje Engljse ! poor barjjarians ; poor savages ; dey know no more of de dress but to cover dere naked- ness \Glides along the room\. Dey be clodec^, but no dressed — But, Monsieur Terim, which Monsieur Campley ? Trim. That's honest Tom Campley. Cam. At your service, mademoiselle. Mad. I fear I incur de censure [Pulling out tht letter, and recollecting as loth to deliver it\ but Mr. Terim being your intimate friend, and I designing to honour him in de way of an husband — so — so — how do I run ^way in discourse — I neyer make prpmise to Air. Terim before, and now to do it par accident Cam. Dear Will Trirn is extremely obliging in haying prevailed upon you to do a thing that the sgyerify of your virtue, and the greatness of your quality (thougji a stranger in the country you now honpijr |3y your dwelling in it) would not let you otherwise condescend to Mad, Oh, monsieur ! ph, monsieur ! ypu speak my very thoughts. Qh ! I dpn't knpvif Ijpw, pardon iiie, fo give a l))Uet — it so look ! Q §p ! I can no sjay after it. I>rops it, runs a,ffuUdly^ to the other end of t/ie room, then. q.uite out ; re-enters.] I beg ten tous3.nd pardpns for go away to mal-propos. [Curtsies as going. Ld. H. Your servant, good madam. Mr. Trim, you know you commapd here. Pray, if ^ajdam dIEpingle will honour our cottage wifji loiager stay, wait pn her in ^»d entertain her. Pray, sir, be fre,e. Trim. My lord, you know your power over me } I'm a)l po.inplaisa.nce. , [Leads her o^ut. Cavi. Now to my dear epistle — S2 THE FUNERAL : [act hi. " Sir, " There is one thing which you were too generous to touch upon in our last conversation. We have reason to fear the Widow's practices in relation to our fortunes, if you are not too quick for her. I ask Lady Sharlot whether this is not her sense to Lord Hardy. She says nothing, but lets me write on. These people always have, and will have, admittance everywhere, therefore we may hear from you. " I am, sir, " Your most obedient servant, " Harriot Lovely." My obedient servant ! Thy obedience shall ever be as voluntary as now — ten thousand thousand kisses on thee, thou dear paper. Look you, my lord, what a pretty hand it is ? Z I protest, when all my equipage is ready, and I move in full pageantry, I shall fancy myself an embas- sadress from the Commonwealth of Women, the distressed State of Amazonia — to treat for men. But I protest I wonder how two of us thus clad can meet with a. grave face ! Methinks they should laugh out like two fortune- tellers, or two opponent lawyers that know each other for cheats ■ Tat. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I swear to you, madam, your ladyship's wit will' choke me one time or other. I had like to have swallowed all the pins in my mouth Wid. But, Tatty, to keep house six weeks, that's another barbarous custom ; but the reason of it, I suppose, was that the base people should not see people of quality may be as afflicted as themselves. Tat. No, 'tis because they should not see 'em as merry as themselves. Wid. Ha! ha! ha! Hussy, you never said that yoii spoke last. Why, 'tis just — 'tis satire — I'm sure you saw it in my face, that I was going to say it: 'Twas too good for you. Come, lay down that sentence and the pin- cushion, and pin up -my shoulder. Harkee, hussy, if you should, as I hope you won't, outlive me, take care I ain't buried in flannel ; 'twould never become me, I'm sure.i That they can be as merry : Well, I'll tell my ' Tlie object of the Act of 1678 (30 Charles II. c. 3), which obliged the dead to be buried in woollen, was to protect homespun goods against foreign linen. "'Odious! in woollen ! 'twould a saint pro\oke,' Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke ; ' No, let a charming chintz and Brussels ia6e Wrap my cold linibs, and shade my, lifeless face ; One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead — And — Betty — give this pheeic a little red.' " I^OB^, Moral Essays, \. 2/^(a — 251.) Pope here alludes, says Carruthers, to Mrs. iOldfield, who acted Narcissa in Gibber's 'Love's Last Shift. She Was buried in West- minster Abbey, the coi'pse being decorated with '' a Brussels lacft SCENE in.] OR, GRIEF A'JLA-MODE. 8i new acquaintance — what's her name ? — she that reads so much, and writes verses. Her husband was deaf the first quarter of a year ; I forget her name. That expression she'll like. Well, that woman does divert me strangely ; I'll be very great with her. She talked very learnedly of the ridicule till she was ridiculous ; then she spoke of the decent, of the agreeable, of the insensible. She designs to print the discourse; but of all things, I like her notion of the insensible. Tat. Pray, madam, how was that ? Wid. A most useful discourse to be inculcated in our teens. The purpose of it is to disguise our apprehension in this ill-bred generation of men, who speak before women what they ought not to hear. As now, suppose you were a spark in my company, and you spoke some double entendre, I loqk thus ! But be a fellow^ and you shall see how I'll use you. The insensible is useful upon any occasion where we seemingly neglect and secretly approve, which is our ordinary common case. Now, suppose a coxcomb, dancing, prating, and playing his tricks before me to move me, without pleasure or distaste in my countenance, I look at him, just thus ; but Ha ! ha ! ha ! I have found out a supplement to this notion of the insenible, for my own use, which is infallible, head-dress, a Holland shift, with tucker and double ruffles of the same lace, and a pair of new Idd gloves." — See, too, Toiler, No. Ii8. It is evident that by making a certain payment persons of position could evade the Act ; in the Overseers' Rate Books for the Parish of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, one or two persons in the year are often mentioned as being buried in linen : Thus in the volume for 1702 (p. 147) I found — " Received for persons buried in linen, contrary to Act of Parliament : For _ £2 so For the Earl of Macclesfield ^2 10 o." Mr. Austin Bobson has pointed out that if Anne Oldfield really gave the orders alleged by Pope she was only elaborating the words of Steele's widow, which she must have often heard on the stalge, as she acted the part of Lady Shariot in thisiplay. Steele. 6 82 THB FUNERAL : [act v. arid that Is W have always in my head all that they can s&^ or do to me. So rieVer be surprised with lau^htef, the dccasibVi Of which is always sudderi; Tat. Oh ! my' Lady Brtlmpton [TAtTLfeAiB bdws and cHH^es], ttiy lady, your most obedient Servant. fVid. '' Lbdk you, wench, you see by the art of insensi- bility I put you out of Countenance, though you were prepared foi- ah ill-reception. Taf. Oh ! madam, how justly are ybu formed for what is now fallen to you— the empire of ittaiikirid. Wid. Oh ! sir, that puts itie Out of all my insensibility at once ; that Was so galld,iit-^Ha ! what hoiSe is that • that hbis^ of fi^htini; ? Run, I say. Whither arS you going ? What, Are ybti mad ? Will you leave me alone ? Can't ybu stir ? What, ybti cati't take youi- thessage with ytiu ? Whatever 'tis, 1 siappOsS ybil are hot in the plbt ; riot you — Nor that how they're breaking dpen hiy house fbi- Sharlot — Nbt yOu — Gd, See what's the 'matter, I say, I have, nobody I cari trlist. [Exif TAtTLfeAm] On^ minute 1 think this wench honest, ind the next false. Whither shall I turn hie ? Tat. Madani, madatli. " [J?e-enUrin^. t0d. ^adam, madani, -^vill' ybii swallow me gajiihg ? TJz/. Pray, good riiy lady, be not sd out of humoiir ; but there is a Company of rogues have set upon our servants and the burial riian's, while others rari away with the corpse. Wid. jioiy, what can this mean ? What can they do with it ? — Well, 'twill save the charge of interment.^But tp what end ? £}iUr Trusty and a Servant, b/oody and diriy, haling in Ser. I'll teaeh you better manners j I'll poor soldier you, you dog ybii, 1 will Madaih; here are two of the SCENE m.] OR; GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 83 rascals that were in the gang of rogues that carried away the corpse. Wid. We'll examine 'em apart. Well, sirrah, whaVare you ? Whence came you ? What's your name, sirrah ? [Clump makes sigrii as a dumb man. Ser. Oh, you dog, you could speak loud enough just now, sirrah, when your brother rogues tnauled Mt Sable. We'll make you speak, sirrah. Wid. Bring the other fellow hither. I suppose ybu will own you knew that man before you siw him at my dboi"? ' Clump. I think 1 have seen the gentleman's face. ■ [Bowing to BuMPkiN. IVid. ^he genileriian's ! The villain mocks me. But friend, you look like an honest man — what are you ? WHeiice cirtie ybu ? What are yoii, fl-iefid ? Bump. I'se' at present bdt a pi-ivate gentleman, but I was lified to be a sergeatit in my Lord Hardy'S Com- pany. I'se not ashamed of my name nor of my koptin. ' Wtd. Leave the room all. \Extuni till but Tkvsty and. Tattleaid.] Mr. Trusty-^Lord Hardy ! O, thai: irnpibiis young nian, thus, with the sacrilegious hands of ruffians id divert his faihef's fisheS from their urn atid rest — I suspect this fellow [Aside.] — Mr. Trusty, I mu^t desire ybu to be still iiear me. I'll know the bottom of this ; and to Lord Hafdy'S lodgings as I am, instantly. 'Tis but the bafck side of this fetre^t, I think. Lfet a coach be called.— "tattleaid, as sooii as I am gbhfe, con- duct my brother and his friends to Lady Sharlot. Away with her. Bring mademoiselle away to me, that she may not be a witness. — Cotae, good Mr. Trusty. 84 THE FUNERAL : [ACT V. SCENE IV.— Lord Hardy's Lodgings. Enter Lord Hardy, leading Harriot; Campley, and Trii^. L. Ha. Why, then I find this ilr. Trim is a perfect general; but I assure you, sir, I'll never allow you an hero, who could leave your ipistress behind you. You should have broke the house down, but you should have mademoiselle with you. Trim. No, really, madam, I have seen such strange fears come into the men's heads, and such strange resolutions into the women's upon the occasion of ladies following a camp, that I thought it more discreet to leave her behind me. My success will naturally touch her as much as if she were here. L. Ha. A good, intelligent, arch fellow this \4.side^— But were not you saying, my lord, you believed Lady Brumpton would follow hither? If so, pray let me be gone. Ld. H. No, madam, I must beseech your ladyship to stay, for there are thmgs alleged against her which you, who have lived in the family, may perhaps give light into, and which I can't believe even she could be .guilty ^- '',,-■" L. Ha. Nay, my loVd, that's generous to a folly, for even for her usage of you (without regard to myself), I am ready to believe she, would do anything tha,t can come into the head of a close, malicious, cruel, designing woman. . ;, Enter ^QY. Boy. My Lady Brumpton's below. L. Ha. I'll, run, then. Cam. No, no, stand your ground. You, a soldier's wife ? Come, we'll rally her to death. Ld. H. Prithee, entertain her a httle, while I go in for a moment's thought on this occasion. [Exit. SCENE IV.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 85 L. Ha. She has more wit than us both. Cam. Pshaw, no matter for that ; be sure, as soon as the sentence is out of my mouth, to clap in with some- thing else ; and laugh at all 1 say. I'll be grateful, and burst myself at my pretty, witty wife. We'll fall in slap upon her ; she shan't have time to say a word of the running away. Enter Lady Brumpton and Trusty. Oh, my Lady Brumpton, your ladyship's most obedient servant : This is my Lady Harriot Campley. Why, madam, your ladyship is immediately in your mourning. Nay, as you have more wit than anybody, so (what seldom wits have) yOu have more prudence, too. Other widows have nothing in a readiness but a second hus- band ; but you, I see, had your very weeds and dress lying by you. L. Ha. Ay, madam; I see your ladyship is of the Order of Widowhood, for you have put on the habit. Wid. I see your ladyship is not of the profession of virginity, for you have lost the look on't. Cam. You are in the habit — That was so piretty ; nay, without flattery. Lady Harriot, you have a great deal of wit. Ha ! ha ! ha ! L. Ha. No, my Lady Brumpton here is the woman of wit ; but, indeed, she has but little enough, considering how much her ladyship has to defend. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Wid. I am sorry, madam, your ladyship has not what's sufficient for your occasioiis, or that this pretty gentle- man can't supply 'em ■ [Campley dancing about and trolling. Hey, day ! I find, sir, your heels are a great help to your head. They relieve your wit, I see ; and I don't ques- tion but ere now they have been as kind to your valour. Ha! ha! Cam. Pox, I can say nothing ; 'tis always thus with 86 THE FUNJSRAL : [act V. your endeavours to be witty {Aside.^ — I saw, madam, your mouth, go, but there aould be npthing offered in -answer ; to ,whE|t ; my Lady Harriot said. — 'Twas home ;Tr:'T\j{as eutting satire. .L. Ha. Oh, Mr. Campley ! Bu); pray, madam, has JVtr. Cabinet visited yoiir ladyship since this calamity ? How stands that affair now ? Wid. Nay, madam, if yoii already want instructions, I'll acquaint you how the world stands, if you are in distress-^hut I fear J^Ir. Ca^ipley overhears us. . Catn. i^nd aU the tune the pipers played was ToU- toll-dproil. I swear, Lady Harriot, were I not already ypurs, I could have a tender for thi? lady. Wid. Come, good folks, I find >ve are very free with ,g^ph other. What makes you tvyp here? Do you board my lord, or he ypu ? Gome, cpme, ten, shillings a head will go a great way in a family. What do you say, Mrs. pg,mpley, is it so ? Does your ladyship go to market yourself? Nay, you're in the right of it. Come, can you imagine what makes my Iprd stay ? He is not now with his land-steward. l^ot signing leases, I hope ? Ha! ha! hf.! , , Cmif.. Hang her, to h^vp more tongue than a man and his wife too. {Aside, Enter Lord Hardy. Ld. H. Because ypur ladyship is, I know, in very muph paiiv in company you have injured, I'll be short — Open thpse doors — There lies your husband's, my father's body ; and by you stands the man accuses you of poisoning hirfl. Wid,. Of poisoning him 1 - Trut The symptoms will appear upon the. corpse. i-d,. H. But! am. seized by nature^Hpvv; shall I view, a breathless lump of clay, him whose high veins con- veyed to me this vital force and motion ? "SCENE IV.] OH, GMIEF A-LArMODE. 87 I cannot bear that sightrr— ! I am as fixeji and motionless as he — \They open the caffin, oi^t of ■mkich Jumps Lady Sharlot.^ Art th<3u the ghastly shape my mind had formed ? Art thou the cold, inanimate — bright maid ? Thou giv'st new higher life to all around. Whither does fancy, fired with loye, convey me ? Whither transported by pay pleasing fury ? The season vanishes at thy approach j 'Tis morn, 'tis spring — Palsies and lillies strow thy flpvyery ■fvay. Why is my fair unmoved— my heavenly fair ? Does she b^it smile at my exalted rapture ? L. Sh. Oh ! sense of praise, to me unfelt before. Speak on, speak on, and charm my attentive ear. !l^q\y sweet appl3,use is frori^ a,n honest tongue ! Thpuloy'st my mind — hast well affectioH placed; In what, nor tiiiie, nor age, nor care, nor want can alter. Oh, how I jpy in thee, my eternal lover ; Immutable a.s the objec| of thy flame ! I love, I am proud, I triumpl} that I love. Pure, I approach thee ; nor did I with empty shows, Gorgeous attire, or studied negligence, Or song, or dance, or ball, allure thy soul ; Nqr want, or fear, such arts to keep or lose it : Nor now with fond reluctance doubt to enter ' My spacious, bright abode, this gallant heart.^ [Reclines on Hardy. ^ Genest [Account of the English Sta^e) Suggests that the idea of Lady Shallot'^ escape was taken from Beaumont aqd Fletcher's Knight of the Burning Pestle, Act V., Sc. Ill, ''■ Eusden, in a complimentary poem "To the Author of the Tatler" printed in Nichols' Collection of Poems, iv. 152 — 4, thus expressed himself : — " O Charlotte ! who thy character can read, But soon must languish, sigh, and secret bleed ? ***** To wealth, to power, I every wish resign, If only that dear Charlotte might be minp." 88 THE FUNERAL : [act V. L. Ha. Ay, marry, these are high doings indeed ; the greatness of the occasion has burst their passion into speech. Why, Mr Campley, when we are near these fine folks, you and I are but mere sweethearts. I protest I'll never be won so ; you shall begin again with me. Cam. Prithee, why dost name us poor animals ? They have forgot there are such creatures as their old acquaint- ance Tom and Harriot. Ld. H. So we did indeed, but you'll pardon us. Cam. My lord, I never thought to see the minute wherein T should fejoice at your forgetting me, but now I do heartily. \Embracing. Z. .S!^. Harriot. ) r 2-, , . -, \ E^mbraang. L.Ha. Sharlot.)"- -" Wid. Sir, you're at the bottom of all this ; I see you're skilled at close conveyances. I'll know the meaning instantly of these intricacies. 'Tis not your seeming honesty and gravity shall save you from your deserts. My husband's death was sudden. You and the burial fellow were observed very familiar. Produce my hus- band's body, or I'll try you for his murder ; which I find you'd put on me, thou hellish engine ! Tru. Look you, madam, I could answer you, but I scorn to reproach people in misery. You're undone, madam. Wid. What does the dotard mean? Produce the body, villain, or the law shall have thine for it. [Trusty exit hastily.] — Do you design to let the villain escape ? How justly did your father judge, that made you a beggar with that spirit ! You meant just now you could not bear the company of those you'd injured. Ld. H. You are a woman, madam, and my father's widow. But sure you think you've highly injured me. Here Lord Brumpton and Trusty half enter and observe. Wid. No, sir, I have not, will not, injure you. J SCENE IV.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 89 must obey the will of my deceased lord to a tittle ; I must justly pay legacies. Your father, in consideration that you were his blood, would not wh&lly alienate you. He left you, sir, this shilling, with which estate you now are Earl of Brumpton. Ld. H. Insolent woman ! it was not me my good father disinherited; 'twas him you represented. The guilt was thine ; he did an act of justice. Lord Brumpton, entering with Trusty. Ld. B. Oh, unparalleled goodness ! Tattleaid and Mademoiselle at the other door entering. Tru. Oh ! Tattleaid, his and our hour is come. Wid. What do I see ? My lord, my master, husband, living? Ld. B. \Turning from her, running to his son\ Oh, my boy, my son. Mr. Campley, Sharlot, Harriot 1 \All kneeling to him.^ Oh, my children ! Oh, oh ! These passions are too strong for my old frame. Oh, the sweet torture ! my son ! my son ! I shall expire in the too mighty pleasure ! my boy ! Ld. H. A son, an heir, a bridegroom in one hour ! Oh ! grant me. Heaven, grant me moderation ! Wid. A son, an heir ! Am I neglected then ? What ? can my lord revive, yet dead to me ? Only to me deceased — to me alone. Deaf to my sighs, and senseless to my moan ? Ld. B. 'Tis so long since I have seen plays, good madam, that I know not whence thou dost repeat nor can 1 answer. TVid. You can remember, though, a certain settlement, in which I am thy son and heir. Great noble, that's 1 suppose not taken from a play ? That's as irrevocable as law can make it, that if you scorn me, your death and life are equal ; or I'll still wear my mourning 'cause you're living. 99 THE JRUNERAL: [ACT V. Tru. Value her not, my lord 5 a prior obligation made yqu incapable of settling on her, your wife. ; Ld. B. Thy liindness, Trusty, does distract thee. I would indeed disengage myself by any honest means, but, alas, I know no prior gift that avoids this to her — Oh, my child ! Tru. Look you, madam, I'll come again immedi- ately. Be not troubled, my dear lords \Exit. Cam. Trusty looks very confident ; there is some good in that. Re-enter Ti^usty witfy Cabinet. Cab. What, my Lord Brumpton living? nay then- T'^. ,Hpld, sir, yoq must not stir,' nor: can you, sir, retract this for your hand-writing. — My lord, this gen- tleman, sipce your supposed death, has lurked about the hcjuse tp speak with ray lady, or T^ttleaidj who upon your d^ceasp have shunned him, in hopes, I suppose, to buy l^im p,ff for even Now, as he was prying about, he peeped into your ploset, w^ere he saw your lords- ship reading. Struck with horror, and believing him- self (as weH.he might) the disturber of your ghost for alienation pf your fortune from your family, he writ me this letter, wherein he acknowledges a private marriage with this lady, half a ye^r befpre you ever saw her; , , . All. How ? \Ali turn upon her disdaiufuli^. Wid. No more ,a widpw tjien, but still a wife. ' [Recovering Jrom her confusion. I am thy wife— -thpu author of my evil. Thou must partake with me an homely board. An homely bpard that never shall be cheerful ; But pvery (aneal em})ittered with uphraidings. Thou that cpuld'st tell me, good and ill were words, ■Vyhen thpu could'st basely let me to another, Yet cpuld'st see sprights, great unbehever \ Coward I Bug-beared penitent SCENE IV.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. gi Stranger henceforth to all my joys, my joys To thy dishonour ; despicable thing, Dishonour thee ? Thou voluntary cuckold. [Cabinet sneaks off, ^movf flings after him, T ATTLE-AiD following. Ld. B. I see you're all confused as well as I. Ye are my children, I hold you all so ', and for your own use will speak plainly to you. I cannot hate that woman ; nor shall she ever want. Though I scorn to bear her injuries, yet had I ne'er been roused from that low pas- sion to a worthless creature, but by disdain of her attempt on my friend's child. I am glad that scorn's confirmed by her being that fellow's, whom, for my own sake, I only will contemn. Thee, Trusty, how shall we prosecute with equal praise and thanks for this great revolution in our house ? Tru. Never to speak on't more, my lord. Ld. B. You are now, gentlemen, going into cares at a crisis' in your country. And on this great occasion, Tom, I'll mount Old Campley which thy father gave me. And attend thee a cheerful gay old man, Into the field to represent our county. My rough plebeian Britons, not yet slaves To France, shall mount thy father's son Upon tlieir shoulders. Echo loud their joy. While I and Trusty follow weeping after : But be thou honest, firm, impartial, Let neither love, nor hate, nor faction move thee, * Distinguish words from things, and men from crimes ; J A favorite word wjth Steele. In the first scenp of the play Sable says: ''There's a what d'ye call, a ciisis." In 1714; Steele wrote a famous pamphlet called The Crisis. "Plebian Bfitons," five lines beloiv, remipds \as of his lour pamphlets, The PUbeiai^, on the Peerag; Bill of 1719; '■' Steele always maintained in his own political career the honest independent attitude here recommended. 93 THE FUNERAL: [actv. Punctual be thou in payments, nor;basely Screen thy faults 'gainst law, behind the Laws thou makest, — r— But thou against my death, must learn a supereroga- tory morality. \To Lord Hardy. As he is to be just, be generous thou : Nor let thy reasonable soul be struck With sounds and appellations ; title is No more, if not significant Of something that's superior in thyself To other men, of which thou may'st be Conscious, yet not proud^But if you swerve From higher virtue than the crowd possess. Know, they that call thee honourable mock thee. You are to be a Peer, by birth a judge Upon your honour, of others' lives and fortunes ; Because that honour's dearer than your own. Be good, my son, and- be a worthy lord For when our shining virtues bless mankind. We disappoint the livid malcontents, Who long to call our noble Order useless. Our all's in danger, sir,_ nor shall you dally Your youth away with your fine wives. No, in your country's cause you shall meet death,;_ While feeble we with, minds resigned do wait it. Not but I intend your nuptials as soon as possible, to draw entails and settlements. How necessary such things are, I had like to have been a fatal instance. Cam. But, my lord, here are a couple that need not wait such ceremonies. Please but to sit ; you've been extremely moved, and must be tired. You say we must not spend our time in dalliance ; you'll see, my lord, the entertainment reminds us also of nobler things, and what I designed for my own wedding I'll compliment the general with. The bride dances finely. Trim, will you dance with her ? SCENE IV.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 93 Trim. I will, but I can't. There's a countryman of hers without, by accident. Cam. Ay, but is he a dancer ? Trim. Is a Frenchman a dancer ? Is a Welshman a gentleman ? I'll bring him in. \Here a dance and the following songs. Set by Mr. Daniel Purcell.' Sung by Jemmie Bowin. On yonder bed supinely laid. Behold thy loved expecting maid : In tremor, blushes, half in tears, Much, much she wishes, more she fears. Take, take her to thy faithful arms, Hymen bestows thee all her charms. Heaven to thee bequeaths the fair. To raise thy joy, and lull thy care ; Heaven made grief, if mutual, cease, But joy, divided, to increase : To mourn with her exceeds delight, Darkness with her, the joys of light. Sung by Mr. Pate. I. Arise, arise, great dead, for arms renowned, Rise from your urns, and save your dying story, Your deeds will be in dark oblivion drowned, For mighty William seizes all your glory. ' Daniel Purcell, brother of the great musician, Henry Purcell, was appointed organist of Magdalen College, Oxford, in 1686, and of St. Andrew's, Holborn, in 17 13. He composed the music for an opera by George Powell, and died in 171 7. 94 THE FUNERAL. [ACT 7. II. Again the British trumpfet sounds, Again Britaniiiia blfeeds ; To glorious death, or coitifely wounds, Her godlike monardh leads. III. Pay us, kind fate, the debt you o^e. Celestial minds frorn clay untie, Let coward spirits dwell below. And only give the brave to die. Lid. B. Now, gentlemen, let the miseries which I have but miraculously escaped, admonish you to have always inclinations proper for the stage of life you're in. Don't follow loVe when nature seeks but ease ; otherwise you'll fall into a lethargy of your dishonour, when warm pursuits of glory are over with ybii ; for faine and rest are utter opposites. You who the path of honour rriake your guide, Must let your passion with, your blood subside ; And no untirned ambitippi loyfe, or rage Employ the moments of declining age ; Else boys will in your presfenee lose their fear, And laugh at the grey-head they should revere. spoken by Lord Hardy. Love, hope and fear, desire, aversion, rage, All that can move the soul, or can assuage, Are drawn in miniature of life, the stage. Here you can view yourselves, and here is shown To what you're born in sufferings not your own. The stage to wisdom's no fantastic way, Athens herself learned virtue at a play. Our author me to-night a soldier drew. But faintly writ, what warmly you pursue To his great purpose, had he equal fire. He'd not aim to please only, but inspire ; He'd sing what hovering fate attends our isle, And from base pleasure rouse to glorious toil Full time the earth to a new decision brings ; While William gives the Roman eagle wings : With arts and arms shall Britain tamely end. Which naked Picts so bravely could defend ? The painted heroes on th' invaders press. And think their wounds addition to their dress ; In younger years we've been with conquest blest, And Paris has the British yoke confessed ; Is't then in England, in lost England, known. Her kings are named from a revolted throne ? But we offend — You no examples need. In imitation of yourselves proceed ; 96 THE FUNERAL. [ACT V. 'Tis you your country's honour must secure, By all your actions worthy of Namur : With gentle fires your gallantry improve, Courage, is brutal, if untouched with love : If soon our utmost bravery's not displayed, Think that bright circle must be captives made; Let thoughts of saving them our toils beguile. And they reward our labours with a smile. THE LYI^G LOVET{: OR THE LqAVIES' FT{IEUXT>SHIT Haec ndsse saius est adolescentulis." ' — Tertullian, 1' To have known these things is safety to the young. Steele. ^S HE Lying Lover: or the Ladies' Friend- ^^§ ■*■'''?)*) ^ Comedy, was acted at Di'ury L^ne Theatrf pn Decpmber 2, 1703, and ran for six nights. It was pub- lished by Bernard Lin tot on January 26, 1704. Wilks (Bookwit, jun.), Mills (Lovemore), Gibber (Latine), Pinkethman (Storm), and Bjllock (Charcoal), together with Mrs. Oldfield (Victoria), and Mrs. Rogers (Pene- lope), acted in this piece, which, so far as is known, has been revived only once (April 4, 1746) since it was originally produced. The plot was taken from Le Menteur, by Corneille, who had borrowed from Ruiz de Alarcon's Verdad Sospechosa. Steele is, of course, solely responsible for the scenes in Newgate towards ikf. end of the piece. Samuel Foote afterwards made much use of Steele's play in his JJar. f To His Grace the DUKE OF ORMOND. My Lord, UT of gratitude to the memorable and illustrious patron of my infancy, your Grace's grandfather, I presume to lay this Comedy at your feet. The design of it is to banish out of conversation all entertainment which does not proceed from simplicity of mind, good-nature, friendship, and honour. Such a pur- pose will not, I hope, be unacceptable to so great a lover of matikind as your Grace ; and if your patronage can recommend it to all who love and honour the Duke of Ormond, its reception will be as extensive as the world itself. '•Twas the irresistible force ol this humanity in your temper that has carried you through the various successes of war, with the peculiar and undisputed distinction that you have drawn your sword without other motive than a ' James, second Duke of Ormond, was in command of the expedition against Spain in 1702, when theie were successes at Cadiz, Vigo, etc. ; great booty was taken, and many galleons were sunk. Steele alludes belnw tp t)jis "•. wealth of the Indies." On February 4, 1703, the Duke was made Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. 2 James Butler, first Duke of Ormond. Steele's uncle and guardian, Henry Gascoigne, was the Duke's secretary, and had obtained, through his employei^ a place upon the foundation of the Chartefhouse for Steele. Four years later (1688) the Duke died, and was succeedeii by his grandson. 100 EPISTLE DEDICATORY. passionate regard for the glory of your country ; since before you entered into its service, you were possessed of its highest honours, but could not be contented with the illustrious rank your birth gave you, without repeat- ing the glorious actions by which it was acquired. But there cannot be less expected from the son of an Ossory, than to contemn life, to adorn it, and with munificence, affability, scorn of gain, and passion for glory, to be the honour and example to the profession of arms ; all which engaging qualities your noble family has exerted with so steadfast a loyalty, that in the most adverse fortune of our monarchy, popularity, which in others had been invidious, was a security to the Crown, when lodged in the House of Ormond. Thus your Grace entered into the business of the world with so great an expectation, that it seemed im- possible there could be , anything left which might still conduce to the honour of your name. But the most memorable advantage your country has gained this century was obtained: under your command ; and Provi- dence thought fit to give the wealth of ,the Indies into his hands, who only could despise it ; while, with a superior generosity, he knows no reward but , in oppor- tunities of bestowing. The great personage whom you succeed in your honours, made me feel, before I was sensible of the benefit, that this glorious bent of mind is hereditary to you. I hope, therefore, you will pardon me, that J take the liberty of expressing my veneration for his remains, by assuring your Grace that I am. My Lord, Your Grace's most obedient And most devoted Humble Servant, Richard Steele. 4!H^-{«^^'g^#-i«^^-?6<«-f^^^<«^@^g^-g»^JS»^S>»S^~»^>S-g>»5?^ #Ss>»V-^5^V*^^5-^VS'J-&5-»>^«>^K-§-5«-f«-S«^«--^€-^e-^4^-^«-i^3^ THE PREFACE. -S-£i««t»GB«-: HOUGH it ought to be the care of all Governments that public representa- tions should have nothing in them but what is agreeable to the manners, laws, religion, and policy of the place or nation in which they are exhibited ; yet is it the general complaint of the more learned and virtuous amongst us, that the English stage has extremely offended in this kind. I thought, therefore, it would be an honest ambition to attempt a Comedy which might be no improper entertainment in a Christian commonwealth. In order to this, the spark of this play is introduced with as much agility and life as he brought with him from France, and as much humour as I could bestow upon him in England. But he uses the advantages of a learned education, a ready fancy, and a liberal fortune, without the circumspection and good sense which should always attend the pleasures of a gentleman ; that is to say, a reasonable creature. Thus he makes false love, gets drunk, and kills his man ; but in the fifth Act awakes from his debauch, with 102 TBE PREfA CS. the compunction and remorse wfiich is suitable to a man's findirig himself in a gaol for the death of his friend, without his kiiowing why. The anguish he there expresses, and the mutual sorrow between an only child and a tender father in that dis- tress, are, perhaps, an injury to the rules of comedy, but I am sure they are a justice to those of morality. And passages of such a nature being so frequently applauded on the stage, it is high time that we should no longer draw occasions of mirth from those images which the religion of our country felli us we ought to tremble at with horror. But her Most Excellent Majesty has taken the stage into her consideration ; ' and we may hope, by her gracious influence on tWe MuSes, wit will recover from its apbstasy ; krid that, by being eihtbiitaged in the interests of virtUfe, it will striji vice of the gay hdbit in which it has too long appeared, and clothe it in its native dress of shahiie, fcontempt, and dishonour. ' ,On the Ijth of January, 1704, one.wepk before the publication of this ipl'ay, the Qilee'n issued an Order for the regulation of the playhouses, prohibiting them from acting anything , contrary to religion and good manners (Salmpu!s Chronological Historian). All the commanding powers that awe mankind Are in a trembling poet's audience joinedj Where such bright galaxies of beauty sit, And at their feet assembled men of wit : Our author, thereforej owns his deep despair To entertain the learned or the fair ; Yet hopes that both will so much be his friends, To pardon what he do6s, for what he intends ; He aims to make the coming action move On the dread laws of friendship and of love ; Sure then he'll find but very few severe^ Since there's of both so many objects here. He offers no gross vices, to your sight, Those too much horror raise for just delight ; Aiid to detain the attentive knowing ear. Pleasure must still have something that's severe.' If then you find our author treads the stage With just regard to a reforming age ; He hopes, he humbly hopes, you'll think there's due Mercy to him, for justice done to you. ' This line is repeated fiom Steele's Procession, 1695. DRAMATIS PERSONJE. Old Bookwit. Young Bookwit, the " Lying Lover." LovEMORE, in love with Penelope. Frederick, Friend to Lovemore. Latine, Friend to Young Bookwit. Storm, a Highwayman. Charcoal, an Alchemist and Coiner. Simon, Servant to Penelope. Penelope. Victoria, Friend to JPenelope. Betty, Victoria's Woman. Lettice, Penelope's Woman. Constables, Watch, Turnkey, Cookmaid, and several Gaol-birds. SCENE— London. U^P^^T' ^^^ ■^ =#^ ^^f^ir^%j^^ '£^St v^-^KlV^i^^ |§ ?3 S^^ ^ ^^^m '\>^S'y' /ffiS Ei^ /^^» W 1 Pf^ s ^^^5 i THE LYI^G LOVET{: OR T/7^ LdAVIES' F\IE^VSHIT. ACT THE FIRST. SCENE.— 52^. James's Park. Enter Young Bookwit and Latine. ;^ATINE. But have you utterly left Ox- ford ? y. Book. For ever, sir, for ever ; my father has given me leave to come to town, and I don't question but will let my return be in my own choice. But Jack, you know we were talking in Maudlen Walks last week of the necessity, in intrigues, of a faithful, yet a prating servant. We agreed, there- fore, to cast lots who should be the other's footman for the present expedition. Fortune, that's always blind, gave me the superiority. Lat. She shall be called no more so, for that one I06 THE LYING LOVER: [ACT I. actibii. Aind I am, sir, in a litefal sense, yoiir very humble servant. Y\ Book. Begin, then, the duty of a useful valet, and flatter tne egregidtigly. Has the fellow fitted me ? How is my manner? my mien? Do I tnove freely? Have I kicked off the trammels of a gown ? or does not the tail on't seem still tucked under my arm, where my hat is, with a pert jerk forward, and little hitch in my gait like a scholastic beau ? This wig, I fear, looks like a cap. Lat. No, faith, it looks like a cap and gown too ; though at the same time you look as if you ne'er had worn either. Y. Book. But niy sword, dbes it hang careleSs ? Do I ' look bold, negligent, and erect ? that is, do I look as if I could kill a rnan without being out of humour? I hori-idly mistrust myself. Am I iriilitary enough in hiy air ? I fancy people see I understand Greek. Don't I pore a little in my visage ? Haii't I a down bookish lour, a wise sadness ? I don't look gay enough and unthinking, I faiicy. Lat. I protest you wrong yourself. You look very brisk and very ignorant. Y. Book. (3 fie ! I atri afi-aid you Matter me. Lat. I don't indeed ; I'll be hanged if my tutor would know either of us. But, good inaster, to what use do yQu design to put the noble arts and sciences he taught lus? The conduct of our lives, the government of our passions, were his daily talk to us, gbdd man ! Y. Book. Good man ! Why I'll ob^y his precepts, but abridge 'era. For as he used to advise me, I'll contract my thoughts, as I'll tfeU ybUj Jack :— fbr the passions, I'll turn 'em all into that on& dear pissioh, love ; and \^heri that's the only torture of my heart; I'll giVfe that tortui-feid heatt quite away ; deny there's any such thing is paihj and turn stoic a shorter way than e'er thy tulbr tatlght thee. This is the new philosbjj'liy; ybU fbgiie yoii. SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' ERrENDSHIP. io^ Lat. Biat ydii would hot in earnest be thought wholly illiterate ? Y. Book. No ; for as wheti I walk, I'd have you know by my motion 1 can dance ; so when t speak, I'd have you see I read : yet would ordinarily neither ciit capers nor talk seiiterices. But you prate as if I carne to town to get an employment. No ; harig busiriess, hanjg cafe ; let It live and prosper among the iiien ; I'll ne'er go near the solemn ugly things again. I'll keep compariy witti none but ladies — bright ladies. O Londoii ! London ! O woman ! womaii ! I am come where thou livest, wheire thou shihest. Lat. Hey-day ! why, were there no worneri in Oxford ? Y. iooh No, no ; why, do ybti think a bed-maker's a worn an ? Lat. Yes, and thought ydii knew it. Y. Book. No, no, 'tis no siich tiling. As he that is not honest or brave is no man ; so she that is not witty or fair is no woman. No, no. Jack, to come lip to that high narhe and object of desire, she rnust be gay and chaste, she must at once attract, and banish you. I don't know how to express myself, but a woman, me- thinks, is a being between us and angels. She has iiisomething in her that at the same time gives awe and :::invitation ; and I swear to yoii I Was never out in 't yet, but I always judged oif men as I observed tiiey jiiagecl of ■women. There's hdthiil^ shows a than sO much aS the object of his affections. — But what do you stare at so "Considerately ? Lat. Faith, sir, I am wondering at you — how 'tis pos- rsible you could be so jaunty a town-spark in a, nloiii'ent, and have so easy a behaviour. 1 look, methinks, to you, as if I Were really your footman. Y. Book. Why, if you're serious in what you say, I owe it whoUJ' to the Indulgence df an eicelletit father, in io8 THE LYING LOVER: [ACT I. whose company I was always free and unconstrained. But what's this to ladies, Jack, to ladies ? I was going to tell you I had , studied 'em, and know how to make my approaches to 'em by contemplating their frame, their inmost temper. I don't ground my hopes on the scandalous tales and opinions your wild fellows have of 'em — fellows that are but mere bodie s, machines— which at best can but move gracefully. No ; I draw my pre- tencesjrom_philosophy;3-frwtn_nature. Lat. You'll give us by-and-by a lecture over your mistress : you can dissect her. Y. Book. That I can, indeed, and have so accurately observed on woman, that I can know her mind by her eye as well as her doctor shall her health by her pulse ; I can read approbation through a glance of disdain ; can see when the soul is divided by a sparkling tear that twinkles and betrays the heart. A sparkling tear's the dress^andjivery ofjove — of love made up of hope and fear, of joy and grief. Lat 'But what have the wars to do with all this? Why must you needs commence soldier all of a sudden ? 1 Cliton. Qu'a de propre la guerre a montrer votre flamme .' Dorante. O le beau compliment a charmer una dame, De lui dire d'abord : " J'apporte i vos beautes Un coeur nouveau-venu dEs universitfe ; Si vous avez besoin de lois et de rubriques, Je sais le Code entier ayec les Authentiques, Le Digeste nouveau, le vieux, I'Infortiat, ' Ce qu'en a dit Jason, Balde, Accurse, Alciat ! " Qu'un si riche discours nous rend considerables ! Qu'on amoUit par \k de coeurs inexorables ! Qu'un homme H paragraphe est un joli galant ! On s'introduit bien niicux a titre de vaillaut : Tout le secret ne git qu'en un peu de grimace, A mentir a propos, jurer de bonne grSce, Staler force mots qu'elles n'entendent pas ; Faire sonner Lamboy, Jean de Vert, et Galas ; Nommer quelques chateaux de qui les noms barbares, Plus ils blessent I'oreiUe, et plus leur semblent rares ; Avoir toujours en bouche angles, lignes, fost^s, Vedette, contrescarpe, et travaux avancfe : Sans ordre et sans raison, n'importe, on les etonne ; SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 109 Y. Book. Were 't not a taking compliment with ray college face and phrase to acco st a lady : — " Madam, I bring your ladyship a learned heart, one newly come from the University. If you want definitions, axioms, and arguments, I am an able schoolman. I've read Aristotle twice over, compared his jarring commentators too, examined all the famous peripatetics, know where the Scotists and the Nominals differ : " — this, certainly, must needs enchant a lady. Lat. This is too much on th' other side. Y. Book. The name of soldier bids you better wel- come. 'Tis valour and feats done in the field a man should be cried up for ; nor is 't so hard to achieve. Lai. The fame of it, you mean ? Y. Book. Yes ; and that will serve. 'Tis but looking big, bragging with an easy grace, and confidently mus- tering up an hundred hard names they uilderstand not : Thunder out Villeroy, Catinat, and Boufflers ; speak of strange towns and castles, whose, barbarous names, the harsher they're to the ear, the rarer and more taking; still running over lines, trenches, outworks, counter- scarps, and forts, citadels, mines, countermines, pic- keering, pioneers, sentinels, patrols, and others, without sense or order; that matters not, the women are amazed, they admire to hear you rap 'em out so readily; and many a one that went no farther for it, retailing handsomely some warlike terms, passes for a brave fellow. Don't stand gaping, but live and learn, my lad. I can tell thee ten thousand arts to make thee known and valued in these regions of wit and igallantry — the park, the playhouse. Lat. Now you put me in mind where we are. What have we to do here thus early, now there's no company ? On leur fait admirer les baies qu'on leur donne : Et tela la faveur d'un semblable debit, Passe pour homme illustre, et se met en credit. (Le MenUur, Act I. Scene VI. fio 'fffS; LY^Ifg. LQV^S. : [J^pj I- Y. ^ogk. Oh ! sir, I have piif on so mqch of the soldier lyith my j'ed coat, that I camp here to, observe fhg ground I ap tq engage upon. Here must I act, I know, so pag I pyer'^ part, g.nd therefore came to view liy^ pleasant ^Hik. I privately ramjjled to town las.t November. Herp, ay \tx&, I st:9pd and gazed at high Mall, til} I fqrgot jt was yyinter, so many pretty shes marched by me. Qh ! to see t)ie dear things trip, trip along, and breathe so short, nipt with the season! I saw the very air iipt withcjut, force leave their dear lips. Qh ! they -were intolerably Jjao^sqnjs,. Lat. You'll see, perhaps, sijch to-day; bi|t how to come at 'em ? Y. Book. Ay, there's it, hp^ \o come at -em. Lat.^ ^x.Q ypu geuerou^ ? Z^(. Yqii mji^t entertain tihgrn high, and brib^ all a,b9ii!;_ fhem. They talk of Qvid and his Art of Loving ; be lit^era}, and you .putdo his precepts. The^|;t of love, sir, is the ^rt pf giving, ^e free to women, they'll bp fr,ee to you. Not every open^harided fellow hit^ it i)|ejthe.r. Sope give by Japfulls, and ypt rie'er oblige, fl^e rpaniier, you ki|pw, of doipg a 'hjpg j? more than the_ thing itself. Sope drop a jewel, whiph had tiegn fefuspd if bluntly 0|flfej:ed. , Y' ^"1^: ?°fflp 19?^ ^\ P!.^y ^''^f;^ ^^y design ,^ present. Lat., Right 5 t:|?)3 skil| is tq.b? genero(is, ^nd seejn i\9t to i^npy it gf yourself, 'tis dpne yvith so ^inuch e^?p ; \yA ^ liberal bloclfhpaci presfints .jiis mistress 4s Jhg'd give ^p alms. F. Baqp. JLjeavjng such blpckljp^ji^ tp their , desjerved ill-fprtune, fp}l x^t if t|-}Qu kpow'st tjiese ladies? ,. ., Lat. No, not I, sir ; they are above an academic ' This dialogue, dowii to the exit of Latine, is based u]gpn Le Menteur, f. i. '.' ',' ' '■••■■,. SCEifEi.] OR, Tli^ LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. in converse mariy degrees. I've seep ten thousand verses writ in the University on wenches not fit to be p£a.px pf their hapdmaids. I never spoke to such g, fine thing as ei^:her in my whole life— I'm downright asleep p' sudden. I rnpst fall tj^-clc, apd glafl it is my place to do so ; yet I can get you intelligence perhaps. I'll to thfe fpptinan. Y. Book. Do you thipk he'll fell ? Lat. He vvould not tq ypu, perhaps, but to a brother footman. Do but listen a.t the entrance of tjie Mall at noon, and you'll have all t}ie la,dies' cliar^pt^^-s ip town among their lackeys. Ypp know ajl faipe begins frpRi our doraesfics. Y. Bofik. That w^s a, wise man'p observation^ Fpljow him, and knpyv wjiat yovf can. \Exit \,Ki\yi%. Enter Penelopk, Victoria, Simon, and Lettice. Pen. A w^lk round would be top piuch fpr u^ ; we'll keep the Mall. — But to our talk : I must confess I have terrors when I think of marrying Loyempre. He js, indeed, a man of an honestibaracter. He has my gopd opinion, but love does not always follow that. He is so wise a fellow, always so precisely in the right, so observ- ing and so jealous ; he's blameless inc^eed, but not to be commended. What_good he has, Ijas no grace in it: he's one of those who's nevef highly nipved, expept tp anger. Give me a man that has agi-eeable faults rather than offensive virtues. Vict. Offensive virtues, madam,? Pen. Yes, I dpn't knojw hojv — there's ^ sort pf virtue, or prudence, or what you'll call it, that we can but just approve. That does not win us. Lovemore w^nts that fire, that conversation-spirit I would have. They say he's learned as well as discreet, but I'm no judge of that. I'm s|}re l^e's PQ -yvonfaa's sphplar ; his wisdom he should turn into wit, and his learning into poetry or hupipur. 1 12 THE L YING L O VER : [ACT :. Vict. Well, I'm not so much of your mind ; I like a sober passion. Pen. A sober passion ! you took me up just now when I said an offensive virtue. — Bless me ! [Stumbling almost to a fall. Y. Book.^ [Catching heri\ How much am I indebted to an accident, that favours me with an occasion of this small service ! for 'tis to me an happiness beyond ex- pression thus to kiss your hand. Pen. The occasion, methinks, is not so obliging, nor the happiness you mention worth that name, sir. Y. Book. 'Tis true, madam, I owe it all to fortune ; neither your kindness nor my industry had any share in 't. Thus am I still as wretched as I was, for this happiness I so -much prize had doubtless been refused my want of merit. Pen. It has very soon, you see, lost what you valued in it ; but I find you and I, sir, have a different sense ; for, in my opinion, we enjoy with most pleasure what we attain with least merit. Merit is a claim, and may prCr tend justly to favour ; when without it what's conferred is more unexpected, and therefore more pleasing. Y. Book. You talk very well, madam, of an happiness you can't possibly be acquainted with, the enjoying with- out desert. But indeed you have done me a very singular good office, in letting me know niyself very much quali- fied for felicity. Vict. I swear he's a very pretty fellow, and how readily the thing talks ! I begin to pity Lovemore, but 1 begin to hate Penelope. How he looks ! he looks at her ! Y. Book.^ Biit judge, madam, what the condition of a passionate man must be, that can approach the hand only of her he dies for, when her heart is inaccessible. ' The four following' speeches are a free translation fiom Le Menteur, i. ii. ' From Lc Menteur, I. ii SCENE I.] OJ?, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 113 Pen. 'Tis very well the heart lies not so easily to be seized as the hand — I find Pray, sir — I don't know what there is in this very odd fellow : I'm not angry, though he's downright rude — but I must Y. Book. But your heart, madam, your heart — \Pressingly. Pen. You seemed, sir, I must confess, to have shown a ready civility when I'd like to fall just now, for which I could not but thank you, and permit you to say what you pleased on that occasion — " But your heart, madam ! " 'tis a sure sign, sir, you know not me ; or, if you are what indeed you seem — a gentleman — sure you forget yourself, or rather you talk, by memory, a form or cant which you mistake for something that's gallant. Y. Book. Madam, I very humbly beg your pardon, if I pressed too far and too abruptly. I forgot, indeed, that I broke through decencies, and that though you have been long a familiar to me, I am a stranger to you. Pen. Pray, familiar stranger, what can you mean ? I never saw you before this instant, nor you me, I believe. Y. Book.^ Perhaps not, that you know of, madam, for your humility, it seems, makes you so little sensible of your own perfection, that you overlook your conquest ; nor have you e'er observed me, though I hover day and night about your lodging, haunt you from place to place, at balls, in the park, at church. I gave you all the serenades you've had, yet never till this niinute could I find you, and this minute an unfortunate one — But this is always my luck when I'm out of the field. Vict. You've travelled then, and seen the wars, sir ? Y. Book. I — madam— I — all that I know of the matter is, that Louis the Fourteenth mortally ha;tes me. They talk of French gold — what heaps have I refused ! Yet to be generous even to an enemy, I must allow that Prince ^ The general idea of the ensuing dialogue, down to the exit of the ladies, is taken from Le Menteur, i ; iii. Steele. 1 1 14 THE L YING LO VBR : [ACf J. has reason for his rancour to me. There has not been a skirmish, siege, or battle since I bore arms, I made not one in ; no, nor the least advantage got of the enemy, but I had my shai-e, though perhaps not all my share of the glory. You've seen my name, though you doji't knp\¥ it, often in the Gazette. Pen. I never read news. Enter Latine. Lat, What tale's he telling now, tro' ? Y. Book. You've never heard, I supppse, of such names as Ruremonde, K3,iserswert}i, and Liege ? nor read of an English gentleman left de£|,d by his precipitancy upon a parapet at Venloo ? I was thought so indeed, when the first account came away. Every man has his failings ; rashness is my fault. Lat. Don't you remember a certain place called Oxford among your towns, sir ? Y. Book, Pshaw, away — Oh ! oh ! — I beg your pardon, ladies, this fellow knows I was shpt in my left arm, and cannot bear the least touch, yet will still be rushing on me. Lat. He has a lie, I think, in every joint. \Adde. Fen. Do you bear any commission, si;- ? Y. Book. There's an intimate of mine, a general officer, who has often said, Tom, if thou would'st but stick to any one application, thou might'st be anything. 'Tis my misfortune, madam, to have a mind too extensive. I began last summer's campaign with the renowned Prince Eugene, but was forced to fly into Holland for a duel with that rough Captain of the Hussars, Paul Diack. They talk of a regiment for me, but those things — besides, it will oblige me to attend it, and then I can't follow honour where'er she's busiest, but must be confined to one nation ; when indeed 'tis rather my way of serving with such of our allies fis most Wa»t me, SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 115 Pen, But X see you soldiers never enjoy such a thing as rest: You but come home in winter to turn your valour on the ladies — 'tis but just a change of your war- fare. Y, Book. I had immediately returned to Holland, but your beauties at my arrival here disarmed me, madam, made me a man of peace, or raised a civil war within me rather. You took me prisoner at first sight, and to your charms I yielded up an heart, till then unconquered. Martial delights (once best and dearest to me) vanished before you in a moment, and all my thoughts grew bent to please and serve you. Lett. Lovemore's in the walk, madam ; he'll be in a fit. Y. Book. Rob me o' the sudden thus of all my happi- ness ! Yet ere you quite forsake me, authorise my passion, license my innocent flames, and give me leave to love such charming sweetness. Pen. He that will love, and knows what 'tis to love, will ask no leave of any but himself. \Exeunt Ladies, etc. Y. Book. Follow 'em. Jack. Lat. I know as much of 'em already as needs : the footman was in his talking vein. The handsomer of the two, says he, I serve, and she lives in the Garden. Y. Book. What Garden ? Ijit. Covent Garden ; the other lies there too. I did not stay to ask her name, but I shall meet him again ; I took particular notice of the livery. Y. Book. Ne'er trouble thyself to know which is which, my heart and my good genius tell me, 'tis she, that pretty she I talked to. Lai. If, with respect to your worship's opinion, I might presume to be of a contrary one, I should think the other the handsomer now. Y. Book. What, the dumb thing,' the picture? — No, love is the union of minds, and she that engages mine * The dialogue thus far closely follows Le Menteur, I, iv. 1 1 6 THE L YING L O VER ; [ACT 1. must be very well able to express her own. But I suppose some scolding landlady has made you thus enamoured with silence. But here are two of the dearest of my old comrades — they seem amazed at something by their action. Enter Lovemore and Frederick. Fred} How ! a collation on the water, and music too ? Love. Yes, music and a collation. Fred. Last night ? Love. Last night too. Fred. An handsome treat ? Love. A very noble one. Fred. Who gave it ? Love. That I'm yet to learn. Y. Book. How happy am I to meet you here ! Love. When I embrace you thus, no happiness can equal mine. \Saluting, Y. Book. I thrust myself intrudingly upon you ; but you'll pardon a man o'erjoyed to see you. Love. Where you're always welcome you never can intrude. Y. Book. What were you talking of? Love. Of an entertainment. y. Book. Given by some lover ? Love. As we suppose. Y. Book. That circumstance deserves my curiosity ; pray go on, and let me sharethe story. Love. Some ladies had the fiddles last night. Y. Book. Upon the water, too, methought you said ? Love. Yes, 'twas upon the water. Y. Book. Water often feeds the Hame. Love. Sometimes. 1 This passage, down to the end of Young Bookwit's description of the feast — " twelve dishes to a course " — is a literal translation from Le Menteur, I. v. The whole scene appears again in slightly varied form in Foote's Liar. SCENE I.] Oi?, THE LADIES' FRTF.Nr)5^TTIP. 117 Y. Book. And by night too ? Love. Yes, last night. Y. Book. He chose his time well — The lady is hand- some ? Love. In most men's eyes she is. Y. Book. And the music? Love. Good, as we hear. Y. Book. Some banquet followed ? Love. A sumptuous one, they say. Y. Book. And neither of you all this while know who gave this treat? ha! ha! Love. D'ye laugh at it ? Y. Book. How can I choose, to see you thus admire a slight divertisement I gave myself? ILove. You ? Y. Book. Even I ! Love. Why, have you got a mistress here already ? Y. Book. I should be sorry else. I've been in town this month or more, though for some reasons I appear but little yet by day. I' the dark o' the evening I peep out, and incognito make some visits. Thus had I spent my time but ill, were not - Lat. [To Y. Book.] Do you know what you say, sir ? Don't lay it on so thick. Y. Book. [To Lat.] Nay, you must be sure to take care to be in the way as soon as they land, to shew up- stairs — I beg pardon, I was giving my fellow some direc- tions about receiving some women of quahty that sup with me to-night incog but you're my dearest friends, and shall hear all. Fred. [To Love.] How luckily your rival discovers himself I Y. Book. I took five barges, and the fairest kept for my company; the other four I filled with music of all sorts, and of all sorts the best; in the first were fiddles, in the next theorbo, lutes, and voices. 1 18 THE L YING L O VER : [act I. Flutes and such pastoral instruments i' th' third. Loud music from the fourth did pierce the ait. Each concert vied by turns, Which with most melody should charm our ears; The fifth, the largest of 'em all, was neatly hung, Not with dull tapestry, but with green boughs, Curiously interlaced to let in air. And every branch with jessamines, and orange posies decked ; In this the feast was kept. Hither, with five other ladies, I Idd her whose beauty alone governs my destiny. Supper was served up straight ; I will not trouble you with our bill of fare, what dishes were best liked, what sauces most recommended; 'tis enough I tell you this delicious feast was of six courses, twelve dishes to a course. Lat. That's indeed enough of all conscience. \Aside. Love. Oh, the torture of jealousy ! \Aside\ — But, sir, how seemed the lady to receive this entertainment ? We must know that. Y. Book. Oh ! that was the height on't. She, I warrant you, was quite negligent of all this matter. You know their way, they must not seem to like — no, I warrant it would not so much as smile to make the fellow vain, and believe he had power to move delight in her — ha, ha ! Love. But how" then? Y. Book. Why you must know my humour grew poetic. I pulled off my sword-knot, and with that bound up a coronet of ivy, laurel, and flowers ; with that round my temples, and a plate of richest fruits in my hand, on one knee I presented her with it as a cornucopia, an offering from her humble swain of all his harvest — to her the Ceres of our genial feast and rural mirth. She smiled ; the ladies clapped their hands, and all our music struck sympathetic rapture at my happiness ; while gentle winds, the river, air, and shore echoed the harmony in notes SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 119 more soft than they received it. Methought all nature seemed to die for love like me. To all my heart and every pulse beat time. Oh, the pleasures of Successful love ! ha, Lovefflore ! ha ! What, hast thou got a good office lately ? you're afraid I should make some request. Prithee ben't so shy, I have nothing to ask but of my mistress — What's the matter ? Love. I only attend, sir, I only attend — Y. Book. Then I'll go on. As soon' as we had supped, the fireworks played. Squibs of all sorts were darted through the skies, whose spreading fires made a new day. A flaming deluge seemed to fall from Heaven, and with such violence attacked the waves, you would have thought the fiery element had left his sphere, to ruin his moist enemy. Thfeir contest done, we landed, danced till day, which hasty Sol disturbed us with too soon. Had he taken our advice, or feared my anger, he might in Thetis's lap have slept as long as at Alcmena's labour he's re- ported. But steering not as we would have prescribed, he put a period to our envied mirth. Love. Trust me, you tell us wonders, and with a grace as rare as the feast itself, which all our summer's mirth can't equal. Y. Book. My mistress took me o'the sudden ; I had not a day's warning. Love. The treat was costly though, and finely ordered. Y. Book. I was forced to take up with this trifle. He that wants timfe can't do as he would. Love. Farewell, we shall meet again at more leisure. Y. Book. Number me among your creatures. Love. Oh jealousy ! Thou rack, jealousy ! Fred. [To Love.] What reason have you to feel it? the circumstances of the feast nothing agree. ' The rest of the Scenfe with Lovemore and Frederick is from te Menteur, I. V. 120 THE LYING LOVER : [act i. Zove. [To Fred.]- In time and place they doj the rest is nothing. [Exeunt Fred, and Love. Lat} May I speak now, sir, without offence ? Y. Book. 'Tis in your choice now to speak or not, but before company you'll spoil all. Lat. Do you walk abroad and talk in your sleep? or do you use to tell your dreams for current truth ? Y. Book. Dull brain ! Lat. Why, you beat out mine with your battles, your fireworks, your music, and your feasts. You've found an excellent way to go to the wars, and yet keep out of danger. Then you feast your mistresses at the cheapest rate that ever I knew ! Why d'ye make 'era believe you ha' been here these six weeks ? Y. Book. My passion has the more growth, and I the better ground to make love. Lat. You'd make one believe fine things, that would but hearken to you ; but this lady might soon have found you out. Y. Book. Some acquaintance I have got, however ; this is making love, scholar, and at the: best rate too. Lat. To speak truth, I'm hardly come to myself yet ; your great supper lies on my stomach still. I defy Pontack* to have prepared a better o'the sudden. Your ' The eh&uing dialogue is an adaptation from Le Menteur, I, vi., down to Latiue's mention of lying. The rest is Steele's. ^ Pontack's was a French eating-house in Abchurch Lane, where the Royal Society held its annual dinners until 1746. Pontack was son of tlie President of the Parliament of Bordeaux, and gave the name to a lamous French claret. Evelyn refers to him in his diaiy, 13 July, 1683, and 30 Nov., 1694, and Swift, in his Journal, 16 Aug., 1711 : "Pontaclc told us, although his wine was so good, he sold it cheaper than others ; he took bilt seven shillings a flask. Are not these pretty rates ? " See, too, the prologue to Love's Contrivances, 1703, by Mrs. Centlivre : — " At Locket's, Brown's, and at Pontack's enquire, What modish kickshaws the nice beaus desire. What famed ragouts, what new-invented salad. Has best pretensions to regale the palate. If we present you with a medley here, SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 121 enchanted castles, where strangers found strange tables strangely furnished with strange cates, were but sixpenny ordinaries to the fifth barge ; you were an excellent man to write romances, for having feasts and battles at com- mand, your Quixote in a trice would over-run the world ; revelling and skirmishing cost you nothing; then you vary your scene with so much ease, and shift from court to camp with such facility — Y. Book. I love thus to outvie a newsmonger ; and as soon as I perceive a fellow thinks his story will surprise, I choke him with a stranger, and stop his mouth with an extempore wonder. Did'st thou but know what a pleasure 'tis to cram their own news down their throats again ! Lat. 'Tis fine, but may prove dangerous sport, and may involve us in a peck of troubles. Prithee, Tom, consider that I am of quality to be kicked or caned by this 1 Y. Book. Hush, hush, call it not lying ; as for my waging war, it is but just I snatch and steal from fortune that fame which she denies me opportunity to deserve. My father has cramped me in a college, while all the world has been in action. Then as to my lying to my mistress, 'tis but what all the lovers upon earth do. Call it not then by that coarse name, a lie. 'Tis wit, 'tis fable, allegory, fiction, hyperbole — or be it what you call it, the world's made up almost of nothing else. What are all the grave faces you meet in public ? mere silent lies, dark solemn fronts, by which they would disguise vain A hodge-podge dish served up in cliina-ware, We hope 'twill please, 'cause lilce your bills of fare." Pontack put up a picture of his father's head as a sign (Bum's Descriptive Catalogue of the London Traders' Tavern, and Coffee- House Tokens, 1855, p. 13). From a tract called The Metamor- phoses of the Town, dated 1730, we learn that Foutack's was then the resort of extravagant epicures ; in the biU of fare of a " guinea ordinary " are " a ragout of fatted snails," and " chickens not two hours from the shell." THE LYING Lover. [act i. empty silly noddles. But after all, to be serious, since I am resolved honestly to love, 1 don't care how artfully I obtain the woman I pitch upon • besides, did yOU ever know any of them acknowledge they loved as soon as they loved ? No, they'll let a man dwell upon his knees — whom they languish to receive into their arms. They're no fait enemy. Therefore 'tis but just that — We use all arts the fair to undermine, And learn with gallantry to hide design. \Exeunt. ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I.— Penelope's Lodgings, Covent Garden. Enter Old Bookwit, Penelope, and Lettice. ; LD BOOK. Mistress Penelope, I have your father's leave to wait upon you, madam, and talk to you this morning J nay, to talk to you of marriage. Pen. To talk to me of marriage, sir? O. Book. Yes, madam, in behalf of my son, Tom Bookwit. Pen. Nay, there may perhaps be something said to that. \Aside. O. Booli.^ I sent for him from Oxford with that desigti. He came to town but yesterday; and, if a father can judge, he brings from a college the mien and air of a court. I love my son entirely, and hope, madam, you take my thoughts as to you, to be no want of respect to you. Pen. 'Twere want of sense, sir, to do that. O. Book. If I can remember my style to my mistress 1 Geronte. II vfnt hier de Poitiers, raais il sent peu I'ecole ; Et, si I'on Jjouvait ctoire un pere a sa parole, Qiielque ficolier qu'il soit, je dirais qQ'auJQurd'hui Peu de nos gens de cour sont mieux tailles que lui. {Le Menteur, II. ii.) 124 THE LYING LOVER: [ACT 11. of old, I'll ease Tom's way, and raise her expectation of my son. \Ande?[ — Madam, had I my hat, my feather, pantaloons, and jerkin on, as when I wooed your humble servant's mother, I would deliver you his errand. I married her just such a young thing as you ; her com- plexion was charming, but not indeed with all your sweetness. Pen. Oh! sir! O. Book. Her neck and bosom were the softest pillows ; her shape was not of that nice sort. Some young women suffer in shapes of their mother's making, by spare diet, straight lacing, and constant chiding. But 'twas the work of nature, free, unconstrained, healthy, and- But her charms had not all that emanation which your's have. Pen. O fie ! fie ! O. Book. Not those thousand thousand graces, that soft army of loves and zephyrs, millions of airy beings that attend around you, and appear only to the second sight of lovers. Pen. O fie ! Pray, good sir, you'll leave nothing for your son to say. i O. Book. I did not think I had such a memory. I find the women are now certainly daughters of the women before 'em : Flattery still does it. [Aside.] — Tom is my only son, and I extremely desire to have him settled. I own I think him of much merit. Pen. He would derogate from his birth were he not much a gentleman. But to receive a man in the character of a pretenderi at first sight O. Book. I'll walk him by and by before your window, where your own eyes shall judge. I think there's nothing above his pretences but yourself; but when one of so many excellent qualities bestows herself, it must be con- descension. You shall not answer — Farewell, daughter ; we are but too apt to believe what we wish. [Exii Old Book. SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 125 Pen. 'Tis as you said, Lettice, Old Bookwit came to propose his son. Lett. I overheard the old gentleman talk of it last night. But, madatn, you han't heard the song that was made on you. Oh ! 'tis mighty pretty! The gentleman is dying for you, he says it. Pure, pure verses. Pen. Whoever writ 'em, he's not the first poet I have made. They may talk, and say nature makes a poet, but I say love makes a poet. Don't you see elder brothers, who are by nature born above wit, shall fall in love, and write verses ; nay, and pretty good ones, con- sidering they can tag 'em to settlements. But let's see. \Reading.\ "To Celia's Spinet. " Thou soft machine that dost her hand obey, Tell her my grief in thy harmonious lay,'' Poor man ! " To shun my moan to thee she'll fly ; To her touch be sure reply, And, if she removes it, die." The device is just and truly poetical. " Know thy bliss — ", Ay, ay, there I come in. " Know thy bliss, with rapture shake, Tremble o'er all thy numerous make ; Speak in melting sounds my tears. Speak my joys, my hopes, my fears — " Which all depend upon me. " Thus force her, when from me she'd fly, By her own hand, like me, to die." Well, certainly nothing touches the heart of woman so much as poetry. I suppose the master is in the next room. 'Tis his hour; desire him to walk in. 'Twill make one's ears tingle, a song on one's self ! \Here the song is performed to a spinet. 126 THE L YING LO VSR : [act ii. Well, dost think, Lettice, my grave lover writ this fine thing — say'st thou ? Lett. No, madam, nobody writes songs on those they are sure of. Fen. Sure of me ! the insolent ! Lett. Nay, I know no more but that he said he'd turn me a\yay as soon as he had married you. Pen, 'Tis like enough; that's the common practice of your jealous-headed fellows. Well, I have a good mind to dress myself anew, put on my best looks, and send for him to dismiss him. I know he loves me. Lett. I never knew him show it but by his jealousy. Fen. As you say, a jealous fellow love ! 'tis all mistake — 'tis only for himself he has desires ; nor cares what the object of his wishes suffers so he himself has satisfaction. — No, he has a gluttony, an hunger- for me. Lett. An hunger for you ! I protest, mad^m, if you'd let me be his cook, and make you ready, I'd poison him. But I'm glad Simon disobeyed you, and told the gentle- man's servant who you were, and your lodging. Feti. Did the rogue do so? Call him hither. Lett. Simon, why Simon !, Enter Simon. Fen. Sirrah, I find I must at last turn you ofjf, you saucy fellow. Don't stand staring and dodging with your feet, and wearing out your livery hat with squeezing for an excuse, but answer me, and that presently. Sim. I will, madam, as soon as you ask me a question. Fen. Not afore then — Mr. Pert, don't you know, you told the gentleman's footman in the park who I was, against my constant order, when I walk early. Come, sirrah, tell all that passed between you. Sim. Why, madam, the gentleman's gentleman came up to me very ciyjUy, and said his master was in discourse with my lady, he supposed j then h^ fell into talk about SDKNE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 127 vails ' — about profits in a service ; at last, after a deal of civil discourse between us Pen. Come, without this preamble, what he asked you, impertinence ; tell that, do. Sim. He asked about you, and Madam Victoria. I said the handsomest of the two is my lady. Pen. Speak on boldly, Simon ; I'm never angry at a servant that speaks truth. Sim. He told me he should be very proud of my acquaintance, Indeed, madam, the man was very well spoken, and showed a, great deal of respect for me, on your ladyship's account. He is a mighty well spoken man, and said he found I was a smart gentleman; said he'd come again. Pen. Go, you have done your business. Go down. \Exit. Lett. Well, after all, madam, I did not think that gentleman displeased you. Pen.^ Had but young Bookwit his mien and conversa- tion, how easily would he exclude Lovemore ! Enter Servant. Ser. Mr. Lovemore is coming up, madam. Pen. He has not heard, sure, of this new proposal ! Lett. 'Tis possible he may, and come to rant or upbraid your ladyship. I wonder you endure him on these occasions. Pen. I'll rack his very heart-strings. He shall know all that man e'er suffered for his native mistress, woman. Lett. His father, madam, has been so long coming out of Suffolk — There are strange tricks in the world, but 'tis not my place to speak. Pen. However, his father, may come at last. I will ' Presents to servants. 2 Clarice. Ah ! bon Dieu ! si Dorante avait autant d'appas, Que d'Alcippe aisement il obtiendrait la place ! (Le Menteur, II. ii.) 128 THE L TING LO VER : [act ii. not wholly lose him ; as bad as he is, he's better than no husband at all. Stay in the room ; I'll talk to you as if he were not present. Enter Lovemore. '\LLove} Ah ! Penelope ! inconstant, fickle Penelope ! Pen. But, Lattice, you don't tell me what the gentleman said. Now there's nobody here, you may speak. Love. Now there's nobody here ? Then I am a thing, a utensil ! I am nobody, I have no essence that I am sensible of ! I think 'twill be so soon ! — This ingrate^ this perjured ! Fen. Tell me, I say, how the match happened to break off? Love. This is downright abuse ! What ! don't you see me, madam ? Lett. He had the folly, upon her being commonly civil to him, to talk of directing her affairs before his time. In the first place, he thought it but necessary her maid, her faithful servant, Mrs. Betty, should be removed. Love. Her faithful servant, Mrs. Betty? Her betrayer, her whisperer, Mrs. Lettice ! Madam, would you but hear me ? I will be heard ! Fen. Prithee step, Lettice, and see what noise is that without. Love. The noise is here, madam; 'tis I that make what you call noise. 'Tis I that claim aloud my right and speak to all the world the wrongs I suffer. Fen. Cooling herbs, well steeped — a good anodyne at night, made of the juice of hellebore, with very thin diet, may be of use in these cases. [^Both looking at him as disturbed. Love. Cases ! what cases ? I shall downright run mad with this damned usage ! Am I a jest ? 1 Alcippe. Ah, Clarice ! ah, Clarice .' inconstante, volage ! [Le Menteur, II. iii.) The idea of the servant remaining in the room is Steele's. SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 129 Lett. A jest ? No, faith, this is far from a merry mad- ness. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Love. Harkee, Lettice, I'll downright box you. Hold your tongue, gipsy. Lett. Dear madam, save me ! Go you to him. Pen. Let him take you. — Bless me, how he stares ! Take her. Lett. Take her. ) r n ■ 7 7 ^7 \ \Kunning round each other. Pen. Take her.) lATve. Very fine ! — No, madam, your gallant, your spark last night ; your fine dancer, entertainer, shall take you. He that was your swain ; and you, I warrant, a fantastic nymph of the flood or forest. Ha ! ha ! ha ! To be out all night with a young fellow ! Oh ! that makes you change your countenance, does it so ? Fine lady — you wonder how I came to know. Why, choose a discreeter the next time — he told me all himself. Swoon — die for shame at hearing of these words — do ! Pen. I am, indeed, downright ashamed for him that speaks 'em. Whence this insolence, if not from utter dis- traction, under this roof? Love. Oh, the ingrate ! Have not I, madam, two long years, two ages, with humblest resignation, depended on your smile ? and shall I suffer one of yesterday's to treat you, to dance all night with you ? Pen.^ Speak softly ; my father's coming down. Love. Thy father's coming down ! Faithless ! Thou hast no father — But to cross me by night upon the water ! Pen. Well, by night upon the water ; what then ? Love. Yes, all night. Pen. What of that? Love. Without blushing when you hear of 't ! Pen. Blush for what ? What do you drive at ? ' Most of this scene, down to Lovemore's exit, is adapted from Ze Menteur, II. iii., iv. Stoele. IC 130 THE L YINQ LO VER : [ACT ll. Love. Can you, then, coolly ask what 'tis I mean, thou reveller, thou rambler? A fine young lady, with your midnight frolics ! But what do I pretend to ? I know not how with bended knees to call you Ceres; make you an offering of summer fruits, and deify your vanity ! Thou art no goddess ; thou'rt a very woman, with all the guile ! Your barges ! your treats ! your fireworks ! Pen. Wha-t means the insolent? You grow insuffer- able! Love. Oh, Penelope ! that look, that disdainful look has pierced my soul, and ebbed my rage to penitence and sorrow. I own my fault ; I'm too rash — Pen. The imaginary enemies you raise are but mere forms of your sickly brain : so I think, and scorn 'em. A diffident, a humorous, and ungenerous man, who, with- out grounds, calls me inconstant, shall surely find me so. She will be very happy that takes a constant man with twenty thousand humours. Lo^>e. Is it a fault my life's bound up in thee, That all my powers change with thy looks. That my eyes gloat on thee when thou'rt present, And ache and roll for light when thou'rt absent ? Pen. A little ill-usage, I see, improves a lover. I never heard him speak so well in my life before. \Aside. Love. Of you I am not jealous : 'Tis my own indesert' that gives me fears. And tenderness forms dangers where they're not ; I doubt and envy all things that approach thee : Not a fond mother of a long-wished-for only child beholds with such kind terrors her infant offspring, as I do her I love. She thinks its food, if she's not by, unwholesome; and all the ambient air made up of fevers and of quartan agues, except she shrouds it in her arms. Such is my unpitied, anxious care for you ; and can I see another^ — Peti. What other? ' Want of ment. See the 2"a#fe-, No. 69. SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 131 Love. Nay, if you make a secret of your meeting, there's all that I suspect in it. Another ? Young Book- wit is another— Pen. I never saw his face. Young Bookwit ? Love. What I not though he solicited a glance, with symphonies of charming note, with sumptuous dishes? Not when the flying meteors from the earth made a new day ? Not see him ? Oh, that was hard ; that was unkind ! Not one look for all this gallantry ? — But love is blind. You can be all night with the son, all day with the father, and never see either. His father was here this morning. — Seek not to excuse : I find your arts, and see their aim too. Go, go, take your Bookwit j forget your lover, as he now must you. {Going. Pen. Hear but three words. Love. What shall they be ? Peii, Prithee hear me, Love. No, np, your father's coming down. Pen. He's not coming, nor can he overhear us. There's time and privacy enough to disabuse you. Love. I'll hear nothing unless you will be married; unless you give me, as a present earnest of yourself, three kisses, and your word for ever. Pen. To give way to my satisfaction, then, and be friends again, you would, Mr. Lovemore, have three kisses Love. Three kisses, your faith and hand. Pen. Nothing else ? Will you be so cpntented ? Love. I'll expect higher terms if you accept not these — Quickly, then. Pen. Well, then — no, my father's coming. Ha ! ha ! ha! Love. Laugh at ray sufferings ! slight my anger ! Is this your base requital of my love ? — Revetige, revenge ! I'll print on thy favourite in his heart's blood my revenge. Our swords— our swords 132 THE LYING LOVER : . [ACT II. shall dispute our pretences, rather than he enjoy what my long services entitle me to, which is to do myself right for what he intends an injury; though perhaps what we shall dispute for is better lost. Pen. Mr. Lovemore, you have taken very great liberties. You say I have injured you in my regard to another. Is your opinion, then, of what you say you will dispute for, such as you just now said- — better lost? Love. Look you, madam — so — therefore — as to that — this is such — for that it — ^You don't consider what you said to me. Pen. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Love. You shall by all that's — you shall repent this. [Flings out. Pen. This is all we have for 't, a little dominion before- hand. These are the creatures that are born to rale us ; who creep, who flatter, and servilely beseech our favour; which obtained, they grow sullen, proud, and insolent; pry into the gift, the manner of bestowing, with all the little arts the ungrateful use to hide, or kill their sense and conscience of a benefit, Lett. Ay, ay, madam, 'tis so. I had a sweetheart once, a lady's butler, to whom I gave a lock of my hair, and the villain, when we quarrelled, told me half of them were grey. Pen. Ha ! ha ! ha ! the ingrate: — the faithless, as Love- more says. Lett. And yet, madam, the rogue stole a letter out of a book to ask me for it, as my next suitor found out. Pen. However, I am sure 'tis in my fate to be subject to one of them very suddenly. Lett. Ah ! madam ! the gentleman this morning Pen. The fellow's very well, and I am mightily mis- taken if my cousin Victoria did not think so. Lett. And so do you heartily. [Aside. SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 133 Pen. Yet I wish I had seen this young Bookwit before Lovemore came to-day. Lett.^ I'll tell you how, madam. Victoria has ne'er a lover, and is your entire friend. Now, madam, suppose you got her to write a letter to this young gentleman in her own name. You meet him under that name incognito; then, if an accident should happen, both you and she w^ill be safe, and puzzle the truth : you never writ to him, she never met him. Pen. A lucky thought — step to her immediately. I'll come to her, or she to me. Lett. I fly,/ fly. \Exit. Pen. This is, indeed, a lucky hint of the wench, in which I have another drift, too. Now shall I sift my friend Victoria, and perfectly understand whether she likes that agreeable young fellow ; for if her reserved humour easily falls in with this design on Bookwit, she's certainly smitten with the other, and suspects me to be so too — What is this dear, this sudden intruder, love, that Victoria's long and faithful friendship, Lovemore's anxious and constant passion, both vanish before it in a moment? Why are our hearts so accessible at our eyes? — My dear Enter Victoria and Lettice. Vict. Dear Pen, I ran to you. Well, what is it ? Pen. Set chairs, and the bohea tea, and leave us. \Exit Lett.] Dear Victoria, you have always been my most intimate bosom friend ; your wary carriage and circumspection have often been a safety against errors to me — I must confess it. \Filling her tea. Vict. But, my dear, why this preface to me ? To the matter — Pen. You know all that has passed between me and Mr. Lovemore. ' There is a similar speech in Le Menteur, II. ii. 134 THE LYING LOVER : [ACT II. Vict, I have always approved him, and do now more than ever; for 'tis not a mien and air that makes that worthy creature, a kind husband ; but ~ Pen. True, but here was old Bookwit this morning, with my father's authority to talk to me of the subject of love I Vict. Nay, madam, if so, and you can resolve to obey your father — I contend not for Lovemore; for though the young men of this age are so very vicious, so expensive, both of their health and fortune Pen. How zealous she is to put me out of her way ! False creature ! \Aside^ — But, my dear friend, you don't take me j your friendship outruns my explanation. 'Twas for his son at Oxford he came to me : He is to walk with him before the door that I may view him, by- and-by. Vtct. Nay, as one must obey their parents wholly, I think a raw young man that never saw the town is better than an old one that has run through all its vicesi I congratulate your good fortune. There's a great estate ; and he knows nothing — just come to town. The furni- ture and the horse-eloths will be all your own device for the wedding, and the horses when and where you please. He knows no better. Pen. But one shall be so long teaching a raw creature a manner; Vict. iSTever let him have one ; 'twill make him like himself, and think of making advances elsewhere : You'd better have him a booby.^How could I think of the old fellbW ft)f you ! Look you. Pen, old age has its in- firmities, and 'tis a sad prospect for an honest young woman td be sure of being a nurse, and never of being a mother. Pm-. Oh, that I had but your prudente 1 But, my dear, I have a request to make to you, and that is that you would write him an assignation this evening in the SCENE II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 135 Park. I'll obey the appointment, and converse with him under that disguise ; for the old people will clap up a match before I know anything of the real man. And if one don't know one's husband, how can one manage him — that is to say, obey him ? Vict. Oh ! pray, my dear; do you think I don't under- stand you ? Oh ! and there's another thing — a scholar makes the best husband in the world. Pen. Because they are the most knowing ? Vict. No, because they are the least knowing. — ^But I'll go immediately and obey your commands. I wish you heartily well, my dear, in this matter. \Kissing her. Pen. I thank you, dearest ; I don't doubt it indeed. Vict. Where are you going now, my dear ? O fie ! this is not like a friend — Do I use you so, dear madam ? Pen. Nay, indeed, madam, I must wait on you. Vict. Indeed you shan't — indeed you shan't. [Pen. follows Vict. Pen. Well, tnadam, will you promise, then, to be as free with me ? — Thus does she hope to work me out of my lover, by being made my confident — but that baseness has been too fashionable to pass any more. 1 have not trusted her, the cunning creature. I begin to hate her so — I'll never be a minute from her. \Exit. SCENE \l.-^CMent Garden. Enter Old Bookwit, Young Bookwit, and Latine. O. Book. Well, Tom, where have you sauntered about since I saw you ? Is not the town mightily iticreased since you were in it ? 136 THE L YING LO VER : [act II. Y. Book. Ay, indeed, I need not have been so im- patient to have left Oxford. Had I stayed a year longer, they had builded to me. O. Book. But I don't observe you affected much with the alterations. Where have you been ? Y. Book. No, faith, the New Exchange ^ has taken up all my curiosity. O. Book. Oh ! but, son, you must not go to places to stare at women ! Did you buy anything ? Y. Book. Some baubles. But my choice was so dis- tracted among the pretty merchants and their dealers, I knew not where to run first. One little, lisping rogue — " Ribbandths, gloveths, tippeths '' — " Sir," cries another, " will you buy a fine sword-knot ? " Then a third pretty voice and curtsey — " Does not your lady want hoods, scarfs, fine green silk stockings ? " ' I went by as if I had been in a seraglio, a living gallery of beauties, staring from side to side — I bowing, they laughing— so made my ' The New Exchange was on the south side of the Strand, partly on the site of the present Adelphi. It was a very favourite place of resort in Charles II. 's time, and the restoration pla)s are full of allusions to it. There were four walks, two above and two below stairs. Steele refers to the New Exchange again in the Spectator, Nos. 96, 155. It was pulled down in 1737. With the scene here described we may compare Etherege's She would if she could, iii. i. : — " Mrs. Trinckit. What d'ye buy ? what d'ye lack, gentlemen ? Gloves, ribbons, iind essences ; libhons, glfve-, and es^sences ? . . . " Courtall. Waik a turn or two above, or fool awhile with pretty Mistress ^-nvil, and scent your eye-brows and periwig with a little essence of oranges, or jessamine." Similaily in Otway's Atheist : or the Second Part of the Soldier's Fortune, ii. i., Counine remaiks : — " Methinks, this place looks as if it were made for lovings. The lights on each hanH,g^s. Enter Victoria, PeNelope, Lettice, arid Betty. Vid. We had better have staj^eli where We werfe, ind listened to that chaririiii^ fecho, than have cbthe itt search of that har. Lat. Do you see yonder ? Y. Book. \Gives the sign and .sings himself. '[ Thus, madam, have I spent niy time almost ever since I saw you, repeated your name to the woods, the dales, and echoing groves; Fen. Prithee observfe him. Ndw he begins. Y. Book. I had not tiiile to carve ybut name on every tree, but that's a melancholy employment, not for those lovers that are favoured with assignation. Vict. Prithee, cousin, do you talk to him in my name. I'll be silent till 1 see farther.' Fen. The spring is now so forward, that it must indeed be attributed to your passion that you are not in the field. Y. Book. You do iiie justice, madam, in that thought, for I am Strangely pestered to be thefel Well, the French are the most indusiriolis people in the world. I had. a letter from one of their generals, that shall be nameless (it came over by the way of Holland), with an offer of very great terms, if I would but barely send my opinion in the use of pikes, about which he tells me their Prince and generals have lately held a grand court martial. Both. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Lat. These cunning things keep still together to puzzle us. — I'll alarm him. — Sir, one word Vict. Come, come, we'll have no whispering, no mes- sages at piresent. Sorne other ladies have sent, but they shan't have you from us. > Lucrhe. Mais parle s(nis inon hom, c'est i moi de me taire; (Ze Menteur, III. v.) sfcENfi II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 151 Both. Ha! ha! ha! Y. Book. I hold myself obliged to be of the same hilmour ladies are iit — ha ! ha ! ha ! Now pirajr do me the favour to tell rne what I laughed at. Pen} Why, you must khow, your talking of the French and war put us in mind of a young coxcomb that came last night frotri Oxford, calls himself Soldier, treats ladies, fights battles, raises jealousies with downright lies of his own inventing — ha ! ha ! ha ! Y. Book. That itiust be an impudfeht young rascal certainly — ha I ha ! ha ! Vict. Nay, this is beyond comparison Y. Book. I can't conceive how one of those sneaking academics could personate such a character ; for we, bred in camps, have a behaviour that shows we are used to act before fctbwds. Pen. 'Tis certainly so ; nay, he has been confronted with it, as plainly as 1 speak to yoii, and yet not blushed for it, but carried it as if he knew not the nian Y. Book. That may be ; 'tis want df knowing them- selves makes those coxcombs so cotifident. Pen. The faithless ! Shameless ! Well, then, to see, if possible, such a one may be brought to that sense, I tell ybUj this worthy hero two days ago was in hanging- sleeves at Oxford, arifl is called Mr. Bookwit. Ha ! ha ! Y. Book. Well, was it not well enough carried ? POoh, I knew ydii well enough, and you knew me, before you Writ to trie fdr Mr. Bookwit's son. But I fell into that way of talking purely to divert you. I knew you a woman of wit and spirit, and that acting that part would at least show I had fire in me, and wished myself what I would be half ari age to serve and please you — suffer in camps all the vicissitudes of burning heats and sharp afflicting colds — Vict. Look you, sir, I shall tell Mrs. Matilda Newtown, ' This speech is adapted from one in Le Menteur, lU. v. 152 THE LYING LOVER : [act ill. your spouse at Oxford, what you are saying to another lady. Pen. Prithee cousin, never give yourself the trouble to meddle in such a work ; one hardly knows how to speak it to a gentleman, but don't touch the affairs of so impudent a liar. Y. Book. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — Why, madam, have they told you of the marriage too ? Well, I was hard put to it there. I had like to have been gravelled, faith. You were more beholden to me for that than anything. Had it not been for that, they had married me to Mrs. Pene- lope, old Getwel's granddaughter, the great fortune ; but I refused her for you — who are a greater. \A.side. Lat. Sir ! sir ! pray sir, one word — — Fen. and Vict. Stand off, sirrah. Vict. You shan't come near him ; none of your dumb signs. Pen. Then you have refused Penelope, though a great fortune ! What could you dislike in her ? Y. Book. The whole woman. Her person, nor carrir age please me. She is one of those women of condition, who do and say what they please with an assured air, and think that's enough, only to be called fine mistress such- a-one's manner. Pen. This is not to be endured. — I do assure you, sir, Mrs. Penelope has refused your betters. Y. Book. I don't much value my betters in her judg- ment, but am sorry to see you concerned for her. When ' I have been at church, where I first saw you, I've seen the gay giddy thing in a gallery watching eyes to make curtsies. She is indeed a very ceremonious churchwoman, and never is guilty of a sin of omission to any lady of quality within eye-shot. In short, I don't like the woman, and would go to Tunis or Aleppo for a wife before I'd take her. Vict. I cannot bear this of my friend ; if you go on, SCENE 11.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 153 sir, at this rate, Tunis or Aleppo are the properest places for you to show your gallantry in ; 'twill never be received by any here — I hope she believes me. \Aside. Pen. The lady's in the right on't ; who can confide in a known common impostor ? Y. Book.^ Ah, madam ! how can you use a man that loves you so unjustly ? But call me what you will, liar, cheat, impostor — do but add, your servant, and I am satisfied. I have, indeed, madam, ran through many shifts in hopes to gain you, and could be contented to run through all the shapes in Ovid's Metamorphoses, could I but return to this on my bended knees, of my fair one's humble servant. Vict. Prithee let us leave him, as you told me ; I wonder you can suffer him to entertain you so long. Leave him, let him kneel to the trees and call to the woods if he will. — Oh, I could brain him — how ugly he looks kneeling to her ! {Aside. Pen. No, I'll stay to plague him more. — But what opinion can I have of this sudden passion ? You hardly know me, I believe, or my circumstances ? Y. Book. No, no, not I ; I don't know you. Your mother was not Alderman Sterling's daughter; your father, Mr. Philips, of Gray's Inn, who had an estate and never practised ? You had not a brother killed at Landen ? Your sister Diana is not dead ? nor you are not co-heiress with Miss Molly ? No, madam, I don't know you ; no, nor love you. Pen. I wish I had taken her advice in going ; he means her all this while [Aside.] — Pshaw, this is downright fooling. Let's go, my dear ; leave him to the woods, as you say — I wish 'twas full of bears. [Aside. Vict. No; now I'll stay to plague him. 1 The ensuing dialogue, down to the exit of the ladies, follows generally that in Le Menteur, III. v. 154 TH]E LT'ING LOVSk. [Adtiii. Pen. No, you shan't stay. — Sir, we Have given blirselves the diversion to see yoii, and confront ybu in yoiir falsfc hoods; in which you have entangled youfself to thit degree; you know not even the woman you pretend to ; and therefore, sir, I so far despise you, that if ydu should come after me with your fiddles, I'll have a porter — ready to let you in, \Aside. Vict. I don't know how to threateh a gentleman in that manlier, but I'm sure I shall never entertain any man that has disobliged my friend, while my name's Victoria ! \Exttt7it arm in arrfi. Lat. Master, methinks these ladifes dott't understand wit. They were very irough with you. Y. Book. Ay, they were somewhat dull. But realljr Victoria discovered herself at her goin^j -rtiethinks, agreeably enough; ' Lat. , I believe they are irrecoverably lost. Pdx on'tj wheii I gavfe you so many signs, too. Y. Book. Well, hang thinking. Let's to the tavern, and in every glass name a new beauty; till I either forget, or am inspired with some new prbject to attain her. While in a Icjvely bovtl I drown my carfe. She'll cease to be, or I to think her, fair. \Exiunii ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE l.—Coveni Garden. .Enter Young Bookwit and Latine. OUNG BOOK. This Roebuck has almost done my business. Rigby's an honest fellow, and would not poison us. The wine had good - humour^ mirth, and joy in it. My blood beats high and frolic. What says my dear lackey ? Ha ! Lat. Why, sir, I say, sir, that I am in so noble, so exalted a condition, that I almost forget I am your 'honour's footman. Y. Book. Do but your business well to-night. Lai. Who says the tongue stutters, legs falter, and eyes fail with dritik ? 'Tis false, my dear master, my tongue runs faster than ever ; rhy legs so brisk arid nimble, that I can't stand still ; and my eyes are better than ever they were ; for I see everything double — But the letter, the letter, I warrant I give it her. Y. Book. Here, here, Jack, take it: Lai. Let's come neai-er the larhp. This is the fdul copy of it that 'tis wrapped in. Lfei me jtidge. Now I'll be sedate. Let rhe iread it again. Y. Book. But you look cursedly fluttered ; they'll IS.6 THE LYING LOVER: [ACT iv. say )'ou're drunk. Let's see, I must comb your wig a little. Lai. I shall be kicked for this letter here about the middle. You should not talk of joys so soon ; you should write ^miserable a fortnight or three weeks longer — I shall be kicked. Y. Book. What then ? what then ? A man of your philosophy must needs remember, the body's but the mere organ of the mind. Kicks come under the topic ^TtHings without. What shall I do for powder for this smart bob ? \Combs out his own wig into Lat's. Lat. 'Tis no matter, sir ; powder comes under the notion of things without. Y. Book. -Qh ! but ladies are no philosophers ; but as to being drubbed (these stockings too), you must fix your imagination upon some other object, and you may, by force of thought, suspend your feeling. The body is but the instrument of the mind, and you may command an instrument. Lat. No, sir, I'll have you to know, I'll save my car- cass by mere dint of eloquence. You have no other orders ? Y. Book. No ; but may persuasion, grace, and elocu- tion hang on thy lips. But if you can come in to Vic- toria, she and the wine you've drank will inspire you. Farewell. \Exit. Lai. This is the enchanted castle -which the lady fair inhabits. Ha ! Mr. Simon, sir, I am your most humble servant. My dear friend Enter Simon. Sim. Your servant, good sir ; my lady is with Madam Victoria at cards. She'll lie here to-night — but all's ruined ; they are both huge angry with your master. But Lattice, having taken a fancy to you, Mr. John, spoke up rarely, that she did indeed. SCENE II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 157 Lat. Can't one come to the speech of her? Sim. I was ordered to have a strict eye to the door, and let nobody in whatever. I don't care for going up, because she'll see I have made a cap of one of the finest napkins, for which she'll make a plaguy noise. Lat. Nay, nay, you are exactly of my mind ; I love to avoid anger. Sim. You are a little disguised in drink, though, Mr. John— but I ain't seen you, not I. Go straight up : Mrs. Lettice is in the ante-chamber. Lat. I thank you, dear friend. My master bids me upon these occasions \Gives him money. Sim. I beg your pardon, good Mr. John. Lat, Look you, I am a servant as well as you ; what do you mean, Mr. Simon ? Come, come, time's precious. When your lady's married, all these vails will end. Sim., Nay, I said behind your back, Mr. John, that you were very well spoken. Well, put up briskjy. I'll stand your friend as much as one servant can to another, against all masters and mistresses whatever. Lat. Thanks, good Mr. Simon. \_Exeunt. SCENE II. — Penelope's Lodgings. I- Lettice, discovered reading, by a small candle; two large ones by her unlighted. Lett. 'Tis a most sad thing, one dare not light a large candle except company's coming in, and I scarce can see to read this piteous story. Well, in all these distresses and misfortunes, the faithful Argalus was renowned all over the plains of Area — Area — Arcadia — for his loyal and true affection to his charming paramour, Parthenia.i ' The story will be found in Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. The tale of Argalus and Parthenia was put into verse by Francis Quarles. iS8 IHF^ L YING LO VMR : [ACT iv. Blessings on bis he3,rt fpr if ; there g,re no ^uc}i suitprs nowadays. [ Weepin.g^ But I hope they'll ppfne together ag,^in 3.\. the e)id of thp book, and marry, and ha}5f several c!iil4i^en- Qh ! Blesg me ! A man herg ! [Titrfif over the leaves^ — Th,e ggptleman's pretty rn3,n , \Aside. Enter Latine. I wonder by what means, with that irnpudence, you could offer to come upstairs -at this time of the night, and my lady in the next room. I protest I'll cry out. \jn a low voice all. ' Lat. Dear Mrs. Lettice, my love to you. \Aloud. Lett. Hist, hist ! I am, methinks, however, loth to discover you, because servants must do as they're bid ; for I know it was not to see me, but some message from your master you came about. Lat. I offered to bring a letter from him, in hopes to see yoti, niy dearest. I'll not give it at all; I don't care, my dearest. \Kisses her hanJ. Lett. Pho ! pho ! now you are rude, because you know one dare not discover you. You do what you will. — How he kisses one's hand : I warrant he has kissed his betters. [Aside.] — Pray, did you iieyer live in a lady's service ? Lai. No ; nor do I value any of the sex but your dear self, Mrs. Lettice. — I would be discovered. [Aside.] — I'm in a rapture ! 411 a'flame ! I'en. \ Within:} Who's there? Lett. Hist, hist! could not you have forced a kiss quietly P^Madam ! madam I^Hold me fast. Show the letter, toy lady's coming.— I tell you, sir, she will receive no message at all. Get you downstairs, you iippudent ! — Hold me faster yet ; she loves ypur master. ' ' ■' '' [Softly aside to T.ti.Ti'ff'R. Enter V-EH-ELCfm md ViQicmf)- :. Pen. What can this mean? What fellow's that has s.ei;^ed the Tvench ? spErjE II.] OR, THB LADIMS' FRIENDSHIP. 159 Leit. Mada,m, madam, here's Mr. Bookwit's footman ^runk, and has directly stQle upstairs with some ill de- sign, I fear, on rae-^tut has a letter from, his master to your ladyship. Pen. P^U up the servants : Simon, William, -Kate, AJf I I'll have the rascal well basted for his insolence— ^seived just as his master deserves. Lat. [Kneeling.] Let not those lips, more .sweet than latiQur of Hyblsean bges, utter a sentence, as if a Libyan licjne^S pp a mountain gave thee suck, and thou wert the obdurate offspring of a rock. Vic^. Hyblsean ! Libyan ! Obdurate ! Ridiculous. The fellow has gQt his master's cant ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! Pm. I'll put hirn out of it, I'll warrant you. What, yfill np one come up th^re ? Enter Servants with broofts, &'c. Lat. Q}} ! for fhp force of eloquence to allay and reconcile the passion of this angry raansiorj ! — I had like to have s^i4 plain hpuse, yvhjch ha(i been against the Jaws of buskin, in which I would at present talk. \Aside. Pen. Did you ever hear anything li^e this? Ha! ha! Maid. Madam, shall I beat him ? Lat. 4-h I culinary fair, compose thy rage ; thou whose more skilful hanfi i§ still employed in offices for the support qf nature, descend not from thyself, thou bright cookmaid There I sunk again I [^^2// > • '• ' Lat. 'Twas this unhappy hand gave him his death, but so provoked — , . Y. Book.''SN\xo could believe that ai}y pleasing p?ission Could touch a breast loaded with guilt like mine B But all my mind is. seizpd with admiration Of thy stupendous friendship. What then — Could'st thou hold thy innocent hand up at a bar WithJelons, to save thy friend ? How shall I chide or praise thy brave imposture ? Ah, sir, believe him not! He cannot bear the loss ot me whom he o'ervalues ; therefore with highest gallantry he offers a benefit which .'twere the meanest baseness to receive. BHt death's more welcome tha.n a life so purchased. SCBNE?ll.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 183 Lat. We all know you can talk, and gild thingg as yoii 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 impu- dence 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 • 1 84 THE L YING L O VER : [ '^ [ACT v. I am supefior, and can choose or leave ; But in minutest things that touch my love, My bosom's seized with anguish or with transport. J'en. 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 bla,ck thoughts that did corrode my breast; Here enter faith, and confidence, and love ! Love that can't live with jealousy, but dwells With sacred marria,ge, 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 deservie 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 sliould be bold. Indeed you've erred. Lat. You give my friend, methinks, too much com- punction for a little levity in his actions — when he's too severe in bis own reflections on 'em, Ptn. 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, nby dear friend. O. Book. But we best guide our actions by hopes of reward. Could but my son have such a glorious pros- SCENE III.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 185 pect 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. Booh. These unexpected good events deserve our celebration with some mirth and fiddles. Fred. I foresaw this happy turn, therefore have pre- pared 'em. Call in the dancers. Song, by Mr. Leveridge. The rolling years the joys restore, Which happy, happy Britain knew, When in a female age before Beauty the sword of justice drew. 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. 1 86 THE L YING L O V:eR. [ACT V. 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. \Ex6unt. 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-esteena and sudden scorn ; Which, when 'tis p'er, the rnen 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 th^t 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 deSne, 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 TEU^DET{ HUS'BcA^V: OR THE zACCOmTLISHEV FOOLS. " Oportet ut is qui audiat cogitet plura quam videat." 1 Cicero de Orator?;. 1 The hearer should ponder over more things than he sees. TEELE'S third play, The Tender Hus- band : 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), Pinkethraan (Humphry Gubbin), Norris (Tipkin), Mrs. Powell (Aunt), and Mrs. Oldfield (Niece), were iii the original cast. Steele was indebted for some ideas in the fourth Act to Molifere's Sicilien .- ou, V Amour Feintre, and possibly to Gibber's Careless Husband, which had re- cently 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 charac- ters of Squire Western, Tony Lumpkin, and Lydia Languish. The phrase "accomplished fools" had been used by Steele in the Lyi7ig Lover (p. 148). To MR. ADDISON.* OU'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 ot an author, in the other too little the freedom of a friend. My purpose in this application is only to show the iesteeni I have for you, and that I look upon my intimacy with you as one of the most valuable enjoyriients 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 opiriion of it, as to make me think it no improper memorial of an inviolable friendship. ' When this dedication was written, Addison had recently (December, 1704) published his successful poem, The Campaign, and was preparing his Remarks on Italy for the press. THE TENDER HUSBAND. 193 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. Steele. Written hy Mr. Addison, Spoken by Mr. Wilks.^ 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 1 Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and beaux j 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 j 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," and oft to Court ; ^ Wilks was Captain Clerimout. ^ "The next place of resort wherein the servile world are let loose, is at the entrance of Hyde Park, while the gentry are at the THE TENDER HUSBAND. IQS As love of pleasure or of place invites, And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's.' 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. Ring' {Spectator, No. 88). This favourite drive and promenade was partly destroyed when the Serpentine was formed. The ser- vants gathered round the gate, while their masters and mistresses stared at or ogled each other in the Ring. ' White's Chocolate-house, on the west side of St. James's Street, was founded about i6q8, and the original building was burnt down in 1733. In the first number of the Toiler, Steele announced that " all accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and entertainment, shall be under the article of White's Chocolate-house." See, tco, Spectator, No. 88, and Hogarth's Rake's Progress, Pt. IV. There was much gambling at White's, and Swift calls it " the common rendezvous of infamous sharpers and noble cullies." A Song Designed fot the Fourth Act, but not set. 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, THE TENDER HUSBAND. 197 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 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 PERSON^. Sir Harry Gubbin, brother-in-law to Mr. Tipkin. Humphry Gubbin, son of Sir Harry Gubbin, suitor to Biddy Tipkin, his cousin. Mr. Tipkin, a banker, Biddy Tipkin's uncle. Clerimont, Sen. Capt. Clerimont, brother of CtERlMONT, 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. and SCENE.— London.,, THE TEU^VET{ HUS'BcA^V: OR THE zACCOmVLISHET) FOOLS. ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I.— Clerimont, Sen.'s House. Enter Clermont, Sen. and Fainlove. LER. SEN. Well, Mr. Fainlove, how do you go on in your amour with my wife? Fain. I am very civil and very dis- tant ; 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 200 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [ACT I. Lucy, and run into France to see sights, and show your gallantry with a wife ? Was not that unnatural ? Ckr. 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 grace- fully, 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. J^ain. I'll do all I can, I warrant you, but you are not to expect I'll go much among the men. Ckr. 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 wprld only to be tags in the pedigree of a wealthy house. You must have seen many of that species. Ivim. 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. SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 201 Cler. Sen. Ay, ay, that's my man — thou dear rogue. Fatn. 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 ! Sup- pose 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 ever)'- thing 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. Cleri- mont's husband, so much is the superiority of her side. 202 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [ACT I. 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 di.stance 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 compas- SCENKI.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 203 sion 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 liveli- hood, 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 204 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act I. 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 ha'n't; SCENE I.] OR, THE A CCOMPLISHED FOOLS, loc, Pounce. Who told you then of her inviting lips, her soft sleepy eyes ? Cler. You yourself. Pounce. Sure you rave, I aiever 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 acquain- tance, 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, Astrsea and Clelia' 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. ' Astraa was a French romance by Honore d'Urfe, translated for the second timt in 1657. Clelia was by Madame de Scudery, who lived until 1701. Cassandra, by Gautier de Costes, Seigneur de la ■ Calprenede, was translated in 1652. These translations were all in folio ; and they are all in the list of a lady's library given by Addison in the Spectator, No. 37, together with Steele's Christian Hero. Oroondates, in Cassandra, was the only son of a Scythian king. 2o6 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [ACT I. 1 Pounce. That would do, that would do — her very lan- guage. Cler. Sm. 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 down, to give her to a gentle swain, a dying enamourfed knight. Cler. Sen. Ay, dear Pounce, consider but that — ^the justice of the thing. Pounce. Besides, he is just come from the glorious Blenheim ! ' 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 mattj^r. But the 1 This and another reference to the battle of Blenheim, fought in August, 1704, ought to have been sufficient to prevent writers Constantly repeating the statement that the Tender Husband was produced in 1703. . SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 207 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 imme- diately. 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 tliat pretty gentleman and I, whose face I have known, take a walk and look about for 'em — So, so, young Jady. [Aside to Fainlgve.] \Exeunt. 2o8 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act i. SCENE II.— i"/. Jamais 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 ray 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 thef 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, scis- Vsors, bodkins, fans, play-books, with other toys of that SCENE II.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 209 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 my- self was caned the day before my wedding. Tip. Ay, Sir Hany, 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 v/ithin yourselves. Str 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, Steele. P 210 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [ACT t. 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? [Apari.] — Well, Nuraps, 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 — [^;>(2r/.]— 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 'ein 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 1 can hold my tongue when I see occasion. Sir Haf. 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 yoatr hat under your arm.— Clear up your countenance. [Apart. Tip. I see, Sir Harry, you han't Set him a-caper- ing under a French dancing-toaster. He does not mince it. He has not learned to walk by a courant or a boree'. His paces are natural. Sir Harry. Hump. I don't know, but 'tis so we walk in the West of England. ' " The corant is a melody or air consisting of three crotchets in a bar, but moving by quavers, in the measure off, with two straftis or reprises, each beginning with an odd quaver. Of dance tuttes it is said to be the mast solemn." " The bouree is supposed to come from Auvergne, in France ; it seldom occurs but in compositions of French masters;" (Hawkins's History of Music, IV. 387 — 8, 390). scfiNteii.] OR, Ttik ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 211 Sir Har. Ay, right, Nuttips, and So we do. Ha ! na ! ha ! Pray, brother, observe his make, none of yoiii: lath- backed wishy-washy breed. Come hither, Numps — Can't you stand still ? [AfiH.] [MMsufifig his ^houlder's\ Tip. I presume this is not the first time, Sir Hatry, you have measured his shbUlders with your cane. Sir Har. 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 hd,d better mention before marriage than after. Tip. What's that ? What's that ? Hump. My cousin, you know, is akirt to me, and I don't think it lawful for a young man to marry his own relations.' 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 grand- mother ; 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. ' Tony Lumpkin, like Humphry, "boggled a Httle" at marrying his cousin. See She Stoops toCoHqMri Act 3... Scene II. : — ' ' Tony. What do you follow me for, cousm Coa ? I wonder you're not ashamed to be sd v^ ehgaging. • - '■- - "Miss JVevilie. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's own relations, and not be to blame, " Tony. Ay, but I kadw What sott of a relatioh ydn want to make me, though ; .but it won't do. I , tell jou, cousin. Ctm, it won't do ; so I beg you'll keep your distance; I want &o nearer relationship." 212 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [ACT I. Sir Har. Come, we'll leave Numps here: he knows the way-^Not marry your own relations, sirrah ! \jApart. \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 spin- dle-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. Hum- phry 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 ? ,,: Pcfume. Oh fie, he uses you like a boy. Hump. Like a boy ! He lay? me on now and then as if I were one of his hounds. You can't think what a SCENE II.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 213 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. Hum- phry — 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 neighbour- hood 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 ? 214 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [ACT I, I'oifftcg. My name, sir, is Pounc^, at yoi(r servieef Hump. Pounce, with a P ? ..Pfiuncet, Y^5, sir, and Sarpuel, with an S. Hump. Why, then, Mr. Sam^eJ Pqi^nce, ^Q you kpow any gentle^onian th?tt yom think I Wild like ? For, to tpU you truly, J took an antipathy to my cousin ever since my father propose^ her to me ; and ?ince every- body knows I came up to be m^i;r^^d, I dfip't care to gp ^own an(l IpoJ^ baiv^ed, . Paya^fe. \ have a thought just come into my \,^s,i,— Do you see this young gentleman ? l^e has a sister, a prodigious f(jrtvin,e, 'Faith, you two. s,haU be acquainted. Fgi^n^ I can't pretend to expect SQ accomplished a gentleman as Mr. Humphry for my sister, but being yqur fripn^, I'U be at his service in ^% afi(a,ir, Hump. If I had your sister, she and I should live lik;e |yyQ turtles. jPotince. Mr. Humphry, you shan't be fooled any longer; I'll carry you into company. Ijl^x. Fainlove, you shall introduce him to Mrs. (^ler^j^pint's ^oil^t? Mtin. She'll be highly taken with liirn ; for shp laves a gentleman v^hose ptia^ner is particular. ^om^e. What, sir, a, person qf yoi^r pretensions, a c\^, estate, no portion^ to pay ! 'Tjs barbarous, your treat- njent.— ^T- Humphry, I'm afrg.id you w^pt money. There's for you — What, a man p| your accomplish- ments ! [Giving a purse. Hump. Ai^d yet you see, sir, bftw they use me. Dear sir, you are the b.e§t frif^d I ever met with in aU my life. Noiy I am %s^ ef money, bring me to ygjir sister, and I warrant you for my behaviour — A man's, quite 9,i;^qther thing wth woney in his pocket, you knqYf, Pounce. Ho\y Uttlg the oaf wonders why I shguli^ give him ^oney ! [.4-f%]'~Tou shall never want, Mr. Hum- phry, Ti^hile I have it, Mr. Humphry ; but, ^lear friend, I must take my leave of ^qu ; \ have some extraordinarv SCENE II.] 0:R, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 215 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 a7id 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 : i, 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.— J%e Park. Enter Pounce, and Captain Clerimont with his arm in a scarf. OUNCE. 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 afifectation 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 charm- SCENE I.] THE TENDER HUSBAND. 217 ingly 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 gentle- man 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.^ 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 • Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, in a letter dated Feb. 26, 1711, to her future husband, proposing that their engagement should cease, saj's that she had foolishly despised women who looked for their happiness in trifles, and thought, as Dryden puts it, that true happiness was to be found in privacy and love. " These notions had corrupted my judgment as much as that of Mrs. Biddy Tipkin's." 2i8 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act ii. Elismonda, Clidamira, Deidamia, that runs upon vowels off the tongue ; not hissing through one's teeth, or break- ing 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 nicejy ; but I can tell you, forsooth, as much 9.S you despise it, your mother was a Bridget afore ypu, and an e^fcellent house-wife- Niece. Good mad^nj, don't upbraid me with my mother Bridget, and an excellent hpuse-wfe. Aunt. Yes, I say she was ; and spent her time in-better learning than ygu ever did — not 'm reading of fights and battles of dwarfs and giants, but in writing out receipts for broths, possets, caudles, and surfeit-Vftters, as became a good country gentlewoman. Niece. My mother, and a Bridget ! Aunt. Yes, niece, I say again, your mother, n^y sister, was a Bridget ! the daughter Qf her mother Margery, of her mothjr Sisly, of her mothw Alice. Niece. Have you no mercy? Oh, the barbarous genealogy ! Aunt. Of l^er mother V^inifre^,, of her jnpth?'' Joan. Niece. Since you will run on, then I must neeflg tell you I am not S3,ti^|ied in the point of my nsvtivity, Many an infant has been plaee^ in a cottage with obspure parents, tiU 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 bow much company ; ^nd the tree that was blowr^ by it had, forsooth, a spirit imprisoned in the trunk of it. Niece. Ignorance 1 SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 219 Aunt. Then a cloud this Riorning had ^ flying dragon in it. Niece. Wh^'t eyes had you, that you could see nothing ? For piy part I look upon it to be a prodigy, and expect something extraordinary will happen to ine before night. — But you have a gross relish of things. What noble de- scriptions in romances had been lost, if the writers had been persons of your gout ? 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 heacjs with a thqusand 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 Phjlocles, Artax^^es, Oroon- dates, and the rest of the heroic lovers, and take my country booby, cousin Jiump^ry, for a husband ! Auftt. 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 comfOTtably. Ni(ce. 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 comfort- ably ? 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. 220 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [ACT II. Aunt. A good servant should turn his hand to every- thing 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 crea- ture 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. SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 221 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 com- panies, 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 laugh- ing, 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/«j-««g. 222 THE T^NDS:R HUSBAND: [ACt il. Pounce. Oh, Mr. Clerimont, Mr. Glerimont Ladies, pray let me introduce this young gentleman ; he's my friend, a youth of great virtue and goodness, for ail he's in a red coat. i Autit. If he's your friend we need not doubt his virtue. C/m ROt — Call ipe gtijl Biddy rather than name that ^pte, \Etiffm;t Aunt »nd Niece. Enter Captain Clerimont and Pounce. Cler. A perfect Quixpte in pettippats ! I tell thee, Poujice, sbe 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 semething that tieklgd either her vanity or her covetous- ness ; I considered all the stocks, Old and New Comp3,ny, SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. ^ 227 her own complexion and youth, partners for swordrblades, Chamber of London, banks for charity, and mine adven- tures, till she told me I had the repute of the most face- tious man that ever came to Garraway's ' — For you must know public knaves and stock-jobbers pass for wits at her end of the town, as common cheats and gamesters do al 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 ordinal^ 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. Clir. 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 tort, 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 jn yooiself. ^__ 'Tis not the lover's merit wins the field. But to themselves alone the beauteous yield. ' Garjaway's coffee house, in Change Alley. Thomas Garra.7£(y, tobacconist and coffee-raan, was the first to retail tea, which he recommended for the cure of all disorders. See Tatler, No. 147 ; - Spectator, Nob. 403, 457. Garraway's was the resort of merchants. ^ W B ^B s m m S S Sj^^ ACT THE THIRD. SCENE I. —Mrs. Clerimont's Room. £n(er Mrs. Clerimont, VAmi.ow^ (carrying her lap-dog), and Jenny. EN. Madam, the footman that's recom- mended to you is below, if your lady- ship 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 ray low'er servants French. There- cannot be a good foot- man 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 ot 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. SCENE I.] THE TENDER HUSBAND. 229 where a woman has anything like shape ; if no shape^ a good air — But I look best when I'm talking. \Kisses the lap-do^ in Fainlove's arms. /en. 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 im- proved 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.' fen. Madam, I have 'em in my hand. ' Prior has several poems on this subject : — " From her own native France, as old Alison passed, She reproached English Nell with neglect or with malice. That the slattern had left in the hurry and haste Her lady's complexion and eyebrows at Calais." And, again, " Helen was just slipped into bed, Her eyebrows on the toilette lay. Away the kitten with them fled. As fees belonging to her prey. For this misfortune careless, Jane, Assure yourself, was loudly rated, Ami madam getting up again, With her own hand the mouse-trap baited. On little things as sages write, Depends our human joy or sorrow ; If we don't catch a mouse to-night, Alas ! no eyebrows for to-morrow." And on another occasion, when her eyebrow box was lost, Helen says : — " I can behold no mortal now, , For what's an eye y/ithout a brow ? " 230 TH^ TENDER HtySBAND i [ACT HI. Fain. It would be happy for all that are to se6 yoii 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 Carrie over to my complexion. I think to be a fair woman this fortnight, till I find I'm aped tob iriuch— I believfe there are an hutidred 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 yoii 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 hfer smiles. Fain. Ay, indeed, madam, nothing can be so ridiculous as to imitate the inimitable. Mrs. Cler. Indeed, as you say, Faiiilove, the French mien is no more to be learned than the language, with- out 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 couatry-wonien. The splenatics speak just as the weather lets 'ern ; they are mere talking barometers. Abroad the people of quality go on so eternally, and still go on, and are gay and enter- tain. 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. fm. And your ladyship there ? Mrs. Cler. They infected me with their dulness ; who can keep up their good humour at an English visit ? They scfeNEi.] Ok, mS ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 231 sit as at a funeral, silent in the midst of many candles. One, perhapsj alarms the room — " 'Tis very Cold weather " — then all the mutes play their fans till some other question happens, arid then the fans go off again. Boy. Madam, your spinet-paster is come. ., Mrs. Cler. Bring him in ; he's yery 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 mlist forgive me ; 1 have been very idle. Well, you pardon me. \Master iows.] Did you think I was perfect in the song? \Bowi\ — but pray let me hear it once more. Let us see it — — \Riads. Song. With studied airs, and practised smiles, Flavia iny ravished heart beguiles ; The chartiis we make, are outs alone. Nature's works aire not olir own ; Her skilful hand gives every grace, And shows het faiicy in her face. She feeds with art an amourous rage^ Nor fears the force of coming age. You sing it very well ; biit, I confess, I wish you'd give more in to the French manner — Observe me hum it k>-la- Fran5aise. " With studied airs," Sec. The whole person, every limb; every nerve sings. The Eng- lish way is only being for that time a mere musical instru raentj 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. 232 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [ACT ill. £ftier Skkvani. 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 wasUelling you of. Enter Humphry and Captain Clerimont. Fain. Madam, may I do mySelf the honour to recom- mend 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. .E«i'^^ Clerimont, Sen. Mrs. Cler. Your very humble servant. Cler. Sen, I am going to take the air this morn- ing 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 SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 233 thought we lay together. , \Asid?. Here Fainlove, look- ing through a perspective, bows to Clerimont, Sen.,] — But captain, I have a quarrel with you^ — -I have utterly forgot those three coupees' you promised to come again and show me. Cler. Sen. Then, madam, you have no commands this morning? 1 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 ofif 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 quicks— 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 I — Captain, your brother delivered this spark to me, to be diverted here till he calls for him. \Exit Clerimont. 1 A coupee is a motion in dancing, when one leg is a little bent, and raised from the ground, while a forward motion is made with the other leg. 2j4 TSE TBNDBJk HUSBAND : [Act ill. Huihp. This cutting so high makes One's mOhey jingle cbnfouhdedly. I'm resolved I'll never carry above One pocketful heresifteri 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 theyj maddm, 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 ihightily taken with you, I'm sure. Ofle would not think 'twas in you — ^you're so gay, and dance so very high. Mump. Wh^t 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. Mi's. Cler. Well, do you know that I lik6 this gentlettian extremely ? 1 shotild be glftd to inform him — But were you never in Frances, Mr. Gubbin ? Hump. No ; but I'm always thus pleasant, if my father's not by. — \T6 FainLove.] I protest I'd advise your sister to have me : I'm for marrying her at oncfii 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 iti love with ! I protest vferjf new and gallant — Mr. Gub- bin, she must needs believe you a fralik persOn — Fain- love, I must See this sister, too, I'iii resolved she. shall like him. There needs not time true passion to discover ; The most believing is the most a lover. SCENE tt.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 235 SCENE II.— Niece's Lodgings. Enter Niece. NieU. Oh, Clerimont ! Cierimont ! To bfe struck at first sight ! I'ni ashamed Of my weakness ; I find iri my- self all the symptorris of a raging amour. I love solitude, I grow pale, I sigh frequently, I call upon the name of Clerittiont when I don't think of it — His person is ever in my eyes, and his voice in my ears — Methinks I long to Jose myself in some pensive grove, or to hang over the head of some warbling fountain, with a lute in my haiid, softening the murmurs of the water. Enter Aunt. Aunt. Biddy, Biddy ; where's Biddy Tipkin ? Niece. Whom do you incjUlre for? Aunt. Come, come; he's just a-coming at the P4rk door. Niece. Who is corning ? 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 ttiy 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. Tht^ sit. Hump. Aunt does as she'd be done byj cousin Bridget, does not she, cousin ? Ha ! What, are you a Londoner, and not speak to a gentleman ? Look ye, cousin^ the 236 THE TENDER HUSBAND.: [ACT in. 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.' What, would they marry rne 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. 'Y\si}&\ What would'st thou say ? , Hump. What's the cause of it ? Tell me truly, now ; did you never love anybody before me ? ' Valentine and Orson, the two twin sons of Alexander, Emperor of Constantinople, in the old romance, were born in a wood. SCENE ir.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 237 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 j 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. 238 THE TENDER HUSBAND. [ACT ill: H^mp. When I of thee, may the pole-cat caterwaul with the civet. Niece. When I li^rljour tjie least thought of thee, may the silver Thames forget its course, Hump. When I like thee, may I be soused oyer head and ears in a horsepond — But do yoij hate me? Enter Aunt. Niece. For ever ; and you me ? Hump. Most heartily. Aunt. Ha ! I lilje tliis, They are come to promises and protestations. [Aside. Hump. I am very glad I have fpurid a way to please you. Niece. Yo^ promise tP be coristant ? Humf. Till death. Niece. Thou best of savages ! Hump. Thou best of savages ! Poor Biddy. Autit. Oh ! the pretty couple, jokuig 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 thaii what I took hirn for — We have both the sarne passion for one another. Hump. We wanted only an occasion to open Pur hearts, aunt. Aunt. Oh, how this will rejoice my brother and Sir Harry ! we'll go to 'em. JJump. No, I must fetch a walk with a new acquaint- ance, Mr. Samuel Pounce. Aunt. An excellent acquaintance for your husband ; come, niece, come. Niece. Farewell, rustic. Hump. Bye, Biddy. Aunt. Rustic ! Biddy ! Ha ! lia ! pretty creatures; \Exeunt. ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE.— yi Street. Enter Captain C;.erimont and Pounce. ' LER. Does she expect me then, at tliis 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 charining she has now that downcast pretty shapie, 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, \ warrant, to personate the character on such an inspiring occasion. Pounce. You must have the song I spoke ot 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 imagina- tion out-runs all you can say. Be gone, be gone ! \Exii Pounce. 240 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [ACT IV 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'ej, I cannot love thee less nor more. \After the song Pounce appears beckoning the Captain.] Pounce. Captain, captain. \Exit Captain. SCENE 11. — Niece's Lodgings; two chairs and a table. Enter Aunt and Niece. Aunt. Indeed, niece, I am as much overjoyed to see your wedding day as if it were my own. Niece. But why must it be huddled up so ? Aunt. Oh, my dear, a private wedding is much better j your mother had such a bustle at hers, with feasting and fooling. Besides, they did not go to bed till two in the morning. Niece. Since you understand things so well, I wonder you never married yourself Au7it. My dear, I was very cruel thirty years ago, and nobody has asked me since. SCENE 11.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 241 Niece. Alas-a-day ! Aunt. Yet, I assure you, there was a great many matches proposed to me : There was Sir Gilbert Jolly, but he, forsooth, could not please \ he drank ale and smoked tobacco, and was no fine gentleman, forsooth — But then, again, there was young Mr. Peregrine Shapely, who had travelled, and spoke French, and smiled at all I said ; he was a fine gentleman — but then he was con- sumptive. And yet again,, to see how one may be mis- taken ; Sir Jolly died in half-a-year, and my Lady Shapely has by that thin sUp eight children, that should have been mine — ^but here's the bridegroom. — So, cousin Humphry ! Enter Humphry. Hump. Your servant, ladies. So, my dear Niece. So, my savage — Aunt. O fie, no more of that to your husband, Biddy. Hump. No matter, I like it as well as duck or love ; I know my cousin loves me as well as I do her. Aunt. I'll leave you together ; I must go and get ready an entertainment for you when you come home. \Exit. Hump. Well, cousin, are you constant? Do you hate me still ? Niece. As much as ever. Hump. What an happiness it is, when peoples' incli- nations jump! I wish I knew what to do with you. Can you get nobody, d'ye think, to marry you ? Niece. Oh ! Clerimont, Clerimont ! Where art thou ? \Aside. Enter Aunt and Captain Clerimont, disguised. Aunt. This, sir, is the lady whom you are to draw. You see, sir, as good flesh and blood as a man would desire to put in colours — 1 must have her maiden pic- ture. St«el«. R 242 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [ACT IV. Hump. Then the painter must make haste. Ha, cousin ! Niece. Hold thy tongue, good savage. Cler. Madam, I'm generally forced to new-mould every feature, and mend nature's handiwork ; but here she has made so finished an original, that I despair of my copies coming up to it. Aunt. Do you hear that, niece ? Niece. I don't desire you to make graces where you find none. Cler. To see the difference of the fair sex ! I protest to you, madam, my fancy is utterly exhausted with in- venting faces for those that sit to me. The first enter- tainment I generally meet with, are complaints for want of sleep; they never looked so pale in their lives, as when they sit for their pictures. Then so many touches and retouches, when the face is finished. That wrinkle ought not to have been, those eyes are too languid, that colour's too weak, that side-look hides the mole on the left cheek. In short, the ^hple likeness is struck out — But in you, madam, the highest I can come up to will be but rigid justice. Hump. A comical dog this ! Aunt. Truly, the gentleman seems to understand his business. Niece. Sir,' if your pencil flatters like your tongue, you are going to draw a picture that won't be at all like me — Sure I have heard that voice somewhere. \Aside. Cler. Madam, be pleased to place yourself near me ; nearer still, madam, here falls the best light. You must know, madam, there are three kinds of airs which the ladies most delight in : There is your haughty, your mild, and your pensive air. The haughty may be ex * Cf. Moli^re's Le Sicilien, scene xiii. : — " Si votre pinceau flatte autant que votre langiie, vous allez me fiire un portrait qui ne me resemblera point." SCENE II,] OR, THE A CCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 243 pressed with the head a little more erect than ordinary, an3 the countenance with a certain disdain in it, so a§ she may appear almost, but not quite, inexorable. This, kind of air is generally heightened with a little knit- ting of the brows — I gave my lady Scornwell the choice of a dozen frowns before she could find one to her liking. Niece. But what's the mild air ? Cler. The mild air is composed of a languish, and a smile — But, if I might advise, I'd rather be a pensive beauty ; the pensive usually feels her pulse, leans on one arm, or sits ruminating with a book in her hand ; which conversation she is supposed to choose rather than the endless importunities of lovers. Hump. A comical dog 1 Aunt. Upon my word he understands l^is business well ; I'll tell you, niece, how yqur mother was drawn : she had an orange in her hand,* and a nosegay in her bosom, but a look so pure and fresh-coloured you'd have taken her for one of the Seasons. Cler. You seem indeed, madam, most inclined to the pensive. The pensive delights also in the fall of waters, pastoral figures, or any rural view suitable to a fair lady who, with a delicate spleen, has retired from the world, as sick of its flattery and admiration. Niece. No ; since there is room for fancy in a picture, I would be drawn like the amazon Thalestiris, with a spear in my hand, and an helmet on a table before me. At a distance behind let there be a dwarf, holding by the bridle a milk-white palfrey. 1 See the Vicar of Wakefield, Chap. XVI. : — " As for our neighbour's family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn with seven oranges, a thing quite out of tastg, no variety in life, 110 composition in the world." The vicar's wife was painted ^s Venus, with two Cupids ; the vicar, in gown and band, presenting her with his booljs on the Whistonian controversy. Qlivia was an amazon, Sophia a shepherdess, " with as many sheep as th§ painter could put in for nothing." 244 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [ACT IV. Cler. Madam, the thought is full of spirit, and if you pleaise, there shall be a Cupid stealing away your helmet, to show that love should have a part in all gallant actions. Niece. That circumstance may be very picturesque. Cler. Here, madam, shall be your own picture, here the palfrey, and here the dwarf — The dwarf must be very little, or we shan't have room for him. Niece. A dwarf cannot be too little. Cler. I'll make him a blackamoor to distinguish him from the other too powerful dwarf [^z^Af] — the Cupid — I'll place that beauteous boy near you, 'twill look very natural — He'll certainly take you for his mother Venus. Niece. I leave these particulars to your own fancy. Cler. 'Please, madam, to uncover your neck a little ; a little lower still — a little, little lower. Niece. I'll be drawn thus, if you please, sir. Cler. Ladies, have you heard the news of a late mar- riage between a young lady of great fortune and a younger brother of a good family ? Aunt. Pray, sir, how is it ? Cler. This young gentleman, ladies, is a particular acquaintance of mine, and much about my age and stature (look me full in the face, madam) ; he accident- ally met the young lady, who had in her all the per- fections of her sex (hold up your head, madam, that's right) ; she let him kiiow that his person and discourse were not altogether disagreeable to her. The difficulty was how to gain a second interview (your eyes full upon mine, madam); for never was there such a sigher in ' Compare Le Sicilien, scene xiii. : — '• Adraste. Levez-vous un peu, s'il vous plait. Un peu plus de la cSte-ia. Le corps toume ainsi. La tete un peu levSe, afin que la beaute du cou paraisse. Ceci un pea plus decouvert. (H dficouvre un peu plus sa gorge). Bon. LI, un peu davantage j encore tant soit peu. . . . Vos yeux toujours tourn^s vers moi, je vous en prie ; vos regards attaches aux miens." SCENE II.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 245 all the valleys of Arcadia as that unfortunate youth, during the absence of her he loved. Aunt. Alack-a-day ! poor young gentleman ! Niece. It must be he— what a charming amour is this ! \Aside. Cler. At length, ladies, he bethought himself of an expedient; he dressed himself just as I am now, and came to draw her picture (your eyes full upon mine, pray, madam). Hump. A subtle dog, I warrant him. Cler. And by that means found an opportunity of carrying her off, and marrying her. Aunt. Indeed, your friend was a very vicious young man. Niece. Yet perhaps the young lady was not displeased at what he had done. Cler. But, madam, what were the transports of the lover when she made him that confession 'i Niece. I daresay she thought herself very happy when she got out of her guardian's hands. Aunt. 'Tis very true, niece ; there are abundance of those headstrong young baggages about town. Cler. The gentleman has often told me, he was strangely struck at first sight, but when she sat to him for her picture, and assumed all those graces that are proper for the occasion, his torment was so exquisite, his passion so violent, that he could not have lived a day, had he not found means to make the charmer of his heart his own. Hump. 'Tis certainly the foolishest thing in the world to stand shilly-shally about a woman, when one has a mind to marry her. Cler. The young painter turned poet on the subject; I believe I have the words by heart Niece. A sonnet ! pray repeat it.' 1 This song was set to music by Daniel Purcell, 246 TH£: TENDER HUSBAND : [act iv. While gentle Parthenissa walks, And sweetly smiles, and gaily talks, A thousand shafts arouhd her fly, A thousand swains unheeded die. II. If then she labours to be seen. With all her killing air and mieii j From so much beauty, so much ai-t, What mortal can secure his heart ? Hump, I fancy if 'twas sung, 'twould make a very pretty catch. Cler. My servant has a voice ; you shall hear it. \H'ere it is sung. Aunt. Why this is pretty ! I think a painter should never be withotit a good singer, it brightens the features strangely — I profess I'm mightily pleased. I'll but just step in, and give some orders, and be with you presently. \Exit, Niece. Was not this adventurous painter called Cleri- mont? Cler,. It was Clerimont, the servant of Parthenissa; but let me beseech that beauteous maid to resolve, and make the incident I feigned to her a real one. Con- sider, madam, you are environed by cruel and treacher- ous guards, which would force you to a disagreeable marriage ; your case is exactly the same with the princess of the Leontines in Clelia. Niece. Hoav can we commit such a solecism against all rules ? What, in the first leaf of our history to have the marriage? You know it cannot be. Cler. The pleasantest part of the history will be after marriage. Niece. No ! I never yet read of a knight that entered SCENE II.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 247 tilt or tournament after wedlock ; 'tis not to be estpected -. when the husband begins, the hero ends ; all that hoble impulse to glory, all the generous passion for adventures, is consumed in the nuptial torch ; I don't know how it is, but Mars and Hymen never hit it. Hump. [Ztsiening.l Consumed in the nuptial torch ! Mars and Hymen ! What can all this mean ? I am very glad I can hardly read. They could never get these foolish fancies into my head, 1 had always a strong brain [Aside.] — Hark ye, cousin, is not this painter a comical dog? JViece. I think he's very agreeable company. Humt). Why then I tell you what : marry him — a painter's a very genteel calling. He's an ingenious fellow, and certainly poor. 1 fancy he'd be glad on't ; I'll keep my aunt out of the room a minute or two, that's all the time you have to consider. \E.Kil. Cler. Fortune points out to us this only occasion of our happiness : Love's of celestial origin, and needs no long acquaintance to be manifest. Lovers, like angels, speak by intuition ; their souls are in their eyes. Niece. Then I fear he sees mine. \Aside^ — But I can't think of abridging our amours, and cutting off all farther decoration of disguise, serenade, and adventure. Cler. Nor would I willingly lose the merit of long services, midnight sighs, and plaintive solitudes, were there not a necessity. Niece. Then to be seized by stealth ! Cler. Why, madam, you are a great fortune, and should not be married the common way. Indeed, madam, you ought to be stolen, nay, in strictness, I don't know but you ought to be ravished. Niece. But then our history will be so short. Cler. I grant it ; but you don't consider there's a device in another's leading you instead of this person that's to have you ; and, madam, though our amours can't furnish 248 THE TENDER HUSBAND. [act IV. out a romance, they'll make a very pretty novel — Why smiles my fair ? Niece. I am almost of opinion that had Oroondates been as pressing as Clerimont, Cassandra had been but a pocket-book^ ; but it looks so ordinary, to go out at a door to be married. Indeed, I ought to be taken out of a window, and run away with. Enter Humphry and Pounce. Hump. Well, cousin, the coach is at the door. If you please I'll lead you. Niece. I put myself into your hands, good savage ; but you promise to leave me. Hump. I tell you plainly, you must not think of having me. Pounce. [To Cler.] You'll haye opportunity enough to carry her off; the old fellows will be busy with me. I'll gain all the time I can, but be bold and prosper. Niece. Clerimont, you follow us. Cler. Upon the wings of love. ^ Cf. MoU6re's Preczeuses Ridicules, in which Mademoiselle Magdalen says, " Si d'abord Cyrus epousait Mandane. et qu'Aronce de plain-pied fut maris k Clelie ! " ACT THE FIFTH. SCENE I. — Clerimont, Sen.'s House. Enter Clerimont, Sen. and Fainlove. LER. SEN. Then she gave you this letter, and bid you read it as a paper of verses ? Fain. This is the place, the hour, the lucky minute. Now am I rub- bing up my memory, to recollect all you said to me when you first ruined me, that I may attack her right. Cler. Sen. Your eloquence would be needless ; 'tis so unmodish to need persuasion : Modesty makes a lady embarrassed ; but my spouse is above that, as for exam- ple \Reading her letter] — "Fainlove, you don't seem to want wit ; therefore I need say no more than that dis- tance to a woman of the world is becoming in no man but a husband : am hour hence come up the back stairs to my closet. " Adieu, Mon Mignon." I am glad you are punctual ; I'll conceal myself to observe your interview. — O torture ! but this wench must not see it. {Aside. Fain. Be sure you come time enough to save my reputation. 2SO THE TENDER HUSBAND : [actV. Cler. Sen. Remember your orders, " distance becomes no man but a husband." Fain. I am glad you are in so good humour on the occasion ; but you know me to be but a bully in love, that can bluster only till the minute of engagement — but I'll top my part, and form my conduct by my own sentiments. If she grows coy, I'll grow more saucy — 'twas so I was won myself. Cler. Sen. Well, my dear rival, your assignation draws nigh ; you are to put on your transport, your impatient throbbing heart won't let you wait her arrival. Let the dull family-thing and husband, who reckons his moments by his cares, be content to wait ; but you are &. gallant, and measure time by ecstasies. Fain. I hear her coming— To your post — good hus- band, know your duty, and don't be in the way when your wife has a mind to be in private — 'To your post, into the coal-hole. Enter Mrs. Clerimont. Welcome, my dear, my tender charmer, oh ! to my longing arms— feel the heart pant, that falls and rises as you smile or frown. Oh, the ecstatic moment ! — I think that was something like what has been said to me. \_Aside. Mrs. Cler. Very well, Fainlove. — I protest I value myself for my discerning. I knew you had fire through all the respect you showed me ; but how came you to make no direct advances, young gentleman ? Why was I forced to admonish your gallantry ? Fain. Why, madam, I knew you a woman of breed- ing, and above the senseless niceties of an English wife. The French way is, you are to go so far, whether you are agreeable or not. If you are so happy as to please, nobody that is not of a constrained behaviour is at a loss to let you know it- — Besides, if the humble servant makes SCENE 1.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 251 the first approaches, he has the impudence of making a request, but not the honour of obeying a command. Mrs. Cler, Right ; a woman's man should conceal passion in a familiar air of indifference. Now there's Mr. Clerimont ; I can't allow him the least freedom, but the unfashionable fool grows so fond of me he cannot hide it in public. Fain. Ay, madam, I have often wondered at your ladyship's choice of one that seems to have so little of the beau monde in his carriage, but just what you force him to, while there were so many pretty gentlemen \pandng. Mrs. Cler. Oh, young gentleman, you are mightily mistakei;, if you think such animals as you, and pretty Beau Titmouse, and pert Billy Butterfly, though I suffer you to come in, and play about my rooms, are any ways in competition with a man whose name one would wear. Fain. O madam ! then I find we are Mrs. Cler. A woman of sense must have respect for a man of that character ; but alas ! respect — what is respect ? Respect is not the thing. Respect has some- thing too solemn for soft moments — you things are more proper for hours of dalliance. Cler. Sen. [Peeping.] How have I wronged this fine lady ! I find I am to be a cuckold out of her pure esteem for me. Mrs. Cler. Besides, those fellows for whom we have respect have none for us. I warrant on such an occasion Clerimont would have ruffled a woman out of all form, while you Cler. Sen. A good hint — now my cause comes on. [Aside. Fain. Since then you allow us fitter for soft moments, why do we misemploy 'em ? Let me kiss that beauteous hand and clasp that graceful frame. Mrs. Cler. HoWj Fainlove ! What, you don't design 252 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act v. to be impertinent — ^But my lips have a certain roughness on 'em to-day, han't they ? Fain. [Kissing.] No, they are all softness; their delicious sweetness is inexpressible. Here language fails ; let me applaud thy lips, not by the utterance, but by the touch of mine. £nf^ Clerimont, Sen., drawing his sword. Cler. Sen. Ha, villain ! Ravisher ! Invader of my bed and honour ! draw. Mrs. Cler. What means this insolence — this intrusion into my privacy? What, do you come into my very closet without knocking? Who put this into your head? Cler. Sen. My injuries have alarmed me, and I'll bear no longer, but sacrifice your bravado, the author of 'em. Mrs. Cler. Oh ! poor Mr. Fainlove ! Must he die for his complaisance and innocent freedoms with me ? How could you, if you might? Oh! the sweet youth! What, fight Mr. Fainlove ? What will the ladies say ? Fain. Let me come at the intruder on ladies' private hours. The unfashionable monster ! I'll prevent all future interruption from him — Let me come. [Drawing his sword. Mrs. Cler. Oh the brave pretty, creature ! Look at his youth and innocence — he is not made for such rough encounters. Stand behind me — Poor Fainlove ! — There is not a visit in town, sir, where you shall not be displayed at full length for this intrusion. I banish you for ever from my sight and bed. Cler. Sen. I obey you, madam, for distance is be- coming in no man but a husband [Giving her the letter, which she reads, and falls into a swoon.] — I've gone too far — [Kissing her.^-^The impertinent was guilty of nothing but what my indiscretion led her to. This is the first kiss I've had these six weeks — ^but she awakes. Well, SCENE I.] OR, THE A CCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 253 Jenny, you topped your part, indeed. Come to my arms, thou ready, willing, fair one. Thou hast no vanities, no niceties ; but art thankful for every instant of love that I bestow on thee. [Embracing her. Mrs. Cler. What, am I then abused ? Is it a wench then of his ? Oh me ! Was ever poor abused wife, poor innocent lady, thus injured ! \Runs and seizes Fainlove's sword. Cler. Sen. Oh the brave pretty creature ! Hurt Mr. Fainlove ! Look at his youth, his innocence — -Ha ! ha ! \Interposing. Fain. Have a care, have a care, dear sir — I know by myself she'll have no mercy. Mrs. Cler. I'll be the death of her ; let me come on. Stand from between us, Mr. Clerimont — I would not hurt you. \Pushing and crying. Cler. Sen. Run, run, Jenny. \Exit Jenny.] \Looks at her upbraidingly before he speaks.^ Well, madam, are these the innocent freedoms you claimed of me ? Have I deserved this ? How has there been a moment of yours ever interrupted with the real pangs I suffer? The daily importunities of creditors, who became so by serving your profuse vanities : did I ever murmur at supplying any of your diversions, while I believed 'em (as you call 'em) harmless ? Must, then, those eyes that used to glad my heart with their familiar brightness hang down with guilt ? Guilt has transformed thy whole person ; nay, the very memory of it Fly from my growing passion ! Mrs. Cler. I cannot fly, nor bear it. Oh ! look not Cler. Sen. What can you say ? Speak quickly. [Offering to draw. Mrs. Cler. I never saw you moved before. Don't murder me impenitent ; I'm wholly in your power as a criminal, but remember I have been so in a tender regard. Cler, Sen. But how have you considered that regard? 254 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act v. Mrs. Cler. Is it possible you can forgive what you ensnared me into ? Oh, look at me kindly ! You know I have only erred in my intention, nor saw my danger, till, by this honest art, you had shown me what 'tis to venture to the utmost limit of what is lawful. You laid that train, I'm sure, to alarm, not to betray, my inno- cence. Mr. Clerimont, scorn such baseness ! There- fore I kneel — I weep — I am convinced. \Kneels. [Takes her up, embracing her. Cler. Sen. Then kneel, and weep no more, my fairest — my reconciled ! Be so in a moment, for know I cannot (without wringing my own heart) give you the least com- punction. Be in humour. It shall be your own fault if ever there's a serious word more on this subject. Mrs. Cler. I must correct every idea that rises in my mind, and learn every gesture of my body anew — I detest the thing I was. Cler. Sen. No, no; you must not do so. Our joy and grief, honour and reproach, are the same ; you must slide out of your foppery by degrees, so that it may appear your own act. Mrs. Cler. But this wench ! Cler. Sen. She is already out of your way ; you shall see the catastrophe of her fate yourself. But still keep up the fine lady till we go out of town ; you may return to it with as decent airs as you please. — And now I have shown you your error, I'm in so good humour as to repeat you a couplet on the occasion — They only who gain minds, true laurels wear : 'Tis less to conquer, than convince, the fair. \Exeunt. SCENE II.] OR, THE A CCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 255 SCENE 11.— TiPKlN's House. Enter Pounce with papers ; a table, chairs, ^en, ink, and paper. Pounce. 'Tis a delight to gall these old rascals, and set 'em at variance about stakes, which I know neither of 'em will ever have possession of. Enter Tipkin and Sir Harry. Tip. Do you design, Sir Harry, that they shall have an estate in their own hands, and keep house themselves, poor things ? Sir Har. No, no, sir," I know better; they shall go down into the country, and live with me, not touch a farthing of money; but, having all things necessary provided, they shall go tame about the house, and breed. Tip. Well, Sir Harry, then considering that all human things are subject to changp. it behoves every man that has a just sense of mortality to take care of hjs money. Sir ffar, I don't know what you mean, brother. What do you drive at, brother ? Tip. This instrument is executed by you, your son, and my niece, which discharges me of all retrospects. Sir Har. It is confessed, brother ; but what then ? Tip. All that remains is, that you pay me for the j'oung lady's twelve years' board, as also all other charges, as wearing-apparel, &c. Sir Har. What is this you say ? Did I give you my discharge from all retrospects, as you call it ? and after all do you come with this and t'other, and all that ? I find you are — I tell you, sir, to your face — I find you are Tip. I find too what you are. Sir Harry. Sir Har. What am I, sir ? What am I ? 2S6 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [ACT V. Tip. Why, 'sir, you are angry. Sir Har. Sir, I scorn your words ; I am not angry. Mr. Pounce is my witness ; I am as gentle as a lamb. Would it not make any flesh alive angry, to see a close hunks come after all with a demand of Tip. Mr. Pounce, pray inform Sir Harry in this point. Pounce. Indeed, Sir Harry, I must tell you plainlv. that Mr. Tipkin, in this, demands nothing but what he may recover. For though this case may be considered multifariam — that is to say, as 'tis usually, commonly, vicatim, or vulgarly expressed — yet, I say, when we only observe that the power is settled as the law re- quires, assensu patris, by the consent of the father, that circumstance imports you are well acquainted with the advantages which accrue to your family by this alliance, which corroborates Mr. Tipkin's demand, and avoids all objections that can be made. Sir Har. Why then, I find you are his adviser in all this. Pounce. Look ye, Sir Harry, to show you I love to pro- mote among my clients a good understanding ; though Mr. Tipkin may claim four thousand pounds, I'll engage for him, and I know him so well, that he shall take three thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight pounds, four shillings and eightpence farthing. Tip. Indeed, Mr. Pounce, you are too hard upon me. Pounce. You must consider a little, Sir Harry is your brother. Sir Har. Three thousand nine hundred and ninety- eight pounds, four shillings and eightpence farthing ! For what, I say ? For what, sir ? Pounce. For what, sir ! for what she wanted, sir ; a fine lady is always in want, sir — her very clothes would come to that money in half the time. Sir Har. Three thousand nine hundred and nineity- eight pounds, four shillings and eightpence farthing for SCENE 11.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 257 clothes ! Pray how many suits does she wear out in a year ? Pounce. Oh ! dear sir, a fine lady's clothes are not old by being worn, but by being seen. Sir Har. Well, I'll save her clothes for the future, after I have got her into the country. I'll warrant her she shall not appear more in this wicked town, where clothes are worn out by sight — And as to what you demand, I tell you, sir, 'tis extortion. Tip. Sir Harry, do you accuse me of extortion? Sir Har. Yes, I say extortion. Tip. Mr. Pounce, write down that ; there are very good laws provided against scandal and calumny — Loss of reputation may tend to loss of money. Pounce. Item, "for having accused Mr. Tipkin of extor- tion." Sir Har. Nay, if you come to your items — ^look ye, Mr. Tipkin, this is an inventory of such goods as were left to my niece, Bridget, by her deceased father, and which I expect shall be forthcoming at her marriage to my son : Imprimis, " a golden locket of her mother's, with something very ingenious in Latin on the inside of it " ; item, " a couple of muskets, with two shoulder-belts and bandoleers"; item, "a large silver caudle-cup, with a true story engraven on it." Pounce. But, Sir Harry Sir Har. Item, " a base viol, with almost all the strings to it, and only a small hole on the back." Pounce. But nevertheless, sir Sir Har. This is the furniture of my brother's bed- chamber that follows : — " A suite of tapestry hangings, with the story of Judith and Holofemes, torn only where the head should have been off; an old bedstead, curiously wrought about the posts, consisting of two load of timber; a hone, a basin, three razors, and a comb-case '' — Look ye, sir, you see I can item it. Steele^ S 258 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act V. Potmce. Alas, Sir Harry, if you had ten quire of items, 'tis all answered in the word retrospect. Sir Har. Why then, Mr. Pounce and Mr. Tipkin, you are both rascals. Tip. Do you call me rascal, Sir Harry ? Sir Har. Yes, sir. Tip. Write it down, Mr. Pounce, at the end of the leaf. Sir Har. If you have room, Mr. Pounce, put down " villain, son of a whore; curmudgeon, hunks, and scoun- drel." Tip. Not so fast. Sir Harrys he cannot write sO fast ; you are at the word " villain " ; "son of a whore," I take it, was next — You may make the account as large as you please. Sir Hatty. , Sir Har. Come, come, I won't be used thus. Hark ye, sirrah, draw — 'what do you do at this end of the town without a sword? Draw, I say — Tip. Sir Harry, you are a militafy man, a colonel of the Militia. Sir Har. I am So, sirrah, and will run Such an extorting dog as you through the gutS, to show the Militia is useful. Pounce. O dear, O dear ! How am I concerned to see persons of your figure thus nrtoved-^The wedding is coming in, we'll settle these things afterwards. Tip. I am calm. Sir Har. Tipkin; live these two hours, but expect — Enter Humphry, leading Niece ; Mrs. Clermont, led by Eainlove ; Captain Clerimont and Clerimont, Sen. Pounee. Who are these ? Hey-day, who are these, Sin Harry? Ha! Sir Har. Some frolic, 'tis wedding-day; no matter. Hump. Haw ! haw ! father, master uncle, come, you must stif your stumps, you must dance — Come, old ladsj kiss the ladies. sCE^fE^.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 25*9 Mrs. Cler. Mr. Tipkin, Sir Harry, I beg pardon for an introduction so rnalaptopbS ; I know sudden familiarity is not the English way. Alas, Mr. Gubbin, this father and uncle of yourS itiust be new modelled ; how they stare, both of them ! Sir Har. Hark ye, NumpS, W'ho is this you have brought hither? is it not the famous fine lady, Mrs. Cleri- mont? What a pox did you let her come neai- your wife ? Hump. Look ye, don't expose yourself, and play some mad country prank to disgmce me before her ; I Shall bfe laughed at, because she knows I understa.nd bettet. Mrs. Clir. I Congratulate, madam, your coming out of the bondage of a virgin state. A woman can't do what She will properly till she's married. Sir Har. Did you hear what she said to your wife? Enter Aunt, before a service of Dishes. Aunt. So, Mr. Bridegroom, prd.y take that hapkin, and Serve your spouse to-day, according to custom. Humf. Mrs. Clerimont^ pray know my aunt. Mrs. Cler. Madam, I mUst beg yOUr patdon; I can't possibly like all that vast load of meat that you ate sending in to table, besides, 'tis so offensively sweet, it wants that haUt-gout We are so delighted with in France.' Aunt. You'll pardon it, since we did not expect you — Who is this ? \_Aside. Mrs. Cler. Oh, madam, I only speak for the futute ; little saucers are so much more polite. Look ye, I'm perfectly for the French Wd,y ; where'er I'm admitted, I take the whole upon me. Sir HclK The French, madam, I'd have you to knOW^ 1 Similarly,, Beau Tlbbs hated "immense loads of meat" — " ejcWfeme dlsgustiilg to those who are in the least acquainted with high life." 26o THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act v. Mrs. Cler. You'll not like it at first, out of a natural English sullenness, but that will come upon you by degrees. When I first went into France I was mortally afraid of a frog, but in a little time I could eat nothing else, except salads. Aunt. Eat frogs! have I kissed one that has ate frogs? Paw ! paw ! Mrs. Cler. Oh, madam, a frog and a salad are delicious fare ; 'tis not long come up in France itself, but their glorious monarch has introduced the diet which makes 'em so spiritual. He eradicated all gross food by taxes, and, for the glory of the monarch, sent the subject a- grazing — but I fear I defer the entertainment and diver- sion of the day. Hump. Now father, uncle, before we go any further, I think 'tis necessary we know who and who's together; then I give either of you two hours to guess which is my wife — and 'tis not my cousin ; so far I'll tell you. Sir Har. How ! What do you say ? But oh ! you mean she is not your cousin now, she's nearer akin ; that's well enough. Well said, Numps; ha! ha! ha! Hump. No, I don't mean so ; I tell you I don't mean so — My wife hides her face under her hat. \All looking at Fainlove. Tip. What does the puppy mean ? His wife under a hat! Hump. Ay, ay, that's she, that's she — A good jest, 'faith ! Sir Har. Hark ye, Numps, what dost mean, child ? Is that a woman, and are you really married to her ? Hump. I am sure of both. - Sir Har. Are you so, isirrah ? then, sirrah, this is your wedding dinner, sirrah — Do you see, sirrah, here's roast meat. Hump. Oh, oh I what, beat a married man ! Hold SCENE II.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 261 him, Mr..Cleriraont, Brother Pounce, Mr. Wife; nobody stand by a young married man ! \Runs behind F^mnlgve. Sir Har. Did not the dog say Brother Pounce ? what, is this Mrs. Ragout ? this Madam Clerimont ? Who the devil are you all ? but especially who the devil are you two ? \Beats Humphry and Fainlove off the Stage, following. Tip. [To Tounce.] Master Pounce, all my niece's for- tune will be demanded now — for I suppose that red coat has her. Don't you think you and I had better break ? Pounce. [To Tiph'n.] You may as soon as you please, but 'tis my interest to be honest a little longer. Tip. Well, Biddy, since you would not accept of your cousin, I hope you han't disposed of yourself elsewhere. Nieee. If you'll for a little while suspend your curiosity, you shall have the whole history of my amour to this my nuptial day, under the title of the loves of Clerimont and Parthenissa. Tip. Then, madam, your portion is in safe hands. Cler. Come, come, old gentleman, 'tis in vain to con- tend; here's honest Mr. Pounce shall be my engineer, and I warrant you we beat you out of all your holds. Aunt. What then, is Mr. Pounce a rogue ? — He must have some trick, brother, it cannot be; he must have cheated t'other side, for I'm sure he's honest. [Apart to TiPKiN. Cler. Sen. Mr. Pounce, all your sister has won of this lady she has honestly put into my hands ; and I'll return it her, at this lady's particular request. Pounce. And the thousand pounds you promised in your brother's behalf, I'm willing should be hers also. Cler. Sen. Then go in, and bring 'em all back to make the best of an ill game ; we'll eat the dinner and have a dance together, or we shall transgress all form. ?62 TUB TMND-MR HUSBAND. [act v. Re-enter Fainlove, Humphry, and Sir Harry., Sir Har. Well, since you say you are worth some- thing, and the boy has set his heart uppn you, I'll l^ave patience till I see further. Pounce. Come, come, Sir Harry, you shall find rny alliance more considerable than you imagine ; the Pounces are a family that will always have money, if there's any in the world — Come, fiddles. \A Dance Aere.] Cler. Sen. You've seen th' extremes of the domestic life, A son too much confined— too free a wife ; By generous bonds you either should restrain, And only on their inclinations gain \ Wives to obey must love, children revere. While only slaves are governed by their fear. spoken by Mr. Estcourt.' Britons, who constant war, with factious rage, For liberty against each other wage. From foreign insult save this English stage. No more th' Italian squalHhg tribe admit. In tongues unknown ; 'tis pbpery in wit." The songs (theirselves confess^ from Rome they bring. And 'tis high mass, for ought yOii know, they sing. Husbands take care, the danger may come nigher, The women say their eunuch is a friar. But is it not a serious ill to see Europe's great arbiters so mean can be ; Passive, with an affected joy to sit, Suspend their native taste of manly wit ; Neglect their comic humour, tragic rage, For known defects of nature, and of age? ' "At the Theatre Royal torinorrow, being the l8th October, will be revived a Comedy called the Spanish Friar : or the Double Discovery. The part of the Friar to be performed by Mr. Estcourt ; being the first time of his appearance on the Englisji stage. Begin- ning exactly at half-an-hour after five o'clock " {Daily Courant, Oct. 17, 1704). Richard Estcourt was an excellent companion, and a favourite of Steele's, who praised him several times in the Spectator, and wrote an excellent and touching paper (No. 468) on his death in 17 12, in the course of which he says : " When a man of his wit and smartness could put on an . . air of insipid cunning and vivacity in the character of Pounce in the Tender Husband, it is folly to dispute his capacity and success, as he was an actor." * On March 8, 1705 {Daily Courant), there was acted at Drury Lane " a new opera (all sung after the Italian manner) called, Arsinoe, Queen of Cyprus. As it was performed before Her Majesty at St. James's on her birthday." 264 THE TENDER HUSBAND. Arise, for shame, ye conquering Britons rise, Such unadorned effeminacy despise ; Admire (if you will dote on foreign wit) Not what Italians sing, but Romans writ. So shall less works, such as to-night's slight play, At your command with justice die away ; Till then forgive your writers, that can't bear You should such very tramontanes appear, The nations which contemn you to revere. Let Anna's soil be known for all its charms ; As famed for liberal sciences, as arms : Let those derision meet, who would advance Manners or speech, from Italy or France. Let them learn you, who would your favour find, And English be the language of mankind. THE CONSCIOUS LOVE'HS. "Illud genus narrationis, quod in personis positum est, debet habere sermones festivitatem, animorum dissimilitudinem, gravi- tatem, lenitatem, spem, metum, suspicionem, desiderium, dissimu- lationem, misericordiam, rerum varietates, fortunae commutationera, insperatum incommodum, subitam letitiam, jucundum exitum re- rum." ^—Cicero, Rhetor, ad Herenn, Lib. i. 1 The kind of narrative which is presented on the stage ought to be marked by gaiety of dialogue, diversity of character, seriousness, tenderness hope, fear, suspicion, desire, pity, variety ot events, changes of fortune, un- expected disaster, sudden joy, and a happy ending. HE Conscious Lovers, a Comedy which had been long in preparation, was acted at Drury Lane Theatre on Novem- ber 7, 1722, "with new scenes and all the characters new drest," and with Booth (who had acted the part of Pampliilus -^ the prototype of young Bevil — at Westminster with great success), Wilks (Myrtle), Gibber (Tom), Mills (Sir John Bevil), Mrs. Oldfield (Indiana), and Mrs. Younger (Phillis) in the principal parts. The play ran for eighteen nights, and was a great success. It was often revived between 172^ and 1760, and was acted at Covent Garden in 1810, and at Bath in 18 18. Phillis was Peg Woffington's second speaking character in Dublin, and she took that part on March 9, 1741, during her first season in London. The play was published by Tonson on December i, 1722, with the date 1723 on the title-page. The general idea of the piece is taken from Terence's Andria, but the ori- ginal is widely departed from after the opening scenes. Golley Gibber leqt material aid in preparing the play for representation. It was attacked by John Dennis in two pamphlets, and defended by Benjamin Victor and others. /^^"^t iOCSl! — ? ^ ^S M i To THE KING. M4Y IT PLEASE YOUR MAJESTY, ' FTER having aspired to the highest and most laudable ambition, that of follow- ing the cause of liberty, I should not have humbly petitioned your Majesty for a direction of the theatre, had I not believed success in that province an happiness much to be wished by an holiest man, and highly conducing to the prosperity of the commonwealth. It is in this view I lay before your Majesty a Comedy which the audience, in justice to themselves, has supported and encouraged, and is the prelude of what, by your Majesty's influence and favour, may be attempted in future representations. The imperial mantle, the royal vestment, and the shin • ing diadem are what strike ordinary minds ; but your Majesty's native goodness, your passion for justice, and her constant assessor mercy, is what continually surrounds you in the view of intelligent spirits, and gives hope to the suppliant, who sees he has more than succeeded in giving your Majesty an opportunity of doing good. Our King is above the greatness of royalty, and every act of his will which makes another man happy has ten times 268 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. more charms in it than one that makes himself appear raised above the condition of others. But even this car- ries unhappiness with it ; for calm dominion, equal gran- deur, and familiar greatness do not easily affect the imagination of the vulgar, who cannot see power but in terror ; and as fear moves mean spirits, and love prompts great ones to obey, the insinuations of malcontents are directed accordingly ; and the unhappy people are en- snared, from want of reflection, into disrespectful ideas of their gracious and amiable sovereign, and then only begin to apprehend the greatness of their master when they have incurred his displeasure. As your Majesty was invited to the throne of a willing people, for their own sakes, and has ever enjoyed it with contempt of the ostentation of it, we beseech you to pro- tect us who revere your title as we love your person. 'Tis to be a savage to be a rebel, and they who have fallen from you have not so much forfeited their allegiance as lost their humanity. And, therefore, if it were only to preserve riiyself from the imputation of being amongst the insensible and abandoned, I would beg permission in the most public manner possible to profess myself, with the utmost sincerity and zeal, Sire, Your Majesty's Most devoted subject And servant, Richard Steele. .s: J. Bev. That's what I Wanted to debate with you. I have said nothing to hith yet-^but look you, Hum- phry, if there is so much in this amour Of his, that he denies upon my surhmons to marry, I have cause enough This and the two following speeches by Sir Jotn Bevil a^e borrowed, from Terenee, SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LO VMM S. 27^ to be offended ; and then by my itisisting upon his tnarfy- ing to-day, I shall know how far he is engaged to this lady in masquerade, and from thence only shall be able to take my measures. In the meantime I would have you find out how far that rogue^ his man, is let into his secret. He, I know, will play tricks as much to cross me, as to serve his master. Humph: Why do you think so of him, sir ? I believe he is no worse tha,n I was for you, at your son's age. Sir/. Bev. I see it in the rascal's looks. But I have dwelt on these things too long ; I'll go to ray son im- mediately, and while I'm gone, your part is to convince his rogue, TOm, that I am in earnest. — I'll leave him to you. {Exit Sir John Bevil. Humph. Well, though this father and son live as well together as possible, yet their fear of giving each other pain is attended with constant mutual uneasiness. I'm sure I have enough to do to be honest, and yet keep well with them bothk But they know I love 'em, and that makes the task less painful however. Oh, here's the prince of poor coxcombs, the representative of all the better fed than taught. Ho 1 ho ! Tom, whither so gay and so airy this morning ? Enter Tom, singing. Tom. Sir, we servants of single gentlemen are another kind of people than you domestic ordinary drudges that do business ; we are raised above you. The pleasures of board-wages, tavern dinners^ and many a clear gain ; vails, alas ! you never heard or dreamt of. Humph. Thou hast follies and vices enough for a man of ten thousand a year, though 'tis but as t'other day that I sent for you to town to put you into Mr. Sealand's family, that you might learn a little before I put you to my young master, who is too gentle for training such a rude thing as you were into proper obedience. You 28o THE CONSCTOUS LOVERS. [act I. then pulled off your hat to everyone you met in the street, like a bashful great awkward cub as you were. But your great oaken cudgel, when you were a. booby, became you much better than that dangling stick at your button, now you are a fop. That's fit for nothing, except it hangs jthere to be ready for your master's hand when you are impertinent. Tom. Uncle Humphry, you know my master scorns to strike his servants. You talk as if the world was now just as it was when my old master and you were in your youth ; when you went to dinner because it was so much o'clock, when the great blow was given in the hall at the pantry door, and all the family came out of their holes in such strange dresses and formal faces as yoa see in the pictures in our long gallery in the country. Humph. Why, you wild rogue ! Tom. You could not fall to your, dinner till a formal fellow in a black gown said something over the meat, as if the cook had not made it ready enough. Humph. Sirrah, who do you prate after ? . Despising men of sacred characters ! I hope you never heard my good young master talk so like a profligate. Tom. Sir, I say you put upon me, when I first came to town, about being orderly, and the doctrine of wearing shams to make linen last clean a fortnight, keeping my clothes fresh, and wearing a frock within doors. Humph. Sirrah, I gave you those lessons because I supposed at that timeyotir master and you might 'have dined at home every day, and cost you nothing ; then you might have made a good fairiily servant. But the gang you have frequented since at chocolate houses and -taverns, in a continual round of noise and extravagance — Tom. I don't know what you heavy inmates call noise and extravagance ; but we gentlemen, who are well fed, and cut a figure, sir, think it a fine life, and that we must be very pretty fellows who are kept only to be looked at. SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 281 Humph. Very well, sir, I hope the fashion of being lewd and extravagant, despising of decency and order, is almost at an end, since it has arrived at persons of your quality. Tom. Master Humphry, ha ! ha ! you were an un- happy lad to be sent up to town in such queer days as you were. Why, now, sir, the lackeys are the men of pleasure of the age, the top gamesters ; and many a laced coat about town have had their education in our party- coloured regiment. 'vVe are false lovers ; have a taste of music, poetry, billet-doux, dress, politics ; ruin damsels ; and when we are tired of this lewd town, and have a mind to take up, whip into our masters' wigs and linen, and marry fortunes. Humph. Hey-day! Tom. Nay, sir, our order is carried up to the highest dignities and distinctions; step but into the Painted Chamber,' and by our titles you'd take us all for men of quality. Then, again, come down to the Court of Requests, and you see us all laying our broken heads together for the good of the nation ; and though we never carry a question nemine contradicente, yet this I can say, with a safe conscience (and I wish every gentleman of our cloth could lay his hand upon his heart and say the same), that I never took so much as a single mug of beer for my vote in all my life. Humph. Sirrah, there is no enduring your extrava- gance ; I'll hear you prate no longer. I wanted to see you to enquire how things go with your master, as far as you understand them ; I suppose he knows he is to be married to-day. Tom. Ay, sir, lie knows it, and is dressed as gay as ' In the old Royal Palace at Westminster, the House of Lords was formed out of the ancient Court of Requests, and the old Painted Chamber separated the Lords from the Commons. Steele has described (Spectator, No. 88) how servants, wailing for their masters at an alehouse at Westminster, debated upon public affairs, addressing each other by their employers' names. 282 THE CONSClOZfS LOVERS. [act i. the sun ; but, between you and I, my clear, he has a very heavy heart under all that gaiety. As soon as He was dressed I retired, biit overheard him sigh in the most heavy mannef. He walked thoughtfully to and fro in the room, then went into his closet ; when he came out he gave me this for his mistress, whose maid, you know - Humpk. Is passionately fond of your fine persori; Toni. The poor fool is so tender, and loves to hear me talk of the world, and the plays, operas, and ridottos' for the winter, the parks and Belsize^ for our summer diver- sions ; and " Lard ! " says she, " you are so wild, but you have a world of humour." Humph. Coxcomb i Well, but why don't you run with your master's letter to Mrs; Lucinda, as he ordered you? Tom. Because Mrs. Lucinda is not so easily come at as you think for. Humph. Not easily come at ? Why, sirrah, are not her father and my old master agreed that she and Mr. Bevil are to be one flesh before to-morrow morning ? Tom. It's no matter for that j her mother, it seerhs, Mrs. Sealaiidy has not agreed to it; and you must knoWj Mr. Humphry, that in that family the grey mare is the better horse. Humph. What dost thou mean ? Tom. In one wordj Mrs. Sealand pretends to have a ^ At the ridotto there was music, followed bj' dancing, the com- pany passing, When the music was over, from thti pit to the stage. Burney says that this Italian entertainment was first introduced into England in 1722, the year in which Steele produced The 'Conscious Loversi ' Belsize House was the forerunner of Ranelagh and Vauxhall. There were gaidensj in which refreshments could be obtained) and hunting, races, &c., were provid&d to amuse the visitors, for whose protection twelve stout men, well armed, patrolled the toad to Landon. A poetical satirej Belsiie House, appeared in 1722^ the year of this play. In the same year ilnlawful g&ii(ing at Belsiie was forbidden (Park's Hampstead, 246 — 9). SCENE I.] THE COlSrSCIOVS LOVERS. 283 will of her own, and has provided a relation of hers, a stiff, starched philosopher, and a wise fool, for her daugh- ter; for which reason, for these ten days past, she has suffered no message nor letter from my itiaster to come near her. Humph. And where had you this intelligence ? Tom. From a foolis'h fond sou that Cah keep nothing from me; one that will deliver this letter too, if she is rightly managed. Humph. What ! her pretty handmaid, Mrs. Phillis ? Tom. Even she, sir; this is the very hour, you know, she usually comes hither, under a pretence of a visit to your housekeeper, forsooth, but in reality to have a glance at . HUmph. Your sweet face, I warrant you. Tom. Nothing else in nature ; yotl must know, I love to fret and play with the little wanton; Humph, Play with the little wanton ! What will this world come to ! Tom. I met her this morning in^ new manteau and petticoat, not a bit the worse for her lady's wearing j and she has always new thoughts and new airs with new clothes — then she never fails to steal some glance or gesture from every visitant at their house ; and is, indeed, the whole town of coquets at second-hand. But here she conies; in one motion she speaks and describes herself better than all the words in the world can. Humph. Then I hope, dear sir, when your own affair is over, you will be so good as to mind your master's with her. Tojn. Dear Humphry, you know my master is my friend, and those are people I never forget. Mumph. Sauciness itself! but I'll leave you to do your best for him. \Exit. 284 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act I. Enter Phillis.' Phil. Oh, Mr. Thomas, is Mrs. Sugar-key at home ? Lard, one is almost ashamed to pass along the streets ! The town is quite empty, and nobody of fashion left in it ; and the ordinary people do so stare to see anything, dressed like a woman of condition, as it were on the same floor with them, pass by. Alas ! alas ! it is a sad thing to walk. O fortune ! fortune ! Tom. What ! a sad thing to walk ? Why, Madam Phillis, do you wish yourself lame ? Phil. No, Mr. Tom, but I wish I were generally carried in a coach or chair, and of a fortune neither to stand nor go, but to totter, or slide, to be short-sighted, or stare, to fleer in the face, to look distant, to observe, to overlook, yet all become me ; and, if I was rich, I could twire " and loll as well as the best of them. Oh, Tom ! Tom ! is it not a pity that you should be so great a coxcomb, and I so great a coquet, and yet be such poor devils as we are ? Tom. Mrs. Phillis, I am your humble servant for that Phil. Yes, Mr. Thomas, I know how much you are my humble servant, and know what you said to Mrs. Judy, upon seeing her in one of her lady's cast manteaus : ' Among the Blenheim papers is a fragment, in Steele's writing, of a dialogue between two servants, Parmeno and Pythias — ^names taken, no doubt, from Terence's ^m««cAmj. The pair discuss the charm of the soft moments of servants in love, free from their usual restraints. Why should any man usurp more than his share of the atmosphere '> The whole art of a serving-man is "to be here and there, and everywhere, unheard and unseen till you are wanted, and never absent when you are. This gives our masters and mistresses the free room and scope to do and act as they please — they are to make aU the bustle, al) the sliow--we are like convenient demons or apparitions about 'em, never to take up space or fill the air nor be heard of or seen but when commanded." Pythias remarks how much she learns from Parmeno's conversation, and produces a little collation from the last night's supper which she has prepared for him. Parmeno eats the eggs, gorges, sings a song, and says kind things between whiles to Pythias. * Leer, throw glances. SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 285 That any one would have thought her the lady, and that she had ordered the other to wear it till it sat easy ; for now only it was becoming. To my lady it was only a covering, to Mrs. Judy it was a habit. This you said, after somebody or other. Oh, Tom ! Tom ! thou art as false and as base as the best gentleman of them all ; but, you wretch, talk to me no more on the old odious sub- ject — don't, I say. Tom. I know not how to resist your commands, madam. \In a submissive tone, i-etiring. Phil. Commands about parting are grown mighty easy to you of late. Tom. Oh, I have her ; I have nettled and put hei into the right temper to be wrought upon and set a- prating. [Asitie.] — Why, truly, to be plain with you, Mrs. Phillis, I can take little comfort of late in frequenting your house. TAil. Pray, Mr. Thomas, what is it all of a sudden offends your nicety at our house ? Tom. I don't care to speak particulars, but I dislike the whole. PAi/. I thank you, sir, I am a part of that whole. Tom. Mistake me not, good Phillis. Thil. Good Phillis ! Saucy enough. But however Tom. I say, it is that thou art a part, which gives me pain for the disposition of the whole. You must know, madam, to be serious, I am a man, at the bottom, of prodigious nice honour. You are too much exposed to company at your house. To be plain, I don't like so many, that would be your mistress's lovers, whispering to you. P/tii. Don't think to put that upon me. You say this, because I wrung you to the heart when I touched your guilty conscience about Judy. Tom. Ah, Phillis ! Phillis ! if you but knew my heart i Fh7. I know too much on't. 286 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [ACT I. To.M, Nay, then, -poor Crispo's ' fate and mine are one, Therefore give me leave to say, or sing at least, as he does upon the same occasion — " Se vedette,'' &c. \Sings!\ Phil. What, do you think I'm to be fobbed off with a ^ong ? I don't question but you have sung the same to Mrs. Judy too. Tom. Don't disparage your charms, good Phjllis, with jealousy of so worthless an object ; besides, she is a poor hussy, and if you doubt the sincerity of my love, you will allow me true to my interest. You are a fortune, Phillis. Phil. What would the fop be at now ? In good time, indeed, you shall be getting up for a fortiine ! Tom. Dea,r IVIrs. Phillis, you have such a spirit that we shall never be dull in marriage when we eome toge- ther, Bvit I tell you, you are a fortune, and you have an estate in my hands. \He pulls out a purse, she eyes it. Phil. What pretence have I to what is in your hands, Mr. Tom ? Tom. As thus : there are hours, you know, when a lady is neither pleased or displeased ; neither sick or well ; when she lolls or loiters ; when she's without desires — from having more of everything than she knows what to do with, Phi. Well, what then ? Tom. When she has r\Qt life enough to keep hen bright eyes quite open, to look at her own dear image in the glass. Phil. Explain thyself, and don't be so fond of thy own prating. Tom. There are also prosperous and good-natured moments : as when a knot or a patch is happily fixedi} when the complexion particularly flourishes. 1 See page 307-. SCENE 11.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 287 Phil. Well, what then ? I have not patience ! Tom. Why, then — or on the lik& occasions — we ser- vants who have skill to know how to time business, see when such a pretty folded thing as this \Shmvs a letUr?\ may be presented, laid, or dropped, as best suits the present humour. And, madam, because it is a long wearisome journey to run through all the several stages of a lady's temper, my master, who is the most reason- able man in the world, presents you this to bear your charges on the road. \Gives her the purse. Phil. Now you think me a corrupt hussy. Tom. O fie, I only think you'll take the letter. Phil. Nay, I know you do, but I know my own inno- cence ; I take it for my mistress's sake. T07n. I know it, my pretty one, I know it. Phil. Yes, I say I do it, because I would not have my mistress deluded by one who gives no proof of his passion ; but I'll talk more of this as you see me on my way home. No, Tom, I assure thee, I take this trash of thy master's, not for the value of the thing, but as it con- vinces me he has a true respect for my mistress. I remember a verse to the purpose — They rnay be false who languish and complain, But they who part with money never feign. \Exmnt. SCENE II.— Bevil, Jun.'s Lodgings. Bevil, Jun., reading. Bev. fun. These moral writers practise virtue after death. This charming vision of Mirza ! ' Such an ' In the Vision of Mirza {Spectator, No. 159), Addison pictured the ffappy Islstnds which were the abode of good men after dgath. " Does life appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward ? " 288 THE CONS CIO US LO VERS. [act i. author consulted in a morning sets the spirit for the vicissitudes of the day better than the glass does a man's person. But wha,t a day have I to go through ! to put on an easy look with an aching heart ! If this lady my father urges me to marry should not refuse me, my dilemma is insupportable. But why should I fear it ? Is not she in equal distress with me ? Has not the letter I have sent her this morning confessed my inclina- tion to another ? Nay, have I not moral assurances of her engagements, too, to my friend Myrtle? It's im- possible but she must give in to it ; for, sure, to be denied is a favour any man may pretend to. It must be so — Well, then, with the assurance of being rejected, I think I may confidently say to my father, I am ready to marry her. Then let me resolve upon, what I am not very good at, though it is an honest dissimulation. Enter Tom. Tom. Sir John Bevil, sir, is in the next room. Bev. Jun. Dunce ! Why did not you bring him in ? Tom. I told him, sir, you were in your closet. Bev. Jun. I thought you had known, sir, it was my duty to see my father anywhere. \Going himself to the door, Tom. The devil's in my master ! he has always more wit than I have. [Aside. Bevil, Jun., introducing Sir John. Bev. Jun. Sir, you are the most gallant, the most com- plaisant of all parents. Sure, 'tis not a compliment to say these lodgings are yours. Why would you not walk in, sir ? ,; • Sir J. Bev. I was loth to interrupt you unseasonably on your wedding-day. Bev. Jun. One to whom I am beholden for my birth- day might have used less ceremony. SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 289 Sir J. Bev. Well, son, I have intelligence you have writ to your mistress this morning. It would please my curiosity to know the contents of a wedding-day letter ; for courtship must then be over. Bev.Jun. I assure you, sir, there was no insolence in it upon the prospect of such a vast fortune's being added to our family j but much acknowledgment of the lady's greater desert. Sir J. Bev. But, dear Jack, are you in earnest in all this ? And will you really marry her? Bev. Jun. Did I ever disobey any command of yours, sir ? nay, any inclination that I saw you bent upon ? Sir J. Bev. Why, I can't say you have, son ; but me- thinks in this whole business, you have not been so warm as I could have wished you. You have visited her, it's true, but you have not been particular. Everyone knows you can say and do as handsome things as any man; but you have done nothing but lived in the general — been complaisant only. Bev. Jun. As I am ever prepared to marry if you bid me, so 1 am ready to let it alone if you will have me. [Humphry enters, unobserved. Sir J. Bev. Look you there now ! why, what am I to think of this so absolute and so indifferent a resignation ? Bev, Jun. Think ? that I am still your son, sir. Sir, you have been married, and I have not. And you have, sir, found the inconvenience there is when a man weds with too much love in his head. I have been told, sir, that at, the time you married, you made a niighty bustle on the occasion. There was challenging and fighting, scaling walls, locking up the lady, and the gallant under an arrest for fear of killing all ■ his rivals. Now, sir, I suppose you having found the ill consequences of these strong passions and prejudices, in preference of one woman to another, in case of a man's becoming a widower Steele. U 2gd THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [Act I. Sir J^ 'Bev. How is this ? Bev.Jun^. I say, sir, experience has made you wiser in your care of me ; for, sir, since you lost my dear mother, your time has been so heavy, so lonely, and so taSteleSS; that you are so good as to guard rile against the like un- happiness, by marrying me prudentially by way of bar- gain and sale. For, as you well judgfij a woman that is espoused for a fortune, is yet a better bargain if she dies ; for then a man still enjoys what he did marry, the money, and is disencutnbered Of what he did not marry, the woman. Sir J. Bev. But pray, sir, do you think Lticinda, then, a woman of such little merit ? Bev. Jun.Faxdon riie, sir, I don't carry it so far neither ; I arti rather afraid I shall like her too well ; she has, for oiie of her fortune, a great inany needless and supetfluotis good qualities. Sir J. Bev. I am afraid, son, there's something I don't see yet, something that's smothered under all this raillery. Bev. fun. Not in the least, sin If the lady is dressed and ready, you see I am. I suppose the lawyers are ready too. Humph. This may grow warm if I don't interpo&Ci [Aside.] — Sir, Mr. Sealand is at the coffee-house, and has sent to speak with you. Sir/. Bev. Oh ! that's well ! Then I warrant the lawyers are ready. Son, you'll be in the way, you say; Bev. fun. If you please, sir, I'll take a chair, and go to Mr. Sealand'Sj where the young lady- and I will wait your leisure. Sir J. Bev. By no means. The old fellow will be so vain if he sees Bev. Jun. Ay j but the young lady, sir, will thinlc me so indifferent. SCENE 11.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVMRS. 291 Hutitph. Ky, there you are fight ; press your readiness to go to the bride — he won't let you. \Aside to Bev. Jun. Bev. Jun. Are you sure of that ? \Asiie to HuMph. Humph. How he likes being prevented. \Aside. Sir J. Bev. No, no. You are an hour or two too early. \Looking on his watch. Bev. Jun. You'll allow me, sir, to tUitik it too late to visit a beautiful, virtuous young woman, in the pride atid bloom of life, ready to give herself to my arms ; and to place her happiness or misery, for the future, in being agreeable or displeasing to me, is a Call a chair; Sir J. Bev. No, no, no, dear Jack; this Sealand is a moody old fellow. There's no dealing with some people but by managing with indifference. We must leave to him the conduct of this day. It is the last of his com- manding his daughter. Bev. Jun. Sir, he can't take it ill, that I am impatient to be hers. Sir J. Bev. Pray let me govern in this matter ; you can't tell how humorsome old fellows are. There's no bffering reason to some of 'em, especially when they are rich. — If my son should see him before I've brought old Sealand into better temper, the match would be imprac- ticable. \Aside. Humph. Pray; sir, let me beg you to let Mr. Bevil go. — See whether he will or not. \Aside to Sir John] —[Then to Bev.] Pray, sir, command yourself; since you see my master is positive, it is better you should not go. Bev. Jun. My father commands me, as to the object of iny affections ; but I hope he will not, as to the warmth and height of them. Sir J. Bev. So I I must even leave things as I found them ; and in the meantime, at least, keep old Sealand out of his sight — Well, son, I'll go myself and take orders in your affair. You'll be in the way, I suppose, if 1 Send to yoU. I'll leave your old friend with you — 292 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act I. Humphry, don't let him stir, d'ye hear ?— Your servant, your servant. \Exit Sir John. Humph. I have a sad time on'.t, sir, between you and my master. I see you are unwilling, and I know his violent inclinations for the match. — I must betray neither, and yet deceive you both, for your common good. . Heaven gi3,nt a good end of this matter. — But there is a lady, sir, that gives, your father much trouble and sorrow. — You'll pardon me. Bev.Jun. Humphry, I know thou art a friend to both, and in that confidence I dare tell thee, that lady is a woman of honour and. virtue. You may assure yourself I never will marry without my father's, consent,. But give me leave to say, too, this declaration does not come up to a promise that I will take whomsoever he pleases. . ,, Humph. Come, sir, I wholly understand you. You would engage my sfervices to free you from this woman whom my master intends you, to make way, in time, for the woman ypu have really a mind to. Bev.Jun. Honest Humphry, you have always been a useful friend to my father and myself; I beg you con- tinue your good offices, and don't let us come to the necessity of a dispute ; for, if we should dispute, I must either part with more than life, or lose the best of fathers. Humph. My dear master, were I but worthy to know this secret, that so near concerns you, my life, my all should be engaged to serve you. This, sir, I dare pro- raise, that I am sure I will and can be secret : your trust," at worst, but leaves you where you were ; and if I cannot serve you, I will at once be plain and tell you so, Bev.Jun.. That's all I ask. Thou hast made it now my interest to trust thee. Be patient, then, and hear the story of my heart. Humph. I am all attention, sir. Bev. Jun. You niay remember, Humphry, that in my SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 293 last travels' tny father grew uneasy at my making so long a stay at Toulon. Humph. I remember it ; he was apprehensive some woman had laid hold of you. Bev. Jun: His fears were just ; for there I first saw this lady. She is of English birth : her father's name was Danvers — a yoUnger brother of an ancient family, and originally an eminent merchant of Bristol, who, upon repeated misfortunes, was reduced to go privately to the Indies. In this retreat, Providence again grew favourable to his industry, and, in six years' time, restored him to his former fortunes. On this he sent directions over that his wife and little family should follow him to the Indies. His wife, impatient to obey such welcome orders, would not wait the leisure of a convoy, but took the first occa- sion of a single ship, and, with her husband's sister only, and this daughter, then scarce seven years old, under- took the fatal voyage — for here, poor creature, she lost her liberty and life. She and her family, with all they had, were, unfortunately, taken by a privateer from Toulon. Being thus made a prisoner, though as such not ill-treated, yet the fright, the shock, and cruel dis- appointment, seized with such violence upon her un- healthy frame, she sickened, pined, and died at sea. Humph. Poor soul ! O the helpless infant ! Bev. Her sister yet survived, and had the care of her. The captain, too, proved to have humanity, and became a father to her ; for having himself married an English woman, and being childless, he brought home into TquIou this her little country-woman, presenting her, with all her dead mother's movables of value, to his wife, to be educated as his own adopted daughter. Humph. Fortune here seemed again to smile on her. Bev. Only to make her frowns more terrible ; for, in his height of fortune, this captain, too, her benefactor, unfortunately was killed at sea ; and dying iiitestate, his 394 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act I. estate fell whplly tQ a,n advocate, hi? brother, whp, coming soon to take ^possession, there found (among his Other riches) this blooming virgin at his mercy. Humph. He durst not, sure, abuse his power ? Btv. No wonder if his parrjpered blood was fired at the sight of her — in short, he Igved ; but when all arts and gentle means had failed tp move, he offered, too, hi? menaces in vain, denouncing vengeance pn her cruelty, demanding her to account for all her main' tenance from h?r childhood ; seized on her little fprtunq as his own inheritance, and >vas dragging hpr by violence to prison, when Providence at the instant interposed, and sent me, by miracle, tp relieve her,' JIupiph- 'Tw^S Providence, indeed. But pray, sir, after all thi^ tro|ihle, hpw came this lady iit last to Pngr land? , Eep., The disappointed advocate, finding she had sp i;nexpected a ^t(pport, on pooler thoughts, descended to a composition, which I, without her knowledge, secretly discharged. ffvp^h. That generous concealment made the obliga- tion dpuble. Bev. Efaving thus obtained her liherty, I prevailed, not without some difficulty, to see her safe to England ; where, no sooner arrived, bflt my father, jpalous of my being imprudently engaged, immediately proposed this Qth^r fatal match that hangS upon my quiet. Hurnphr I find, sir, ypu are irrecoverably fixed upon this lady. Bev. As my vital Ijfg dwells in my heart-^and yet you see \yhat I do to please my father : walk in this pageantry of dress, tliis splendid -toyering of sprrow-^But, Jlurp- phry, you have your lesson. 1 In Terence, Glycerium comes to Athens with Chrysis, a cour- tezan, her supposed sisler, and Pamphilus makes her acquaintance at Chrysis's \^^% , SCENE n.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 295 Humph. Now, sir, I have but one material ques- tion Bev. Ask it freely. liumph. Is it, then, your own passion for this secret lady, or hers for you, that gives you this aversion to the match your father has proposed you ? Mev. I shajl appear, Humphry, more romantic in my answer than in all the rest of my story ; for though I cjote on her to death, and have no little reason to believe she ha? the same thoughts for me, yet in all my acquaintance and utmost privacies with her, I never once directly told her that I loved. Humph. How was it possible to avoid it ? Bev. My tender obligations to my father have laid so iijviolable a restraint upon my conduct that, till I have his consent to speak, I am determined, on that subject, to be dumb for ever. Hitmph. Well, sir, to your praise be it spoken, you are certainly the most unfashionable lover in Great Britain. Enter Tom. Tom. Sir, Mr. Myrtle's at the next door, and, if you are at leisure, will be glad to wait on you. Bev. Whenever he pleases hold, Tom ! did you receive no answer to my letter ? Tom. Sir, I was desired to call again ; for I was told her mother would not let her be out of her sight ; but about an hour hence, Mrs. Lettice said, I should certainly have one. Bev. Very well. \Exit Tom. Humph. Sir, I will take another opportunity. In the meantime, I only think it proper to tell you that, from a secret I know, you may appear to your father as forward as you please, to marry Lucinda without the least hazard of its coming to a conclusion — Sir, your most obedient servant. 2g6 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [ACT I. Bev. Honest Humphry, continue but my friend in this exigence, and you shall always find me yours. \Exii Humph.] — I long to hear how my letter has succeeded with Lucinda — but I think it cannot fail ; for, at worst, were it possible she could take it ill, her resentment ot my indifference may as probably occasion a delay as her taking it right. Poor Myrtle, what'terrors must he be in all this while ? Since he knows she is offered to me, and refused to him, there is no conversing or taking any measures with him for his own service. — But I ought to bear with my firiend, and use him as one in adversity — All his disquiets by my own I prove. The greatest grief's perplexity in love. \JLxit, ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I.— Bevil, Jun.'s Lodgings. Enter Bevil, Jun. and Tom. , OM. Sir, Mr. Myrtle. Bev. Jun. Very well — do you step again, and wait for an answer to my letter. \Exit Tom. Enter Myrtle. Bev. Jun. Well, Charles, why so much care in thy countenance ? Is there anything in this world deserves it ? You, who used to be so gay, so open, so vacant ! Myrt. I think we have of late changed coipplexions. You, who used to be much the graver man, are now all air in your behaviour. — But the cause of my concern may, for aught I know, be the same object that gives you all this satisfaction. In a word, I am told that you are this very day — and your dress confirms me in it — to be married to Lucinda. Bai.Jun. You are not misinformed. — Nay, put not on the terrors of a rival till you hear me out. I shall dis- oblige the best of fathers if I don't seem ready to marry Lucinda ; and you know I have ever told you you might make use of my secret resolution never to marry her for 2<)8 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [ACT ll. your own service as you please ; but I am now driven to the extremity of immediately refusing or complying unless you help me to escape the match. Myrt. Escape ? Sir, neither her merit or her for- tune are below your acceptance — Escaping do you call it ? Bev. Jun. Dear sir, do you wish I should desire the match ? Myrt. No; but such is my humorous and sickly state of mind since it has been able to relish nothing but Lucinda, that though I must owe my happiness to your aversion to this marriage, I can't bear to hear Ijer spoken of with levity or unconcern. Bev. Jun. Pardon pie, sir, I shall transgress that way no more. She ha§ unfierstanding, beauty, shape, complexion, wit— Myrt. Nay, dear Bevil, don't speak of her as if yotj loved her neither. Bev. Jun. Why, then, to give you ease at once, though I allow Lucinda to have good sense, wit, beauty, and virtue, I know another in whom these qualities appear to me more amiable than in her. Myrt. There you spoke like a reasonable and good- natured friend. When you acknowledge her merit, and own your prepossession for another, at once yoii gratify my fondness and cure my jealousy. Bev, Jun, But all this while you take no notice, yoii have no apprehension, of another man that has twice the fortune of either of us. Myrt. Cimberton 1 ' hang hira, a formal, philosophical, pedantic coxcomb; for the sot, with all these crijd? notions of divers things, under the direction of great vanity and very little judgment, shows his strongest bias is avarice ; which is so predoipinant in hipi that he will examine the lipbs of his mistrpsg with the caution of a ' TWs character has no prototype in Terence's Andria. SCENE 1.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 299 j'ookey, and pays no more compliment to her personal charms than if she were a mere breeding animal. Bev. Jun. Are you sure that is not affected ? I have known some women sooner set on fire by that sort of negligence than by Myrt. No, no ; hang him, the rogue has no art ; it is pure, simple insolence and stupidity. Bev.Jun. Yet, with all this, I don't take him for a fool, Myrt. I own the man is not a natural ; he has a very quick sense, though very slow understanding. He says, indeed, many things that want only the circumstances of time- and place to be very just and agreeable. Bev. Jun. Well, you may be sure of me if you can dis- appoint him ; but my intelligence says the mother has actually sent for the conveyancer to draw articles for his marriage with Lucinda, though those for mine with her are, by her father's orders, ready for signing; but it seems she has not thought fit to consult either him or his daughter in the matter. Myfi. Pshaw ! a poor troublesome woman. Neither Lucinda nor her father will ever be brought to comply with it. Besides, I am sure Cimberton can make no settlement upon her without the concurrence of his great uncle. Sir GeofFry, in the west. Bev. Jun. Well, sir, and I can tell you that's the very point that is now laid before her counsel, to know whether a firm settlement can be made without his uncle's actual joining in it. Now, pray consider, ■ sir, when my affair with Lucinda comes, as it soon must, to an open rupture, how are you sure that Cimberton's fortune may not then tempt her father, too, to hear his proposals ? Myrt. There you are right, indeed ; that must be pro- vided against. Do you know who are her counsel ? Bev. Jun. Yes, for your service I have found out that, too. They are Serjeant Bramble and Old Target— by 300 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [actii. the way, they are neither of them known in the family. Now, I was thinking why you might not put a couple of false counsel upon her to delay and confound matters a little ; besides, it may probably let you into the bottom of her whole design against you. Myrt. As how, pray ? Bai. Jim. Why, can't you slip on a black wig and a gown, and be Old Bramble yourself? Myrt. Ha ! I don't dislike it. — But what shall I do for a brother ia the case ? Bev. Jun. What think you of my fellow, Tom ? The rogue's intelligent, and is a good mimic. AH his part will be but to stutter heartily, for that's old Target's case. Nay, it would be an immoral thing to mock him were it not that his impertinence is the occasion of its breaking out to that degree. The conduct of the scene will chiefly lie upon you. Myrt.. I like it of all things. If you'll send Tom to my chambers, I will give him full instructions. This will certainly give me occasion to raise difficulties, to puzzle or confound her project for a while at least. Bev. Jun. I'll warrant you success. — So far we are right, then. And now, Charles, your apprehension of my marrying her is all you have to get over. Myrt. Dear Bevil, though I know you are my friend, yet when I abstract myself from my own interest in the thing, I know no objection she can make to you, or you to her, and therefore hope Bev. Jun. Dear Myrtle, I am as much obliged to you for the cause of your suspicion, as I am offended at the effect ; but, be assured, I am taking measures for your certain security, and that all things with regard to me will end in your entire satisfaction. Myrt. Well, I'll promise you to be as easy and as con- fident, as I can, though I cannot but remember that I have more than life at stake on your fidelity. \Going. SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 301 Bev. Jun. Then depend upon it, you have no chance against you. . Myrt. Nay, no ceremony, you know I must be going. \Exit Myrt. Bev. Jun. Well, this is another instance of the perplex- ities which arise, too, in faithful friendship. We must often in this life go on in our good offices, even under the displeasure of those to whom we do them, in compassion to their weaknesses and mistakes. — But all this while poor Indiana is tortured with the doubt of me. She has no support or comfort but in my fidehty, yet sees me daily pressed to marriage with another. How painful, in such a crisis, must be every hour she thinks on me ! I'll let her see at least my conduct to her is not changed. I'll take this opportunity to visit her ; for though the religious vow I have made to my father restrains me from ever marrying without his approbation, yet that confines me not from seeing a virtuous woman that is the pure delight of my eyes and the guiltless joy of my heart. But the best condition of human life is but a gentler misery — To hope for perfect happiness is vain. And love has ever its allays of pain. \Exit. SCENE II.— Indiana's Lodgings. Enter Isabella and Indiana. Isab. Yes, I say 'tis artifice, dear child. I say to thee again and again 'tis all skill and management. Ind. Will you persuade me there can be an ill design in supporting me in the condition of a woman of quality ? attended, dressed, and lodged like one j in iny appearance abroad and my furniture at home, every way in the most 302 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [ACT II. sumptuous manner, and he that does it has an artifice, a design in it? Isab. Yes, yes; Lid. And all this without so much as explaining to me that all about me comes from him ! Isab. Ay, ay, the more for that. That keeps the title to all you have the more in him: Ind. The more in him ! He scorns the thought Isab. Then he — he — he Ind. Well, be not so eager: If he is an ill man^ let us look into his stratagems. Here is another of them. [Showing a letterl\ Here's two hundred and fifty pounds in bank notes, with these words ; " To pay for the set of dressing-plate which will be brought home to-morrow." Why, dear aunt, now here's another piece of skill for you, which I own I cannot comprehend ; and it is with a bleeding heart I hear you say anjrthing to the disadvan- tage of Mr. Bevil. When he is present I look upon him as one to whom I owe my life and the support of it ; then, again, as the man who loves me with sincerity and honour. When his eyes are cast another way, and I dare survey him, my heart is painfully divided between shame and love. Oh ! could I tell you Isab. Ah ! you need not ; I imagine all this for you. Ind. This is my state of mind in his presence ; and when he is absent, you are ever dinning my ears With notions of the arts of men ; that his hidden bounty, his respectful conduct, his careful provision for me, after his preserving me from utmost misery, are certain signs he means nothing but to make I know not what of me. Isab. Oh I You have a sweet opiiiion of hirii, truly; Ind. I have, when I am with him, ten thousand things, besides my sex's natural decency and shame, to Suppress my heaft, that yearns to thank, to praise, to say it loves him. I say, thuS it is with me while I see him ; and in his absence I am entertained with nothing btlt SCENE iL] THM COi s>is^-s>?»? iik9:^i-^^^^i-^i'Sir^i^i^Pi^^<^i'e^^^r^^^~i<--!^-i€i^-i^-if%i ACT THE THIRD.i SCENE. — Sealand's House. Enter Tom, meeting Phillis. OM. Well, Phillis ! What, with a face as if you had never seen me before ! — What a work have I to do now ? She has seen some new visitant at their house whose airs she has caught, and is resolved to practise them upon me. Numberless are the changes she'll dance through before she'll answer this plain question : videlicet, have you delivered my master's letter to your lady ? Nay, I know her too well to ask an account of it in an ordinary way ; I'll be in my airs as well as she. \Aside?\ — Well, madam, as unhappy as you are at present pleased to make me, I would not, in the general, be any other than what I am. I would not be a bit wiser, a bit richer, a bit taller, a bit shorter than I am at this instant. \Looking steadfastly at her. Phil. Did ever anybody doubt, Master Thomas, but that you were extremely satisfied with your sweet self? Tom. I am, indeed. The thing I have least reason to be satisfied with is my fortune, and I am glad of my ' There is nothing in Terence's Andria to correspond to the incidents in this act ; and throughout the remainder of the play there is no resemblance except the general idea of the story. 314 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act iii« poverty. Perhaps if I were rich I should overlook the finest woman in the world, that .wants nothing but riches to be thought so. Phil. How prettily was that said ! But I'll have a. great deal more before I'll say one word. [Aside. Tom. I should, perhaps, have been stupidly above her had I not been her equal ; and by not being her equal, never had opportunity of being her slave. I am my master's servant for hire — I am my mistress's from choice, would she but approve my passion. Phil. I think it's the first time I ever heard you speak of it with any sense of the anguish, if you really do suffer any. Tom. Ah, Phillis ! can you doubt, after what you have seen ? Phil. I know not what I have seen, nor what I have heard ; but since I am at leisure, you may tell me when you fell in love with me ; how you fell in love with me ; and what you have suffered pr are ready to suffer for me. Tom. Oh, the unmerciful jade ! when I am in has't? about my master's letter. But I must go through it. [Aside.] — Ah ! ' too well I remember when, and how, and 1 Steele had already described this scene in the Guardian for June 20, 1713 : — "I happened the other day to pass by a gentle- man's house, and saw the most flippant scene of low love that I have ever observed. The maid was rubbing the windows within side of the house, and her humble servant the footman was so happy a man as to be etnployed in cleaning the same glass on the side towards the street. iTlie wench began with the greatest severity of aspect imaginable, and breathing on the glass, followed it with a dry cloth ; her opposite observed her, arid fetching a deep sigh, as if it were his l^st, with a very disconsolate air did the same on his side of the window. He still worked on and languished, until at last his fair one Smiled, but Covered herself, and spreading the napkin in her hand, concealed herself from her admirer, while he took pains, as it were, to work through all that intercepted their meeting. This pretty contest held for four or five large panes of glass, until at last the waggery was turned into an humorous way of breathing in each other's i'aces, and catching the impression. The gay creatures were thus loving and pleasing their imagina* tions with their nearness and distance, until the windows were so SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 315 on what occasion I was first surprised. It was on the ist of April, 1715, I came into Mr. Sealand's service; I was then a hobbledehoy, and you a pretty little tight girl, a favourite handmaid of the housekeeper. At that time; we neither of us knew what was in us. I remem- ber I was ordered to get out of the window, one pair of stairs, to rub the sashes clean ; the person employed on the inner side was your charming self, whom I had never seen before. Phil. I think I remember the silly accident. What made ye, you oaf, ready to fall down into the street? Tom. You know not, I warrant you — you could not guess what surprised me. You took no delight when you immediately grew wanton in your conquest, and put your lips close, and breathed upon the glass, and when my lips approached, a dirty cloth you rubbed against my face, and hid your beauteous form ! When I again drew near, you spit, and rubbed, and smiled at my undoing. Phil. What silly thoughts you men have ! Tom. We were Pyramus and Thisbe — but ten times harder was my fate. Pyramus could peep only through a wall ; I saw her, saw my Thisbe in all her beauty, but as much kept from her as if a hundred walls between — for there was more : there was her will against me. Would she but yet relent ! O Phillis ! Phillis ! shorten my torment, and declare you pity me. Phil. I believe it's very sufferable ; the pain is not so exquisite but that you may bear it a little longer. Tom. Oh ! my charming Phillis, if all depended on ^my fair one's will, I could with glory suffer — but, dearest creature, consider our miserable state. Phil. How ! Miserable ! Tom. We are miserable to be in love, and under the tritisparent that the beauty of the female made the man-servant impatient of beholding it, and the whole house besides being abroad, he ran in, and they lomped out of my sight." 3i6 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act iii. command of others than those we love ; with that gene- rous passion in the heart, to be sent to and fro on errands, called, checked, and rated for the meanest trifles. Oh, Phi His ! you don't "know how many china cups and glasses my passion for you has made me break. You have broke my fortune as well as my heart. Phil. Well, Mr. Thomas, I cannot but own to you that I believe your master writes and you speak the best of any men in the world. Never was woman so well pleased with a letter as my young lady was with his ; and this is an answer to it. \Gives him a letter. Tom. This was well done, my dearest ; consider, we must strike out some pretty livelihood for ourselves by closing their affairs. It will be nothing for them to give us a little being of our own, some small tenement, out of their large possessions. Whatever they give us, it will be more than what they keep for themselves. One acre with Phillis would be worth a whole county without her. Phil. O, could I but believe you ! Tom. If not the utterance, believe the touch of my lips. \Kisses her. Phil. There's no contradicting you. How closely you argue, Tom ! Tom. And will closer, in due time. But I must hasten with this letter, to hasten towards the possession of you. Then, Phillis, consider how I must be revenged, look to it, of all your skittishness, shy looks, and at best but coy compliances. Phil. Oh, Tom, you grow wanton, and sensual, as my lady calls it ; I must not endure it. Oh ! foh ! you are a man — an odious, filthy, male creature — you should be- have, if you had a right sense or were a man of sense, like Mr. Cimberton, with distance and indifference ; or, let me see, some other becoming hard word, with seeming in-in-inadvertency, and not rush on one as if you were seizing a prey. — But hush ! the ladies are coming. — Good SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 317 Tom, don't kiss me above once, and be gone. Lard, we have been fooling and toying, and not considered the main business of our masters and mistresses. Tom. Why, their business is to be fooling and toying as soon as the parchments are ready. Phil. Well remembered, parchments ; my lady, to my knowledge, is preparing writings between her coxcomb cousin, Cimberton, and my mistress, though my master has an eye to the parchments already prepared between your master, Mr. Bevil, and my mistress ; and, I be- lieve, my mistress herself has signed and sealed, in her heart, to Mr. Myrtle. — Did I not bid you kiss me but once, and be gone ? But I know you won't be satisfied. Tom. No, you smooth creature, how should I ? \Kissing her hand. Phil. Well, since you are so humble, or so cool, as to ravish my hand only, I'll take my leave of you like a great lady, and you a man of quality. \They salute formally. Tom. Pox of all this state. [ Offers to kiss her more closely. Phil. No, prithee, Tom, mind your business. We must follow that interest which will take, but endeavour at that which will be most for us, and we like most. Oh, here is my young mistress ! [Tom taps her neck behind, and kisses his fingers.^ Go, ye liquorish fool. [Exit Tom. Enter Lucinda. Luc. Who was that you were hurrying away ? Phil. One that I had no mind to part with. Ltic. Why did you turn him away then ? Phil. For your ladyship's service — to carry your lady- ship's letter to his master. I could hardly get the rogue away. Luc. Why, has he so little love for his master ? Phil No i but he hath so much love for his mistress. 3i8 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [ACT ill Luc. But I thought I heard him kiss you. Why did you suffer that ? Phil. Why, madam, we vulgar take it to be a sign of love — We servants, we poor people, that have nothing but our persons to bestow or treat for, are forced to deal and bargain by way of sample, and therefore as we have no parchments or wax necessary in our agreements, we squeeze with our hands and seal with our lips, to ratify vows and promises. Luc. But can't you trust one another without such earnest down ? Phil. We don't think it safe, any more than you gentry, to come together without deeds executed. Luc. Thou art a pert merry hussy. Phil. I wish, madam, your lover and you were as happy as Tom and your servant are. Luc. You grow impertinent. Phil. I have done, madam ; and I won't ask you what you intend to do with Mr. Myrtle, what your father will do with Mr. Bevil, nor what you all, especially my lady, mean by admitting Mr. Cimberton as particularly here as if he were married to you already ; nay, you are mar- ried actually as far as people of quality are. Luc. How is that ? Phil. You have different beds in the same house. Luc. Pshaw ! I have a very great value for Mr. Bevil, but have absolutely put an end to his pretensions in the letter I gave you for him. But my father, in his heart, still has a mind to him, were it not for this woman they talk of; and I am apt to imagine he is married to her, or never designs to marry at all. Phil. Then Mr. Myrtle Luc. He had my parents' leave to apply to me, and by that he has won me and my affections ; who is to have this body of mine without them, it seems, is nothing to me. My mother says 'tis indecent for me to let my SCENE I.J THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 319 thoughts stray about the person of my husband ; nay, she says a maid, rigidly virtuous, though she may have been where her lover was a thousand times, should not have made observations enough to know him from another man when she sees him in a third place. Phil. That is more than the severity of a nun, for not to see when one may is hardly possible ; not to see when one can't is very easy. At this rate, madam, there are a great many whom you have not seen who Luc. Mamma says the first time you see your husband should be at that instant he is made so. When your father, with the help of the minister, gives you to him, then you are to see him ; then you are to observe and take notice of him ; because then you are to obey him. Phil. But does not my lady remember you are to love as well as obey ? Luc. To love is a passion, it is a desire, and we must have no desires. — Oh, I cannot endure the reflection ! With what insensibility on my part, with what more than patience have I been exposed and offered to some awk- ward booby or other in every county of Great Britain ! Phil. Indeed, madam, I wonder I never heard you speak of it before v/ith this indignation. Luc. Every corner of the land has presented me with a wealthy coxcomb. As fast as one treaty has gone off, , another has come on, till my name and person have been the tittle-tattle of the whole town. What is this world come to ? — no shame left — to be bartered for like the beasts of the field, and that in such an instance as com- ing together to an entire familiarity and union of soul and body. Oh ! and this without being so much as well- wishers to each other, but for increase of fortune. Phil. But, madam, all these vexations will end very soon in one for all. Mr. Cimberton is your mother's kinsman, and three hundred years an older gentleman than any lover you ever had j for which reason, with that 320 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [ACT III. of his prodigious large estate, she is resolved on him, and has sent to consult the lawyers accordingly ; nay, has (whether you know it or no) been in treaty with Sir Geofifry, who, to join in the settlement, has accepted of a sum to do it, and is every moment expected in town for that purpose. Luc. How do you get all this intelligence ? Phil. By an art I have, I thank my stars, beyond all the waiting-maids in Great Britain — the art of listening, madam, for your ladyship's service. Luc. I shall soon know as much as you do ; leave me, leave me, Phillis, begone. Here, here ! I'll turn you out. My mother says I must not converse with my ser- vants, though I must converse with no one else. \Exit Phil.] — How unhappy are we who are born to great fortunes ! No one looks at us with indifference, or acts towards us on the foot of plain dealing ; yet, by all I have been heretofore offered to or treated for I have been used with the most agreeable of all abuses — flattery. But now, by this phlegmatic fool I'm used as nothing, or a mere thing. He, forsooth, is too wise, too learned to have any regard for desires, and I know not what the learned oaf calls sentiments of love and passion — Here he comes with my mother — It's much if he looks at me, or if he does, takes no more notice of me than of any other movable in the room. Enter Mrs. Sealand, and Mr. Cimberton. Mrs. Seal. How do I admire this noble, this learned taste of yours, and the worthy regard you have to our own ancient and honourable house in consulting a means to keep the blood as pure and as regularly descended as may be. dm. Why, really, madam, the young women of this age are treated with discourses of such a tendency, and SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 321 their imaginations so bewildered in flesh and blood, that a man of reason can't talk to be understood. They have no ideas of happiness, but what are more gross than the gratification of hunger and thirst. Luc. With how much reflection he is a coxcomb ! \Aside. dm. And in truth, madam, I have considered it as a most brutal custom that persons of the first character in the world should go as ordinarily, and with as little shame, to bed as to dinner with one another. They proceed to the propagation of the species as openly as to the pre- servation of the individual. Luc. She that willingly goes to bed to thee must have no shame, I'm sure. \Aside. Mrs. Seal. Oh, cousin Cimberton ! cousin Cimberton ! how abstracted, how refined is your sense of things ! But, indeed, it is too true there is nothing so ordinary as to say, in the best governed families, my master and lady have gone to bed ; one does not know but it might have been said of one's self. \Hiding her face with her fan.. Cim. Lycurgus, madam, instituted otherwise; among the Lacedaemonians the whole female world was pregnant, but none but the mothers themselves knew by whom ; their meetings were secret, and the amorous congress always by stealth ; and no such professed doings between the sexes as are tolerated among us under the audacious word, marriage. Mrs. Seal. Oh, had I lived in those days and been a matron of Sparta, one might with less indecency have had ten children, according to that modest institution, than one, under the confusion of our modern, barefaced manner. Luc. And yet, poor woman, she has gone through the whole ceremony, and here I stand a melancholy proof of it. {Aside. Mrs. Seal. We will talk then of business. That girl Steele Y ^^2 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act m. Walking about the room there is to be your wife. She has, i confess, no ideas, no sentiments, that speak her born of a thinking motherl Cimb. I have observed her ; her lively look, free air, and disengaged coiintetiance speak her very — — Luc. Very what ? Cimh. If you pleSS^, mddatti — to set her a little that way. • ■ * "■' ' Mrs. Seal. Lucinda, 6ay nothing to him, jou are not a match for him ; when you are married, you may speak to such a husband when you're spoken to. But I am disposing of you above yourself every way. Cimb. Madam, yoii cannot but observe the incon- veniences I expose myself to, in hopes that your lady- ship will be the consort of my better part. As for the young woman, she is rather an impediment than a help to a man of letters and speculation. Madam, there is no reflection, no philosophy, can at all times subdue the sensitive lifej but the animal shall sometimes carry away the man. Ha! ay, the vermilion of her lips. Lite. Pray, don't talk of me thus. Cimb, The pretty enough — pant of her bosom. Luc, Sir ! madam, don't you hear him ? Cimb. Her forward chest. Luc. Intolerable ! Cimb. High health. Luc. The grave, easy impudence of hiuil Cimb^ Proud heart. Luc. Stupid coxcomb ! Cimb. I sayj madam, her impatience, while we are looking at her, throws out all attractions^her arms — her neck — what a spring in her step ! Luc. Don't you run me over thus, you strange un- accountable ! Cimb. What an elasticity in her veins and arteries ! Z«A 1 have no veins, no arteries. SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 323 Mrs. Seal. Oh, child ! hear him, he talks finely ; he's a scholar, he knows what you have. Citnb. The speaking invitation of her shape, the gathering of herself up, and the indignation you see in the pretty little thing — Now, I am considering her, on this occasion, btit as one that is to be pregnant. Luc. The familiar, learned, unseasonable puppy ! l^Aside. Cimb. And pregnant undoubtedly she will be yearly. I fear I shan't, for many years, have discretion enough to give her one fallow season. - Luc. Monster ! there's no bearing it. The hideous sot ! there's no enduring it, to be thus surveyed like a steed at sale. Cimb. At sale ! She's very illiterate — But she's very well limbed too j turn her in ; I see what she is. \Exit LuciNDA, in a rage. Mrs. Seal. Go, you creature, I am ashamed of you. Cimb. No harm done^you know, madam, the better sort of people, as I observed to you, treat by their lawyers oi'fte.Adcmg%\Adjusting himself at ike gtassl\ — and the woman in the bargain, like the mansion house in the sale of the estate, is thrown in, and what that is, whether good or bad, is not at all considered. Mrs. Seal. I grant it; and therefore make no demand for her youth and beauty, and every other accomplish- fpent, as the common world think 'em, because she is not polite. (2imb. Madam, I know your exalted understanding, abstracted, as it is, from vulgar prejudices, will not be offended, when I declare to you, 1 marry to have an heir to my estate, and not to beget a colony, or a plantation. This young woman's beauty and constitution will de- mand provision for a tenth child at least. Mrs. Seal. With all that wit and learning, how con- siderate 1 What an economist ! [.<5fji/if.]^-Sir, I cannot 324 THE CONSCIOUS ZOVERS. [act ill. make her any other than she is; or say she is much, better than the other young women of this age, or fit for much besides being a mother ; but I haye given direc- tions for the marriage settlements, and Sir Geoffry Cim- berton's counsel is to meet ours here, at this hour, con- cerning this joining in the; deed, which, when executed, makes you capable of settling what is due to Lucinda's fortune. Herself, as I told you, I say nothing of. Cimb. No, no, no, indeed, madam, it is not usual ; and I must depend upon my own reflection and philosophy not to overstock my family. Mrs. Seal. I cannot help her, cousin Cimberton ; but she is, for aught I see, as well as the daughter of any- body else. Cimb. That is very true, madam, Enter a Servant, who whispers Mrs. Sealand. Mrs. Seal. The lawyers are come, and now we are to hear what they have resolved as to the point whether it's necessary that Sir Geoffry should join in the settlement, as being what they call in the remainder. But, good cousin, you must have patience with 'em. These lawyers, I am told, are of a different kind ; one is what they call a chamber counsel, the other a pleader. The conveyancer is slow, from an imperfection in his speech, and therefore shunned the bar, but extremely passionate and impatient of contradiction. The other is as warm as he; but has a tongue so voluble, and a head so conceited,, he will suffer nobody to speak but himself. Cimb. You mean old Serjeant , Target and Counsellor Bramble? I have heard of 'em. Mrs. Se0l, The same. Show in the gentlemen. ,j ,^ . ^ [Exit ^exwaxA. Re-enter Servant, introduting Myrtle .qi.nd Tom disguised ■ as Bramble and Target. Mrs. Seal. Qentlenien, this is the , party, concerned. SCENE I.] THE CONSCIO US LO VERS. 325 Mr. Cimberton ; and I hope you have considered of the matter. Tar. Yes, madam, we have agreed that it liiust be by indent dent dent dent Brain. Yes, madam, Mr. Serjeant and myself have agreed, as he is pleased to inform you, that it must be an indenture tripartite,' and tripartite let it be, for Sir Geoffry must needs be a party ; old Cimberton, in the year 1619, says, in that ancient roll in Mr. Serjeant's hands, as recourse thereto being had, will more at large appear Tar. Yes, and by the deeds in your hands, it appears that Bram. Mr. Serjeant, I beg of you to make no infer- ences upon what is in our custody; but speak to the titles in your own deeds. \ shall not show that deed till my client is in town. Cimb. You know best your own methods. Mrs. Seal. The single question is, whether the entail is such that my cousin, Sir Geoffry, is necessary in this affair? Bram. Yes, as to the lordship of Tretriplet, but not as to the messuage of Grimgribber. Tar. I say that Gr-^gr — that Gr — gr — Grimgribber, Grimgribber is in us ; that is to say the remainder thereof, as well as that of Tr — tr — Triplet. Bram. You go upon the deed of Sir Ralph, made in the middle of the last century, precedent to that in which old Cimberton made over the remainder, and made it pass to the heirs general, by which your client comes in; and I question whether the remainder even of Tretriplet is in hiih — But we are willing to waive that, and give him a valuable consideration. But.we shall not purchase Steele's monetary troubles made him personally familiar about the time he wrote this play with indentures' tripartite, quadnipartite, and otherwise (See Life of Steele, 1889, 11., 291,299, &c.). 326 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act ill., what is in us for ever, as Grimgribberis, at the rate, as we guard against the contingent of Mr. Cimberton haying no son-— Then we know Sir Geofifry is the first of the collateral male line in this family— yet Tar. Sir, Gr gr ber is Brain. I apprehend you very well, and your argument might be of force, and we would be inclined to hear that in all its parts^But, sir, I see very plainly what you are going into. I tell you, it is as probable a contingent that Sir Geoffry may die befbre Mr. Cimbertonj as that he may outlive him. Tar. Sir, we are not ripe for that yet, but I must say Bram. Sir, I allow you the whole extent of that argu- ment ; but that will go no farther than as to the claimants under old Gimberton. : I am of opinion that, according to the instruction of Sir Ralph, he could not dock the entail, and then create a new estate for the heirs general. Tar, Sir, I have not patience to be told that; when Gr gr ber Bram. I will allow it you, Mr. Serjeant ; but there must be the word heirs for ever, to make such an estate as you pretend. Ciiiib. I must be impartial, though you are counsel for my side of the question. Were it not that you are so good as to allow him what he h^s not sajid, I should think it very hard you should answer him without hear- ing him^rBut, gentlemen, I believe you have both con- sidered this matter, and are firm in your different; opinions. Twere better, therefore, you proceeded according to the particula,r sense of each of you; and gave your thoughts distinctly in writing. And do you see, sirs, pray let me have a copy of what you say in English^ Bram. Why, what is h'X we have been saying? In jfihglish t Oh ! biit I forgot myself, ydii're a wit. But, SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 327 hbwever, to please you, sir, you shall haye it, in as plain terms as the law will admit of. Cimh. But I would have it, sir, without delay. Bram. That, sir, the law will not admit of. The Courts are sitting at Westminster, and I am this moment obliged to be at every one of them, and 'twould be wrong if I should not be, in the hall to attend one of 'em at least ; the rest would take it ill else. Therefore, I must leave what I have said to Mr. Serjeant's consideration, and I will digest his arguments on my part, and you shall hear from me again, sir. \Exit Bramble. Tar. Agreed, agreed. Cimh. isir. Bramble iS very quick ; he parted a littlp abruptly. Tar. He could hot bear my argument ; I pinched him to the quick about that Gr^ — ■ — gr ber. Mrs. Seal. I saw that, for he durst not so much as hear you. I shall send to you, Mr. Serjeant, as soon as Sir Geoffry comes to town, and then I hope all may be adjusted. Tar. i shall be at my chambers, at my usual hours. \Exit. Cimb. Madam, if you please, I'll now attend you to the tea table, where I shall hear from your ladyship reason and good sense, after all this law and gibberish. Mrs. Seal. 'Tis a wonderful thing, sir, that nien of pi-6- fessions do not study to talk the substance of what they have to say in the language of the rest of the woirld. Sure, they'd find tlieir account in it. Cimh. They might, perhaps, madam, with people of yBur good sense ; but with the generality 'twould never do. The vulgar would have no respect for truth and knowledge, if they were exposed to naked view. Truth is too simple, of all art bereaved : Since the world will — wiy let it be deceived. {^Exeiiht. ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE I.-7-Bevil, Jun.'S Lodgings.^ Bevil, Jun., ihith a letter in his hand, followed Hy "Ygm.. OM. Upon my life, sir, I know nothing of the matter. I never opened my lips to Mr. Myrtle about anything of your honour's letter to Madam Lucind^. Bev. What's the fool in such a fright for ? I don't suppose you did. What I would know is, whether Mr. Myrtle shows any suspicion, or asked you any questions, to lead you to say casually that you had carried any such letter for me this morning. Tom. Why, sir, if he did ask me any questions, how could I help it ? Bev. I don't say you could, oaf! I am not question- ing you, but him, What did he say to you ? Tom, Why, sir, when I came to his chambers, to be dressed for the lawyer's part your honour was pleased to put me upon, he asked me if I had been at Mr. Sea- land's this morning? So I told him, sir, I often went thither — because, sir, if I had not said that he might have thought there was something more in my going now than at another time. Bev. Very well ! — The fellow's caution, I find, has given him this jealousy. \Aside^^—£)\&. he ask you no other questions ? 1 This scene is, of course, entirely original. SCENE 1.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 329 Tom. Yes, sir ; now I remember, as we came away in the hackney coach from Mr. Sealand's, Tom, says he, as I came in to your master this morning, he bade you go for an answer to a letter he had sent. Pray did you bring him any ? says he. Ah ! says I, sir, your honour is pleased to joke with me; you have a mind to know whether I can keep a secret or no ? Bev. And so, by showing him you could, you told him you had one ? Tom. Sir {^Confused. Bev. What mean actions does jealousy make a man stoop to ! How poorly has he used art with a servant to make him betray his'maste.r !— Well ! and when did he give you this letter for me ? Tom. Sir, he writ it before he pulled off his lawyer's gown, at his own chambers. Bev. Very well; and what did he say when you brought him my answer to it ? Tom. He looked a little out of humour, sir, and said it was very well. Bev. I knew he would be grave upon't ; wait without. Tom. Hum! 'gad, I don't like this; I am afraid we are all in the wrong box here. \Exit Tom. Bev. I put on a seienity while my fellow was present ; but I have never been more thoroughly disturbed. This hot man ! to write me a challenge, on supposed artificial dealing, when I professed myself his friend ! I can live contented without glory; but I cannot suffer shame. What's to be done ? But first let me consider Lucinda's letter again. \_Reads. " Sir, "I hope it is consistent with the laws a woman ought to impose upon herself, to acknowledge that your manner of declining a treaty of marriage in our family, and desiring the refusal may come from me, has some- 330 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [ACT IV. thing more engaging in it than the courtship of him who, I fear, will fall to my lot, except your friend exerts him- self for our common safety and happiness. I have reasons for desiring Mr. Myrtle may not know of this letter till hereafter^ and. am your mqst obliged humlije servant, " LUCINDA SeALAND." Weii, but the postscript^— ~ {Redds. " I won't, upon second thoughts, hide anything from yoUr But my reason for concealing this is, that Mr. Myrtle has a jealousy in his temper which gives me some terrors ; but my esteem for him inclines me to hope that only an ill effect which sometimes accompanies a tender love, and what may be cured by a careful and unblam- able conduct." Thus has this lady made me her friend and confident, and put herself, in a kind, under my protection. I can- not tell him immediately the purport of her letter, except I could cure him of the violent and un tractable passion of jealousy, and so serve him, and her, by disobeying her, in the article of secirpcy, more than I should by comply- ing with her directions. — But then this duelling, which custom has imposed upon every man who woiild live with reputation and honour in the world — how ii:lust I pre- serve myself from imputations there i' He'll, forsooth, call it or think it fear, if I explain withoiit fighting. — But his letter — I'll read it again — "Sir,' " You have used me basely in corresponding and carrying on a treaty where you told me you were indifferent. I have changed my sword since I saw you ; which advertisement I thought proper to send you against the next meeting between you and the injured " Charles Myrtle.'' SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOOS LOVERS. 331 Enter Tom. Toin. Mr. Myrtle, sir. Would your honour please td see him ? Bev. Why, you stupid creature ! Let Mr. Myrtle wait at my lodgings ! Show him up. \Exit Tom.] Well ! I am resolved upon my carriage to him. He is in love, and iti fe'very circumstance of life a little distrustful, which I must allow for — but here he is. Enter Tom, introducing Myrtle. Sir, I am extremely obliged to you for this honour. — \_To Tom.] But, sir, you, with your very discerning face, leave the room. \_Exit Tom.] — Well, Mr. Myrtle, your commands with me ? Myrt. The time, the place, our long acquaintance, and many other circumstances which affect me on this occasion, oblige me, without farther ceremony or confer- ence, to desire you would not only; as you already have, acknowledge the receipt of my letter, but also comply with the request in it. I must have farther notice taken of my message than these half lines — " I have yours," " I shall be at home." Bev. Sir, I own I have received a letter from you in a very unusual style ; but as I design everything in this matter shall be your own action, your own seeking, I shall understand nothing but what you are pleased to confirm face to face, and I have already forgot the contents of your epistle. Myrt. This cool manner is very agreeable to the abuse you have already made of my simplicity and frankness j and I see your moderation tends to your own advantage and not mine — to your own safety, not consideration of your friend. Bev. My own safety, Mr. Myrtle? Myrt. Your own safety, Mr. Bevil. Bev. Look you, Mr. Myrtle, there's no disguising that 332 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act I v. I understand what you would be at ; but, sir, you know I have often dared to disapprove of the decisions a tyrant custom has introduced, to the breach of all laws, both divine and human. Myrt. Mr. Bevil, Mr. Bevil, it would be a good first principle, in those who have so tender a conscience that way, to have as much abhorrence of doing injuries, as Bev. As what ? Myrt. As fear of answering for 'enrt. Bev. As fear of answering for 'em ! But that appre- hension is just or blameable according to the object of that fear. . I have often told you, in confidence of heart, I abhorred the daring to offend the Author of life, and rushing into his presence — I say, by the very same act, to commit the crime against Him, and imtiiediately to urge on to His tribunal. • Myrt. Mr. Bevil, I must tell you, this coolness, this gravity, this show of conscience, shall never cheat me of my mistress. You have, indeed, the best excuse for life, the hopes -of possessing Lucinda. But consider, sir, I have as m.uch reason to be weary of it, if I am to lose her ; and my first attempt to recover her shall be to let her see the dauntless man who is to be her guardian and protector. • ' Bev. Sir, show me biit the least glimpse of argument, that I am authorised,' by my own hand, to vindicate any lawless insult of this nature, and I will show thee — to chastise thee hardly deserves the name of courage — slight, inconsiderate man ! — There 'is, Mr. Myrtle, no such terror in quick anger ; and you shall, you know not why, be cool, as you have, you- know not why, been warm. Myrt. Is the woman one loves so little an occasion of anger? You perhaps, who know not what it- is to love, who have your ready, ■ your commodio'us, your foreign SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 333 trinket, for your loose hours ; and from your fortune, your specious outward carriage, and other lucky circum- stances, as easy a way to the possession of a woman of honour ; you know nothing of what it is to be alarmed, to be distracted with anxiety and terror of losing more than life. Your marriage, happy man, goes on like common business, and in the interim you have your rambling captive, your Indian princess, for your soft moments of dalliance, your convenient, your ready Indiana. Bev. You have touched me beyond the patience of a man ; and I'm excusable, in the guard of innocence (or from the infirmity of human nature, which can bear no more), to accept your invitation, and observe your letter — Sir, I'll attend you. Enter Tom. Tom. Did you call, sir ? I thought you did ; I heard you speak aloud. Bev. Yes ; go call a coach. Tom. Sir — master — Mr. Myrtle — friends — gentlemen ^-what d'ye mean ? I am but a servant, or Bev, Call a coach. \Exit Tom.] — \A long pause, walking sullenly by each other.l — [Aside.l Shall I (though provoked to the uttermost) recover myself at the en- trance of a third person, and that my servant too, and not have respect enough to all I have ever been receiy- ing from infancy, the obligation to the best of fathers, to an unhappy virgin too, whose life depends on mine? [Skuiting the door.} — {To Myrtle.] I have, thank Heaven, had time to recollect myself, and shall not, for fear Of what such a rash man as you think of me, keep longer unexplained the false appearances urider which your' infirmity of temper makes you suffer ; when per- haps too much regard to a false point of honour makes me prolong that sufFerjng. 334 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act IST. Myrt. I am sure Mr. Bevil cannot doubt but I had rather have satisfaction from his innocence than his sword. Bev. Why, then, would you ask it first that way ? Myrt. Consider, you kept your temper yourself no longer than till I spoke to the disadvantage of her you loyed. Bev. True ; but let me tell you, I have saved you from the most exquisite distress, even though you had succeeded in the dispute. I know you so well, that I am sure to have found this letter about a man you had killed would have been worse than death to yourself-^^ Rgad it. — \Aside?[ When he is thoroughly mortified, and shame has got the better of jealousy, when he has seen himself throughly, he will deserve to be assisted towards obtaining Lucinda. Myrt. With what a superibrity has he turned the injury on me, as the siggressor ? I begin to fear I have been too far transported — -A treaty in our family ! is not that saying too much ? I shall relapse. — But I find (on the postscript) spmiething Hke jealousy. With what face can I see my benefactor, my advocate, whom I have treated like a bptrayer? \Asidei\ — Oh ! Bevil, with what >yords shall I: , Bev. There needs none j to convince is much more };l(an tp conquer. Myrt. But can you Beu. You h3.ve o'erpaid the inquietude you gave me, in the change I see in you towards me. Alas ! what machines are we ! thy face is altered to that of another man ; to that of my companion, my friend. Myrt. That I could be such a precipitant wretch ! Bev. Pray, no more. Myrt^ Let me reflect how many friends have died, by the hands of friends, for want of temper ; and you must give me leave to say again, an4 again, how much I am SPENEII.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 335 bisliolden to that superior spirit you have subdued me with. What had become of one of us, or perhaps both, had you been as weak as I was, and as incapable of reason ? Bev. I congratulate to us both the escape from our- selves, and hope the memory of it will make us dearer friends than ever. Myrt. Dear Bevjl, your friendly conduct has con- vinced me that there is nothing manly but what is condupted by reason, and agreeable to the practice of virtue a,nd justice. And yet how many have been sacri- ^ced to that idol, the unreasonable opinion of men ! Nay, they are so ridiculous in it, that they often use their swords against pach other with dissembled anger and real fear. Betrayed by honour, and compelled by shame, They hazard being, to preserve a name : Nor dare inquire into the dread mistake, Till plunged in sad eternity they wake. \Exeunt. SCENE \\.—St. James's Park. Enter Sir JoHif Bevil and I^Ir. Se^land. Sir J. Bev. Give me leave, however, Mr. Sealand, as we are upon a treaty for uniting our families, to mention only the business of an ancient house. Genealogy and descent are to fje of some consideration in an affair of this sort. Mr. Seat. Genealogy and descent ! Sir, there has been in our family a very large one. There was Galfrid the father of Edward, the fathey.of Ptolomey, the father of Crassus, the father of Earl Richard, the father of Henry the Marquis, the father of Duke John. 336 TETE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act iv. Sir J. Bev. What, do you rave, Mr. Sealand? all these great names in your family ? Mr. Seal. These ? yes, sir. I have heard my father name 'em all, and more. Sir J. Bev. Ay, sir? and did he say they were all in your family?: ,,. Mr. Seal. Yes, sir, he kept 'em all. He was the greatest cocker ' in England. ' He said Duke John won him many battles, and never lost one. Sir J. Bev- Oh, sir, your servant ! you are laughing at my laying any stress upon desfcent ; but I must tell you, sir, I never kriew anyone but he that wanted that advantage turn it into ridicule. Mr. Seal. And I never knew any one who had many better advantages put that into his account. — But, Sir John, value yourself as you please upon, your ancient house, I am to talk freely of everything you are pleased to put into your bill of rates on this occasion ; yet, sir, I have made no objections to your son's family. 'Tis his morals that I doubt. Sir J. Bev- Sir, I can't Jiplp saying, that w^iat might injure a citizen's credit may be no stain to a gentleman's honour. Mr. Seal. Sir John, the honour of a gentleman is liable to be tainted by as small a matter as the credit of a trader. We are talking of a marriage, and in such a case, the father of a young woman will riot think it an addition to the honour or credit of her lover that he is a keeper Sir J. Bev. Mr. Sealand,' don't take upon you to spoil my son's marriage with any woman else. Mr. Seal. Sir John, let him apply to any woman else, and have as many mistresses as he pleases. ' ' Sir J. Bev. My son, sir, is a discreet and sober gen- tleman, i :. ' Patron of cock-fighting. SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 337 Mr. Seal. Sir, I never saw a man that wenched soberly and discreetly, that ever left it off ; the decency observed in the practice hides, even from the sinner, the iniquity of it. They pursue it, not that their appetites hurry 'em away, but, I warrant you, because 'tis their opinion they may do it. Sir J. Bev. Were what you suspect a truth — do you design to keep your daughter a virgin till you find a man unblemished that way ? Mr. Seal. Sir, as much a cit as you take me for, I know the town and the world ; and give me leave to say, that we merchants are a species of gentry that have grown into the world this last century, and are as honourable, and almost as useful, as you landed folks, that have always thought yourselves so much above us; for your trading, forsooth, is extended no farther than a load of hay or a fat ox. You are pleasant people, indeed, because you are generally bred up to be lazy ; therefore, I warrant you, industry is dishonour- able. Sir J. Bev. Be not offended, sir; let us go back to our point. Mr. Seal. Oh ! not at all offended ; but I don't love to leave any part of the account unclosed. Look you, Sir John, comparisons are odious, and more particularly so on occasions of this kind, when we are projecting races that are to be made out of both sides of the comparisons. Sir J. Bev. But, my son, sir, is, in the eye of the world, a gentleman of merit. Mr. Seal. I own to you, I think him so. — But, Sir John, I am a man exercised and experienced in chances and disasters. I lost, in my earlier years, a very fine wife, and with her a poor little infant. This makes me, perhaps, over cautious to preserve the second bounty of providence to me, and be as careful as I can of this Steele. '' 338 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act IV. child. You'll pardon me, my poor girl, sir, is as valu- able to me as your boasted son to you. Sir J. Bev. Why, that's one very good reason, Mr! Sealand, why I wish my son had her. Mr. Seal. There is nothing but this strange lady here, this incognita, that can be objected to him. Here and there a man falls in love with an artful creature, and gives up all the motives of life to that one passion. Sir /. Bev. A man of imy son's understanding cannot be supposed to be one of them. Mr. Seal. Very wise men have been so enslaved ; and, when a man marries with one of them upon his hands, whether moved from the deriiand of the world or slighter reasons, siich a hufebahd isoils with his wife for a month perhaps — then good be w'ye, iri^dam, the show's over — Ah ! John Dryden points out such a husband to a hair, where he says,-^ " And while abroad so prodigal the dolt is. Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is." Now, in plain terms, sir, I shall not care to have my poor girl turned a-grazing, arid that must be the case when Sir J". Bev. But pray consider, sir, my son Mr. Seal. Look you, sir, I'll make the matter short. This unknown lady, as I told you, iS all the objection I have to him ; but, one way or other, he is, or has been, certainly engaged to her. I am therefore resolved, this -V very afternoon, to visit her. Now from heir behavioui, or appearance, I shall soon be let into what I may fear or hope for. Sir/- Bev. Sir, I am very confident there can be nothing inquired into relating to ihy son, that will not, upon being understood, turn to his Advantage. Mr. Seal. I hope that as sincerely as ybu believe it. SCENE 11.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 339 — Sir John Bevil, when I am satisfied, in this great point, if your son's conduct answers the character you give him, I shall wish your alliance more than that of any gentleman in Great Britain ; and so your servant. \^Exit. Sir J. Bev. He is gone in a way but barely civil ; but his greai wealth, and the merit of his only child, the heiress of it, are not to be lost for a little peevishiiess. Enter Humphry. Oh! Humphry, you are come in a seasonable minute. I want to talk to thee, and to tell thee that my head and Jieart are on the rack about my son. Humph. Sir, you may trust his discretion ; I am sure you may. Sir J. Bev. Why, I do believe I may, and yet I'm in a thousand fears when I lay this vast wealth before me ; when I consider his prepossessions, either generous to a folly, in an honourable love, or abandoned, past redemp- tion, in a vicious one ; and, from the one or the other, his insensibility to the fairest prospect towards doubling our iestate : a father, who knows how useful wealth is, and how necessary, even to those who despise it — I say a father; Humphry, a father cannot bear it. Hurnph. Be not transported, sir; you will grow in- capable of taking any resolution in your perplexity. Sir J. Bev. Yet, as angry as I am with him, I would not have him surprised in anything. This mercantile rough man may go grossly into the examination of this matter, and talk to the gentlewoman so as to • HuTHph. No* I hope, iiot in an abrupt manner. Sir J. Bev. No, I hope not ! Why, dost thou know anything of her, or of him, or of anything of it, or all of it? Humph. My dear master, I know so much that I told; 340 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act iv. him this very daiy you had reason to be secretly out of humour about her. Sir J. Bev. Did you go so far? Wpll, what said he to that? , ,. ; Humph. His words were, looking upon me stead- fastly : " Humphry," says he, "that woman is a woman of honour." Sir J. Bev._ How ! Do you think he is married to her, or designs to marry her ? Humph. I can say nothing to the latter ; but he says he can marry no one without your consent while you are living. Sir J. Bev. If he said so much, I know he scorns to break his word with me. Humph. I am sure of that. Sir J. Bev. You are sure of that — well ! that's some comfort. Then I have nothing to do but to see the bottom of this matter during this present ruflBe — Oh, Humphry Humph. You are not ill, I hope, sir. ' Sir J. Bev. Yes, a man is veiy ill that's in a very ill' humour. To be a father is to be in care for one whom you oftener disoblige than please by that very care — Oh ! that sons could know the duty to a father before they themselves are fathers — But, perhaps, you'll say now that I am one of the happiest fathers in the world ; but, I assure you, that of the very happiest is not a condition to be envied. Humph. Sir, your pain arises, not from the thing itself, but your particular sense of it. You are over- fond, nay, give me leave to say, you are unjustly appre- hensive irom your fondness. My master Bevil never disobliged you, and he will, I know he wUl, do everything you ought to expect. Sir J. Bev. He won't take all this money with this girl — Por ought I know, he will, forsooth, have so much SCENE III.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 341 moderation as to think he ought not to force his liking for any consideration. Humph. He is to marry her, not you ; he is to live with her, not you, sir. Sir J. Bev. I know not what to think. But, I know, nothing can be more miserable than to be in this doubt — Follow me ; I must come to some resolution. \_Exeunt. SCENE III. — Bevil, Jun.'S Lodgings. Enter Tom a?id Philhs. To7n. Well, madam, if you must speak with Mr. Myrtle, you shall; he is now with my master in the library. Phil. But you must leave me alone with him, for he can't make me a present, nor I so handsomely take anything from him before you ; it would not be decent. Tom. It will be very decent, indeed, for me to retire, and leave my mistress with another man. Phil. He is a gentleman, and will treat one properly. Tom. I believe so ; but, however, I won't be far oflf, and therefore will venture to trust you. I'll call him to you. \Exit Tom. Phil. What a deal of pother and sputter here is be- tween my mistress and Mr. Myrtle from mere punctilio ! I could, any hour of the day, get her to her lover, and would do it — but she, forsooth, will allow no plot to get him ; but, if he can come to her, I know she would be glad of it. I must, therefore, do her an acceptable vio lence, and surprise her into his arms. I am sure I go by the best rule imaginable. If she were my maid, I should think her the best servant in the world for doing so by me. 342 TflE , CONSCIOUS L O VERS. [ACT lY:, Enter Myrtle and Tom. Oh sir ! You and, Mr, Bevil are fine gentlemen to let a lady remain under such difficulties as my poor mistress, and no attempt to set her at; liberty, or releeise her frpm fhe danger of being instantly inarried tp Cimberton. ,,,,, Myrt. Tom has. been telling But what is tp.be done? Pkil. What is to be done — when a man can't come at his mistress ! Why, can't you fire our house, or the next house to us, to make us run out, and you take us ? Myrt. How, Mrs. Phillis ? Phil. Ay ; let me see that rogue deny to fire a house, make a riot, or any pther little thing, \vhen there were no other way. to come at me. Tom. I am obliged to you, madam. Phil. Why, don't we hear every day of people's hang- ing themselves for love, and won't they - venture the hazard of being hanged for loye ? Qh ! were I a. Myrt. What manly thing would you bfve me under- take, according to your ladyship's notion pf a man ? Phil. Only be. at once what,, one tiine or other, you may be, a,ftd wish to be, or inust be. Myrt. t)ear girl, t?,.lk plainly to me, and consider I, in niy condition, can't be in very good humour — you say, to be a,t pnce what I mu.st be. Phil. Ay, ay; I mean no more than to, be an old man ; I sa,w you ?Jp it very well at the masquerade. In a word, old Sir Geoffry Cimbertpn is every hpur ex- pected in town, tp join in the deeds a,nd setflem.ejjt^. for marrying Mr. Cimberton. He is half blind, half lame, half deaf, half dumb ; though, as to his passions and desires, he is as warm and ridiculous as when in thq heat of youth. Tom. Come to the business, and don't keep the SCENE III.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 343 gentleman in suspense for the pleasure of being courted, as you serve me. Phil. I saw you at the masquerade act such a one to perfection. Go, and put on that very habit, and come to our house as Sir Geoffry. There is not one there but myself knows his person ; I was born in the parish where he is Lord of the Manor. I have seen him often and often at church in the country. Do not hesitate, but come hither ; they will think you bring a certain security against Mr. Myrtle, and you bring Mr. Myrtle. Leave the rest to me ; I leave this with you, and expect — They don't, I told you, know you ; they think you out of town, which you had as good be for ever, if you lose this opportunity— 1 must be gone; 1 know I am wanted at home. Myrt. My dear Phillis ! [ Catches and kisses her, and gives her money. Phil. O fie ! my kisses are not my own ; you have committed violence ; but I'll carry 'em to the right owner. [Tom kisses her,] — Come, see me downstairs \_To ToM.J, and leave the lover to think of his last game for the prize. \^£xeunf Tom and Phillis. Myrt. I think I will instantly attempt this wild expe- dient. The extravagance of it will make me less sus- pected, and it will give me opportunity to assert my own right to Lucinda, without whom I cannot live. But I am so mortified a.t this conduct of mine towards poor Bevil. He must think meanly of me — I know not how to re- assume myself, and be in spirit enough for such an a.dventure as this; yet I must attempt it, if it be only to be near Lucinda under her present perplexities; and sure The next delight to transport, with the fairj- Is to relieve her in her hours of care.. [Exit. ACT THE FIFTH. SCENE I.— Sealand's House. Enter Vrii.us, ieiith lights, beforeJAx^&TiJE., disguised like old Sir Geoffry; supported by Mrs. Sealand, LuciNDA, and Cimberton. RS. SEAL. Now I have seen you thus far, Sir Geoffry, will you excuse me a moment while I give my necessary orders for your accommo- dation ? \Exit Mrs. Seal. Myrt. I have not seen you, cousin Cimbertctn, since you were ten years old ; aind as it is incumbent on you to keep up our name and family, I shall, upon very reasonable terms, join with you in a settlement to that purpose. Though I must tell you, cousin, this is the first mer- chant that has married into our house. Luc. Deuce on 'em! am I a merchant because my father is ? \Aside. Myrt. But is he directly a trader at this time ? Cimb. There's no hiding the disgrace, sir ; he trades to all parts of the world. Myrt. We never had one of our family before who descended from persons that did anything. Cimb. Sir, since it is a girl that they have, I am, for SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 345 the honour of my family, willing to take it in again, and to sink her into our name, and no harm done. Myrt. 'Tis prudently and generously resolved — Is this the young thing ? Cimb. Yes, sir. Phil. Good madam, doli't be out of humour, but let them run to the utmost of their extravagance. — Hear them out. \To Luc. Myrt. Can't I see her nearer ? My eyes are but weak. Phil. Beside, I am sure the uncle has something worth your notice. I'll take care to get off the young one, and leave you to observe what may be wrought out of the old one for your good. \_To Luc. Exit. Cimb. Madam, this old gentleman, your great uncle, desires to be introduced to yoii, and to see you nearer ! — Approach; sir. Myrt, By your leave, young lady. \Puts on spec- tacles?^ — Cousin Cimberton ! She has exactly that sort of neck and bosom for which my sister Gertrude was so much admired in the year sixty-one, before the French dresses first discovered anything in women below the chin. Luc. [Asiile.] What a very odd situation am I in ! though I cannot but be diverted at the extravagance of their humours, equally unsuitable to their age — Chin, quotha — I don't believe my passionate lover there knows whether I have one or not. Ha ! ha ! Myrt. Madam, I would not willingly offend, but I have a better glass. \Pulls out a large one. Enter Phillis. Phil. [To Cimberton.] Sir, my lady desires to show the aparttnant to you that she intends for Sir Geoffry, Cimb. Well, sir ! by that time you will have sufficiently gazed and sunned yourself in the beauties of my spouse there.— I will wait on you again. [Exit Cimb. and Phil. 346 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act V- Myrt. Were it not, madam, that I might be trouble- some, there is something of importance, though we are alone, ■v^hich I would say more safe from being heard. Luc. There is something in this old fellow, methinks^ that raises my curiosity. \Aside. Myrt. To be. free, madam, I as heartily contemn this kinsinan of mine as you do, and am sor^y to see 50 muph beauty and merit devoted by your parents to so insen- sible a possessor. LV'C. Surprising ! — I hope, then, sir, you will not con- tribute t9 the wrong you are so generous as; \o pity, whatever may be the interest of your family. Myrt. Th^ hand of mine shall never be employed to sign anything against your good and happiness. Luc. I am sorry, sir, it is not ifi my power to make you proper acknowledgments ; but there is a gentleman in the world whose gratitude wil], I arn §ure, {)e worthy of the favpur. Myrt. All the., thanks I desjire, madam, are in your power to give. ; Luc. Name them and comn^atid thein. Myrt. Onjy, madam, that the first time you are along with your lover, you will, with open arms, receive hin\. Luc. As willingly as his heart cpuld wish it. Myrt. Thus, , then, he claims your promise. O Lucinda I Luc. Oh ! a cheat I a cheat ! a cheat 1 Myrt. Hush 1 'tis I, 'tis I, your lover, Myrtle himself, madam. ■ , Luc. O bless me ! what a rashness and folly to sur- prise me so — But hush — my mother. Enter Mrs. SealaND, CimbertoN, and Phillis. Mrs. SeaL Ho.w now 1 what's the matter? Lpc. madapi 1 as soon as you left, the room my SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 347 uncle fell into a sudden fit, and — and — so I cried out for help to support him and conduct him to his chamber, Mrs. Seal. That was kindly done ! Alas ! sir, how do you find yourself? Myrt. Never was taken in so odd a way in my life — pray lead me ! Oh ! I was talking here^-(pray carry me) — to my cousin Cimbertpn's young lady. Mrs, S^al. [.dside.] My cousin Cimberton's young lady ! How zealous he is, even in his extremity, for the match ! A right Cimberton. [CiMBERTON and LuciNDA /ead h'm, as one in pain. Cimb. Pox ! Uncle, you will pull my ear off. Luc. Pray, uncle ! you will squeeze me to death. M^rs, Seal. No matter, no matter — he knows not what lie doe.s.-TCpine, sir, shall I help you out ? Myrt. By no means ! I'll trouble; nobody but my young cousins here. \They lead him off, Phil. Bwt pray, madam, does your ladyship intend that Mr. Cimberton shall really marry my young mistress at last ? I don't think he likes her. Mrs. Seal. That's not material ! " Men of his specula- tion are above desires — but be as it may. Now I have given old Sir Geoffry the trouble of coming up to sign and seal, with what countenance can I be off ? Phil. As well as with twenty others, madam. It is the glory and honour of a great fortune to live in con- tinual treaties, and Still to break off; it looks great, madam. Mrs. Seal. True, Phillis — yet to return our blood again into the Cimbertons is an honour not to be re- jected — But were not you saying that Sir John Bevil's creature, Humphry, has been with Mr. Sealand ? Phil. Yes, madam ; I overheard them agree that Mr. Sealand should go himself and visit this unknown lady that Mr. Bevil is so great with ; and if he found nothing 348 THE CONSCIO US LO VERS. [ACT v. there to fright him, that Mr. Bevil should still marry my young mistress. Mrs. Seal. How ! nay, then, he shall find she is my daughter as well as his. I'll follow him this instant, and take the whole family along with me. The disputed power of disposing of my own daughter shall' be at an end this very night. I'll live no ' longer in anxiety for a. little hussy that hurts my appearance wherever I carry her : and for whose sake I seem to be at all regarded, and that in the best of my days. Phil. Indeed,, madam, if she were married, your lady- ship might very well be taken for Mr. Sealand's^ daughter. Mrs. Seal. Nay, when the chit has not been with me, I have heard the men say as much. I'll no longer cut off the greatest pleasure of a woman's life (the shining in assemblies) by her forward anticipation of the respect; that's due to her superior. She shall down to Cimberton- Hall — she shall — she shall. Phil. I hope, madam, I shall stay with your ladyship. Mrs. Seal. Thou shalt, PhiUis, and I'll place thee then more about me — But order chairs immediately ; I'll be gone this minute. \_Exeunt. SCENE II.— Charing Cross. Enter Mr. Sealand and Humphry. Mr. Seal. I am very glad, Mr. Humphry, that you, agree with me that it is for our common good I should look thoroughly into this matter. Humph, I arn, indeed, of that opinion ; for there is no artifice,nothing concealed, in our family, which ought in justice to be known. I need not desire you, sir, to treat the lady with care and respect. SCENE II.] THE CONS CIO US LO VERS. 349 Mr. Seal, yiasitr Humphry,, I shall not be rude, though I design to be a little abrupt, and come into the matter at once, to see how she will bear upon a sur- prise. Humph. That's the door, sir ; I wish you success. — [ While Humphry speaks, Sealand consults his table- book.^ — I am less concerned what happens there, because I hear Mr. Myrtle is well lodged as old Sir Geoffry ; so I am willing to let this gentleman employ himself here, to give them time at home ; for I am sure 'tis necessary for the quiet of our family Lucinda were disposed of out of it, since Mr. Bevil's inclination is so much otherwise engaged. \_Exit. Mr. Seal. I think this is the door. [Knocks.'] I'll carry this matter with an air of authority, to inquire, though I make an errand, to begin discourse. \_Knocks again, and enter a foot-boy. ^ So young man ! is your lady within ? Boy. Alack, sir! I am but a country boy — I dant know whether she is or noa ; but an you'll stay a bit, I'll goa and ask the gentlewoman that's with her. Mr. Seal. Why, sirrah, though you are a country boy, you can see, can't you ? You know whether she is at home, when you see her, don't you ? Boy. Nay, nay, I'm not such a country lad neither, master, to think she's at home because I see her. I have been in town but a month, and I lost one place already for believing my own eyes. Mr. Seal. Why, sirrah ! have you learnt to lie already ? ' Boy. Ah, master ! things that are lies in the country are not lies at London. I begin to know my business a little better than so— But an you please to walk in, I'll call a gentlewoman to you that can tell you for certain — she can make bold to ask my lady herself. Mr. Seal. Oh ! then, she is within, I find, though you dare not say so. Boy. Nay, nay ! that's iieither here nor there : what's 3S0 THE COJSfSCTOUS LOVER'S. [act V. matter whether she is within or no, if she has not a mind to see anybody ? Mr. Seal. I can't tell, sirrah, whether you are arch or simple ; but, however, get me a direct answer, and here's a shilling for you: ■ Boy. Will you please to walk in ; I'll see what I can do for you. Mr. Seal. I see you will be fit for yoiir bilsiness in titne^ child ; but I expect to meet With nothing but extraordinaries in such a house. £oy. Such a house ! Sir, yoii han't seen it ^^t. Pray walk in. Mr. Seal. Sir, I'll wait upon yqu. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— Indiana's JSduse. Enter Isabella. Isab. What anxiety do I feel for this pOOr creature ! What will be the end of her ? Such a languishing unre- served passion for a mail that at last must certainly leave: or ruin her ! and perhaps both ! Then the aggravation of the disti-ess is, that she does not believe he will— not but, 1 mu^t own, if they are both what they would seem, tiiey are niade for one another, as much as Adam and Eve were, for there is ho other of their kind but them- selves. Enter Boy. So, Daniel ! what news with you ? Boy. Madam, there's a gentleman below would speak with my lady. Isab. Sirralj ! don't ybii know Mr. Bevil yet ? Boy. Madam, 'tis not tiie gentleman who comes every day, and asks for you, and won't go in till he knows whether yoa are with her or no- SCENE III.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 351 Isab. Ha ! that's a particular I did not know befote. Well ! be it who it will, let him come up to me. \_Exit Boy ; and re-enters with Mr. Sealand ; Isabella looks amazed. Mr. Seal. Madam, I can't blame your being a little surprised to see a perfect stranger make a visit, and Isab. I am indeed surprised ! — I see he does not know me. \Aside. Mr. Seal. You are very prettily lodged here, madarh ; in troth you seem to have everything in plenty^A thou- sand a year, I warrant you, upon this pretty nest of rooms, and the dainty one. within them. [Aside, and looking about. Isab. \Apart?[ Twenty years, it Seems, have less effect in the alteration of a man of thirty than of a girl of four- teen — he's almost still the same ■ but alas ! I find, by other men, as well as himself, I am not what I was. As soon as he spoke, I was convinced 'twas he ; how shall I contain my surprise and satisfaction ! He must not know me yet. Mr. Seal. Madam, I hope I don't give you any dis- turbance ; but there is a young lady here with whom I have a particular business to discourse, and I hope she will admit me to that favour. Isab. Why, sir, have you had any notice concerning her ? I wonder who could give it you. Mr. Seal. That, madamj is fit only to be communi- cated to herself. Isab. Weil, sir! you shall see her.— [^j-/fl%.] I find he knows nothing yet, nor shall from me. I am resolved I will observe this interlude, this sport of nature and of fortune. — You shall see her presently, sir ; for flow I am as a mother, and will trust her with you; \M,xii. Mr.. Seal. As a mother ! right ; that's the old phrase for one of those commode ladies, who lend out beauty for Hire to young gentlemen that have pressing occasions. 3S2 THE CQNSCiqUS LOVERS. [act v. But here comes the jpnecipus lady herself. In troth a veiy sightly woman . Enter Indiana. Ind. I am told, sir, you have some affair that requires your speaking with me. Mr. Seal. Yes, madam, there came to my hands a bill drawn by Mr. Bevil, which is payable to-morrow ; and he, in the intercourse of business, sent it to me, who have cash of his, and desired me to send a servant with it; but I have, made bold to bring you the money myself. Ind. Sir ! was that necessary ? Mr. Seal. No, madam; but to be free with you, the fame of your beauty, and the regard which Mr. Bevil is a little too well known to have for you, excited my curiosity. Ind. Too well known to have for me ! Your sober appearance, sir, which my ^friend described, made me expect no rudeness, or absurdity, at least Who's there ? — Sir, if you pay the money to a servant, 'twill be as well. Mr. Seal. "Sts-j, madam, be not offended ; I came hither on an innocent, nay, a virtuous design ; and, if you will have patience to hear me, it may be as useful to you, as you are in a friendship with Mr. Bevil, as to my only daughter, whom I was this day disposing of. Ind. You make me hope, sir, I have mistaken you. I am composed again ; be free, say on — \Aside^ — what I am afraid to hear. Mr. Seal. I feared, indeed, an unwarranted passion here, but I did not think it was in abuse of so worthy an object, so accomplished a lady as your sense and mien bespeak ; but the youth of our age care not what merit and virtue they bring to shame, so they gratify Ind. Sir, you are going into very great errors; but as SCENE in.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 353 you are pleased to say you see something in me that has changed at least the colour of your suspicions, so has your appearance altered mine, and made me earnestly atten- tive to what has any way concerned you to inquire into my affairs and character. Mr. Seal. How sensibly, with what an air she talks ! Ind. Good sir, be seated, and tell me tenderly ; keep all your suspicions concerning me alive, that you may in a proper and prepared way acquaint me why the care of your daughter obliges a person of your seeming worth and fortune to be thus inquisitive about a wretched, help- less, friendless \Weeping.\ But I, beg your pardon; though I am an orphan, your child is not ; and your con- cern for her, it seems, has brought you hither. — I'll be composed ; pray go on, sir. Mr. Seal. How could Mr. Bevil be such a monster, to injure such a woman ? Ind. No, sir, you wrong him ; he has not injured me. My support is from his bounty. Mr. Seal. Bounty ! when gluttons give high prices for delicates, they are prodigious bountiful. Ind. Still, still you will persist in that error. But my own fears tell me all. You are the gentleman, I suppose, for whose happy daughter he is designed a husband by his good father, and he has, perhaps, consented to the overture. He was here this morning, dressed beyond his usual plainness — nay, most sumptuously — and he is to be, .perhaps, this night a bridegroom. Mr. Seal. I own he was intended such ; but, madam, on your account, I have determined to defer my daughter's marriage till I am satisfied from your own mouth of what nature are the pbligations you are under to him. Ind. His. actions, sir; his eyes have only made me think he designed to make me the partner of his heart. The goodness and gentleness of his demeanour made me Steele. A A 354 THE CQNSCmUS LQVERS. [act v. misjnterpret all. 'Twas my own hope, my own passion, tlj^t deltfdgd me J he never ma,{ie one amorous advancp to mi2. His large heart, anjd bestowing hand, haye only hplpeji ,th^ mjscr^ble ; nor kno.v .1 why, JDut from his, mere delight in virtue, that I havp been hig carp and the object on >yhjch to indulge 9.;s^A please hipasplf )vith pouring fp,yo,ur^. , Mrr. 'Seal. M,^fiain, I know no): why it is, JD^t I, as we]! as yop, am rnethinlf^ a.fraid of entering into thf matter I qanje about ; but 'ti,s the same thing as ^f we had talked never so distinctly he ijg'jeF phajl ha,ve a daughter qf mine. Tnd. If you say this frpp jyjiat you |thipk of pie, you wrong yotirself and hip^. Lgt ijpt me, miserable though I may be, do injury to my benefactor. No, sir, my treat; ment ought rather tp reppnpile. you to his virtues. If to bestow without a prospect of return ; if \g delight in sup- porting what might, perhaps, \>p thought an object of desire, with no other view than to be her guard against those lyhp wpuld not ]?^ so disinterested ; if these actions, sir, can in a careffil parent's eye commend him to a daughter, give yours, sir, give hej- tp rnjr honest, generous !^evil. What haye I to do laut sigh, sffi6. weep, and rave, run wild, 3. lupatic iii chains, or, hjd in darkness, mutter in distrg,ct,ed stp.rts and broken accents iny strange, strange story ! Mr. Seal. Take comfort, rtiadam. ind. AH my comfort must be to expqstulate in mad- ness, to relieve with frenzy my despair, and shrieking to demaijd of fate why— why was I bprn to such variety of sorrows. Mr- Seal. If I havp been the least occasion- Ind. No, 'twas Heaven's high will I should be such ; to be plundered in mycj-adle ! tossed on the seas ! and even there an infant capti.ve ! to lose my mother, hear but of SCENE III.] THE QONSCIOUS LOVERS. 355 my father ! to be adopted ! Ipse my adopter ! then plunged again into worse calaniities ! Mr. Seal. An infant captive ! Ind. Yet then, to find the most charming of man- kindj once more to set me free from what I thopght the last distress, to load me with his services, his bounties, and his favours ; to support my very life in a way that stole, at the same time, my very soul itself from me. Mr. Seal. And has young Bevil been this worthy man? Ind. Yet then, again, this very man to take another ! without leaving me the right, the pretence of easing my fond heart with tears ! For, oh ! I can't reproach him, though the same hand that raised me to this height noy throws me down the precipice. Mr. Seal. Dear lady 1 Oh, yet one moment's patience : my heart grows full with your affliction. — But yet there's sppiething in your sfory that—: — Jnd. My portion here is bitterness and sorrow. Mr. Seal. Dp not think so. Pray answer me: doe? Bevil know your name and family ? Irid. Alas ! too well ! Oh, could I be any other thing than what I am I'll tear away all traces of my former self, my little ornaments, the remains of my first stat^, the hints of \yhat I ought to have been [In her disorder she throws away a bracelet, ivhich Sealand takes up, and looks earnestly on it. V Mr. Seal. Ha ! what's this ? My eyes are not de- ceived ! It i?, it is the same ! the very bracelet which I bequeathed to my wife at our lagt mournful parting. Ind. What said you, sir ? Your wife ? Whither does ray fancy carry me ? What means this unfelt motion at my heart ? And yet, again my fortune but deljidps me ; for if I err not, sir, your name is Sealand ; but my lost father's name was 3S6 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act V. Mr. Seal. Danvers; was it not? Ind. What new amazement? That is, indeed, my family. Mr. Seal. Know, then, when my misfortunes drove me to the Indies, for reasons too tedious now to mention, I changed my name of Danvers into Sealand. Enter Isabella. Isab. If yet there Wants an explanation of your woilder, examine well this face (yours, sir, I well remember^), gaze on and read in me your sister, Isabella. Mr. Seal. My sister ! Jsab. But here's a claim more tender yet your Indiana, sir, your long-lost daughter. Mr. Seal. Oh, my child ! my child ! Ind. All gracious Heaven ! is it possible ! do I embrace my father"' Mr. Seal. And I do hold thee. — These passions are too strong for utterance. Rise, rise, my child, and give my tears their wayi— Oh, my sister ! [Embracing her. Isab. Now, dea.rest niece, ray grounciless fears, my painful cares no more shall vex thee. If I have wronged thy noble lov6r with too much suspicion, my just concern for thee, I hope, will plead my pardon. Mr. Seal. Oh ! make him, then, the full amends, and be yourself the messenger of joy. Fly this instant ! tell him all these wondrous turns of Providence in his favour ! Tell hftn I have now a daughter to bestow which he no longer will decline ; that this day he; still shall be a bride- groom ; nor shall a fortune, the merit which his father seeks, be wanting. Tell him the reward of all his virtues waits on his acceptance. [Exit Isab.] My dearest Indiana ! [Turns and embraces her. Ind. Have I, then, at last, a father's sanction on my love ? His bounteous hand to give, and make my heart a present worthy of Bevil's generosity ? ijCENEiii.] J'HE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 357 Mr. Seal. Oh, my child ! how are our sorrows past o'erpaid by such a meeting ! Though I have lost so many years of soft paternal dalliance with thee, yet, in one day to find thee thus, and thus bestow thee, in such per- fect liappiiiess, IS ample, ample reparation! — And yet, again, the merit of thy lover Ind. Oh ! had I spirits left to tell you of his actions ! how strongly filial duty has suppressed his love ; and how concealment still has doubled all his obligations; the pride, the joy of his alliance, sir, would warm your heart, as he has conquered mine. Mr. Seal. How laudable is love when bom of virtue ! I burn to embrace him Ind. See, sir, my aunt already has succeeded, and brought him to your wishes. Enter Isabella, with Sir John Bevil, Bevil, Jun., Mrs. Sealand, Cimberton, Myrtle, and Lucinda. Sir J. Bev. [Entering.'] Where, where's this scene of wonder? Mr. Sealand, I congratulate, on this occasion, our mutual happiness ^Your good sister, sir, has, with the story of your daughter's fortune, filled us with surprise and joy. Now all exceptions are removed ; my son has now avowed his love, and turned all former jealousies and doubts to approbation ; and, I am told, your good- ness has consented to reward him. Mr. Seal. If, sir, a fortune equal to his father's hopes •can make this object worthy his acceptance. Bev. Jun. I hear your mention, sir, of fortune, with plea- sure only as it may prove the means to reconcile the best of f3.thers to my love. Let him be provident, but let me be happy. — My ever-destined, my acknowledged wife ! \Embracing Indiana. Ind. Wife ! Oh, my ever loved ! My lord ! my master ! Sir J. Bev. I congratulate myself, as well as you, that 3S8 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act V. I had a son who could, under such disadvantages, dis- C6v6r your great merit. Mr. Seal. Oh, Sir jd&ri ! how vain, how wedk is human prudence ! What care, what foresight, what imagination could contrive sufch blest events, to make oiif children happy, as Providence in one short hour has laid before us ? Citnb. [To ilk^. SealaNd.] t aiii afraid, madam, Mr. Sealand is a little too busy for our affair. If you please, we'll take another opiportunity. Mrs. Seal. Let us have patience, sir. Ct'mk But we make Sir Geotfry wait, madam. Myrl. 0, sir, I am not in haste. [During this, Bev., 'iVN.,J>resenis Lucinda to Indiana. Mr. Seal. But here ! here's our general benefactor ! Excellent young mati, that could be at once a lover to her beauty and a parent to her virtue. Bev. Jun. If you think that an obligation, sir, give me leave to overpay myself, in the oiily instance that can now add to my felicity, by begging you to bestow this Udy oh Mr. Myrtle. Mr. Seal. She is his without reserve ; I beg he may be sent for. Mr. Cirribertori, notwithstanding you riever had rhy consent, yet there is, since I last saw you, anothei: objection to ydiir mairriage with my daughter. Cimb. I hope, sir, y6ur lady has concealed nothing from me ? Mr. Seal. Troth, sir, nothing but what was concealed frorh myself — anothet daughter, who has ah undoubted title to half my estate. Cimb. Htiw, Mr. Sealand ? Why, then, \i half Mrs. Lucinda's fortune is gone, you can't say that any of my estate is settled upon her, I was in treaty for the whole ; but if that is lidt to be come at, to be suire there can be ho bargain. Sir, I have nothirig to do but to take iiiy SCENE III.] TH£ CONSCIOUS ZOVEJRS. 359 leave of youf good lady, my cousin, and Beg pardon for the trouble I have giyen tttis old gentleman. Myrt. That you have, Mr. Cimberton, with all my heart. [Discovers himself. All. Mr. Myrtle ! Myrt. And I beg pardon of the whole company that I assumed the person of Sir Geoffry, only to be present at the danger of this lady bein^ disposed of, and in her utmost exigence to assert rny right to her ; which, iif her parents will ratify, as they once favoiired my pretensions, no abatement of fortune shall lessen her value to me. Luc. Generous iiian ! Mr. Seal. If, sir, y'oii can overlook the injury of being in treaty with one who has meanly left ^ her, as you have generously asserted your right in her, she is yours. Luc. Mr. Myrtle, though you have ever had my heart, yet now I find 1 love you more, because I bring you less. Myrt. We have much riidre - than we want ; and I am glad any evetit: has cbiitiributed to the discovery of our real inclinations to each other. Mrs. Seal. Weil ! however, I'm glad the gifl'S disposed of, anyway. [Aside. Bev. Myrtle, ho loiiger rivals iiow, hut brothers ! Myrt. Deaf Bevil, ydii are born to triumph over me ! but now our competition ceases j I rejoice in the pre- eminence of your virtue, and yovir alliance adds charms to Lucinda. Sir J. Bev. Now, ladies and gehtleihen, you have set the world a fair example : your happiness is owing to your constancy and merit j and the several difficulties you have struggled with evidently show — Whate'er the generous mind itself denies, The secret care of Providence supplies. [Exeunt. By Mr. .'^elsted. Intended to be Spoken by Indiana. Our author, whom entreaties cannot move, Spite of the' dear coquetry that you love, Swears he'll not frustrate (so he plainly means) By a loose Epilogue, his decent scenes. Is it not, sirs, hard fate I meet to-day, To keep me rigid still beyond the play ? Atid yet I'm saved a world of pains that way. I now can look, I now can move at ease. Nor need I torture these poor limbs to please ; Nor with the hand or fobt attempt surprise, Nor wrest my features, nor fatigue my eyes : Bless me ! what freakish" gambols have I played ! What riiotioris tried, and wanton looks betrayed ! Out of pure kindness all ! to bver;rule The threatened hisS, and screen some scribbling fool. With more respect I'm entertained to-night : Our author thinks I can .with ease delight. My airtless' looks while modest graces arm, He says, I need but to appear, and charm. A wife so forhied, by these examples bred, Pours joy and gladness round the marriage bed; Soft source of comfort, kind relief from care, And 'tis her least perfection to "be fair. The nyiiiph with Indiana's worth who vies, A nation will behold with Bevil's eyes. FINIS. THE SCHOOL OF oACTIOUXj (A FRAGMENT). HE School of Action was the play which Steele was endeavouring to finish in 1723-5. The fragihent which we have would have required a great deal of fevising before it could have been put upon the stage. The MS., from wtiich the piece was printed by Nichols, is in the British Museiiiii (Add. MS., S145C). It is not in Steele's writing, and the first few leaves are now wanting. I have restored the original reading in several instances in which Nichols triade un- rtecdsSary alteration^. There are several meiiioranda on the subject among the Blenheim MSS. tiere is one of them : — " Miriutes for the play itself. — First Act. The begin- ning a^ I have it at Honie in y" Schfeme between Brainwell and Lightfoot ; after y' y° calling over y° House w* the actors, arid y° severall purposes y* y' Playhouse might be usefull for signified. — Act 2''- The Country family wait as in an Inn at the playhouse ; all that can be done by the playhouse to terrifie y" Attorney and his Wife, and all that can delight y^ young Lady by Theltricall Powers is exposed and Siplairied. A Critick upon various Actions. — Act 3''- The Electra of Sophocles, where Mrs. Pofter is to be the Quefen, and y^ Tragedy of Sophocles to be rtiade y° Moddle iS thoroughly set foirtli in a way dtteihpted to be trill^ sublime. — Act 4*- 'the Cdtihtiy 364 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. Family, knowing of the Murder done there, resolved to bear Witness of it and prosecute it according to Law." And again, "Let Booth be Orestes, with all the prepos- session and love of His Mother with the necessity upon Him of killing Her, and resolving upon it all of a sudden from passion to passion in an Huirry, — yet commanding all his Resentments to execute His design. — His regard for His sister and her urging Him." The following are other rough notes : — " Jenky to be instructed to be a ghost and torment His Brother — not to be -f of Hamlet. Johnson to be the false Brother — Mrs. Willis, His Wife, urging to give up. — They miss the young lady for 2*- Act — but don't value so y' Her fortune is safe in His hands. . . . Let Pinsars ramble from place to place, and getting clear of the Play House — where he meets EviU. Constable (?) and His Mirmidons. — Then Buntho's Ghost and all the other incidents possible — appears still in y' House, and gives up to Severn, &c." And again : — " Introduce a Woman, Drunk, to be acted by Gibber, to talk at beginning Lewdly in a Mask, y° rest in Whisper. Let Pinsars be assisted by an Army of y° Playhouse to fight his way out ; he and his man Ralph and his Wife Striking all in earnest, assisted by the Gonstable. . . . Let Him Threaten to demolish the Whore of Babylon — Speak of the Dragonand all the Gant of the Presbyterian Zeal against Plays, &c., but fight. . . . For the Prologue take notice of this play as a Posthuvious Work according to Dr. Partridge's freinds. Spider and Dotterell's Quality : Beasts made before men — Therefore the Dotterells must give way, for they were made before Spiders were in being, and not made before they were men." The following notes evidently refer to another piece : — "To take the play y' Lyes in loose parts in my Scrutoire and lay it together for the Stage : To ridicule y= whole Mechanick of Dr. Faustus, &c., and all things of that kind for y° Theatre— make persons to play tricks, break THE SCHOOL OF A CTION. 365 necks, and the like. . . . There is no true nobility but in the practise of Vertue and right reason, where there is nothing can be little. . . . Make him go to his certain Ruin for want of knowledge in a Circumstance he might know if he had looked into a letter w"'" contains a secret Contrived against him, but he cannot pry into because it comes into his Hands unwarrantably : make this y" great Incident of his distress. ... To ridicule our Slavery to Italian Musick, to have an ode of Anacreon set in Greek performed. To observe upon y absurdity of making distresses and mirth for y° Vulgar out of y„ Accidents y befall the body, as in the play of The Chances : The old Woman in her Colick pains toothless and defective through age is exposed as a Jest." Mr. Severn, a barrister, lover of Miss Dolly. Mr. HuMBER, his friend. Mr. Pincers, an old wealthy country Attorney, guardian to Dolly. Ralph, his Man. Mr. Dotterell Mr. Spider Mr. GWILLYN Buskin Tragedian . General Mrs. Pincers. Miss Dolly, Ward to Pincers, Margery, her Maid. Mrs. Umibrage, an Actress. Mrs. Fennell. Her Daughter, a Candidate for the Stage. Barber, Constable, Waiter, Servants, Rabble, &c. Comedians. Candidates for the Stase, ''^SMiSS^SIi&^iSsSSiSBSMSMi^^SSSMiSSM^&miSESMSS^^iSi SfiaSfflSlfigOgiSSSiSiSJilflSSISfiSSfli THE SCHOOL OF (iACTIO[P hear. In the playhouse ? no. Of all things in nature, stage-plays (as he calls them) are his aversion. But they are no less Miss Dolly's delight. As I had my education) that is to say, ate and drank, con- versed and lay some years every night at Gray's Inn, I made a notable pleader before our bench of justices in Cumberland, and grew very intimate with Mr. Pincers. He took such a fancy to my promising parts— for, j'ou must know, I pretended to be a rogue to gain his good- will — that, with a hint of five hundred pounds reward for my share in the transaction, he communicated to me a design of disposing of this ypung lady by way of sale. Hum. Good — and thought you a proper broker to find out a husband, or rather a purchaser. Sev. Right; " Mr. Severn," said he, "you know there is nothing more common than to observe that orphans a.re a prey, by reason of their great wealth, and marry unhappily." Hum. And therefore Sev. And therefore he would have a receipt for all her fortune, for delivering half of it to the man who should marry her — " whiEh/' said he, " shall be no fraud to the gentleman ; for he shall settle only an equivalent for , ten thousand pounds, which is the moiety. By this means," continued my conscientious friend, " I shall observe how he behaves to this poor girl^ and can, if he deserves '% leave the other, moiety to them by my will." ACT!.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 371 Hum. And what did you say to this hopeful project ? Sev. I fell in with it, and promised to find him a right young fellow for his purpose^ Hum. Did you soj sir ? \_As going.] Sev. Now you grow a mere scholar again. Hum: An honest gentleman is a mere scholar where a 'sharper is a wit — I will leave your accursed town to-hight. Sev. I will convince you that there is nothing mean or dishonourable on my part ; but a lucky incident I should be stupid not to -take hold of. H&m. Say it ; but your prologue is so long, you seem to know that the plot of your play is not easily to be. defended; Sev: You cannot say that till you know it. I agreed with him td find a young gentleman suitable to her, who shall bring as good an estate as she shall, and: settle all . upon her and the children of the marriage. H^m. Well— who is the gentleman whom you have thought of to do this ? On whom will you bestow the podr ihnocent girl who has never injured you ? Sev. Whyi I have been thinking that over and over ; and it is so hard to look into another's breast, that one mayj after all appearances, be mistaken ; and, therefore, I have resolved upon the only man who I was sure was hbnest-^^^even m^ own proper self. Hum. You are most conscientiously impartial and disinterested. Sev. i think myself conscientious, though neither im- partial nor disinteSrested; I consider that he would cer- tainly sell hm Elsewhere on his own terms, without regard to her' happiness. In my hands she will have her estate her o^na^ with the incumbrance Only !of a man who loves her, and whom I believe she lovesj and who may increase that esute for her. Consider, he would do. what he. designed, whether I would oi: not; 372 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act I. Hum. I consider you will do what you design, whether I will or hot. Nay, further, I cannot but own the cir- cumstances much alleviate the guilt on your part. Nay, if you fairly get the girl's good-will, I will allow your attempt not only excusable,' but praiseworthy. Sev. There spoke my good genius. — In the country, as much as he trusted me in the secret of cheating her, he never let me see her alone, or without witnesses ; his wife, the maid, or man/ or 'all of them, were constantly present. But,' as she is a great lover and reader of plays, and of a great deal of wit and humour, we could speak one language and look another, above their knowledge or observation. I sent for him to town in order to marry her, insisting on my five hundred pounds ; for he would not trust me, did he not know my price. I have lodged all here, whence they shall never go out till dear miss implores it- of me, or has justice done her by me or somebody to her liking. Hum. There you justify all the art you can use for yourself. And niay you win and wear her, since you plot her redemption: though yourself should not succeed ! -. 5i». Well, we have done talking ; let us to action. My business is to review rny forces, ^and not neglect my main plot, but consider my playhouse and my mistress at the Sametirne ; and, while I am preparing the one, make love to the other. — Here,' Jack, call all the actors^et thfe whole house' march. — Tragedy drums and trumpets, fifes, kettledrums and clarions shall wake my country lodgers, fright my old parchment, and charm my little northern pilgrim — my dear refugee — I will undeiistand heir no other. Beat, sound, and play. Make all people be in their posts round the stage, and answer in all parts to the stage. — AH shall be done that can be to make her pass her tirtie pleasantly. She shall always expect to see me,-but not see me till I have abundant convincing proofs that I am in her favour. Thus if I can save her, iand ACT I.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 373 save her for myself, it will be an exquisite happiness ; if not, to save her from this rascal is but my cjuty. Oh ! I should have told you that when Miss Dolly came in, I conveyed a letter into her pocket, intimating where she was, that she may be surprised at nothing ; for I love the dear thing so tenderly that I could not give her the shortest uneasiness, to purchase the most lasting. good or pleasure to myself. \H.ere begins, the march^ Hist ! Pin. [Wii/iin.'] Ho! chamberlain, bring me my boots — where is the chamberlain ? — What is the noise ? JlaipA [ JVMin.] The drums. Fin. What is the matter ? Ralph. The train-bands, belike, master. Pin. Ho ! chamberlain ! Hum. While the rest of the country family are thus deceived, Dolly is let into the whole matter, and won't be surprised at anything. If she humours the deceit it is a good symptom on your side. — This must be a fruitful circumstance of mirth. Sev. Nymphs, shepherds, ghosts, angels, and demons, shall tease the old rascal ; and all the while Miss Dolly see and hear nothing but according to the notice I have given her. Hum. While you are thus busied about your people, and managing your design, which I have not much taste for (I want that mercury about me), I will go: abpiit the house and view the accommodationsrr-they say .it is the most convenient one in the world. Sev. Sir, take your humour; I will, pursue mine, and call you when the circumstance is above my reach. \Exit HuMBER.] Well, march by ; let the kings. take place, of all the people, next them bishops, then judges — no, we had as good not to discompose their dresses. \Among the march oftJie actors he observes Will Dotterell.] Hq ! Mr. Dotterell, Mr. Dotterell. ' ' 374 THE SCHOOL aP ACTION. [act 1. I>ot. Sir ! Your most humble servant, good Mr. Severn. What, have you a part for me in your new play ? It was you that first thought qf making an actor of me, and I have gained some reputation j and, harkee, you have made a deal of me, I can tell you. S&v. Ay, ay, "I know thou art a town favourite — thy name is not spoken of but it raises mirth. Let us see, what pg^tfs have y0u acted ? You have acted ajl manner of things as well as persons. You began, I think, a flower-pot, in Dioeiesiafi}- ; then you have per- formed another ingenious part, been a chair, I think, at another opera ; you have represented all the appetites — as I take it, you do hunger best, you are a fine fellow at a cold chicken — Then you have been all sorts of trades, but you shine most in the tailor in Mpsom Wells^ you beat your wife most successfully. Dot. It was thought I laid her on as well as another, for you may remember she was a bitter one, and she provoked me some six or seven drubs beyond what the poet writ for her. Sev. Well, look you, Will, I design greater things for you ihan any poet of them all; why, you shall act a ghost in the ensuing play. ; Dot. A ghost of me ! No, it can never be. Sev. Yes, yes, you oaf; you shall be a country fghost. You shall come to the country gentleman who lay here last tiigh't in the figure of his deceased brother, a fat justice of the peace, who left all his money in his hands — and he cheats him. Why, I don't know but you may be the luckiest ghost that ever appeared. Who knows but the old rascal may repent and pay you ? If he does I'm sure you'll take it. \ An adaptation.^ h^ Thomas Bp^teffop, cjf Bpaumont aiifl Fletcher's Prophetess.^ * A comedy, by ^hadwell, in which Fribble, a haberdasher, is one of the characters. ACT I.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 37s Dot. Nay, nay, there's no doubt of that. What has the poor money done ? I will take it, as you say. Sev. Look you there : when you have done this part you are a most accomplished player, you have gone through all the degrees of action. You came out of the parsley-bed, as they say to the children ; you have been everything Dot. A ghost ! I shall never be sober enough. What if it be a country ghost — yet every man is serious after his death. I shall certainly laugh, and discover all. Sev. Well, bid him they call Dicky come to me. Dot. Dicky, Dicky, come to me ; come, Dicky, come to Mr. Severn. I am not a ghost yet ; you need not be afraid. Enter Spider. Sev. Mr. Spider, I have a part for you ; but 1 am afraid you have too good an air, too much dignity in your person, to do it well. Spi. Oh, I warrant you they never put me to act any- thing in tragedy, though my genius and temper is altogether for great and sublime things. Sev. No doubt on't, Mr. Spider, but you paust be con- tent at present to do me z, courtesy, and still keep in comedy \ for you are to be a tapster. Spi. What ! when Mr. Dotterell (as I apprehend) is to be a ghost, am I to bq but a tapster ? Sev. Why, you are to be a tapster to the inn in \irhich he is to .be a ghost, so that he's in a manner in your keeping. All the ghosts in inns arp kept there by the tapster or chamberlain ; now you are to tie both in this inn that I imagine. Spi. Oh ! oh ! I begin tq conceive you. I ^m tq be a live tapster, and Mr. Dotterell is to be the gho^t pf a dead man that died in the inn an(l left a power of money 376 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [ACT, I. behind, and so haunts the house beis^use his own cousin had not — I understaud- it very well,; — Look you, Mr. Dotterell, it was I and my master cpntrived to kill this gentleman for the. great bag of money he brought into our house. Come, come, we'll go in and consider how to act these parts, without giving Mr. Severn any more trouble about it. Sev. But there is another thing that, I fear, will go much against you \ and that is, you are to be excessively saucy. Sfi. No, I shall make no scruple of that if he proves an unmannerly guest, I'll warrant you. — But, Mr. Dotterell, let us go and lay our heads together. Sev. Now, gentlemen, you are going out in your own persons, and no man living can tell which of you should take place. Certainly, Mr. Spider, you are somebody or other ; and, Mr. Dotterell, so are you. Now I would fain know which of you is to take place. Spi. Pray, good Mr. Dotterell. Dot. Nay, nay, Mr. Spider, I'll never be outdone in civility ; you must pardon me, indeed, sir. Spi. Nay, sir. Dot. Nay, sir. Spi. Nay, sir. Dot. Nay, nay, nay, sir, if you go to that. [Turns aside. Spi. Nay, but, good sir — excuse me, sir. ^ \Turning another way-. Dot. Oh, Mr. Spider, your servant for that, sir. \TaJies him up in his arms. Spi. Sir, you conquer me beyond expression ; sir, you run away with me. Dot. Indeed, sir, I must say you are a very easy gentle- man ; you are carried away with the least civility, look you, sir; for [Carrying him backwards and forwards: ACT I.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. zil Spi. Plague on't, what a misfortune it is to be a little fellow ! Though I have; a soul as great as Hercules, this fellow can deal with me. Dot. Oh, my dear little Dicky Spider ! \Exit, kicking him in his arms. Sev. [Solus'l. Here's a great piece of difficulty adjusted ; but I observe very few difficulties of ceremony of much greater moment than this, and wish they were all to be so ended. Well, now have I the hardest task in all my affair to pursue : To persuade a woman who is young, pleasant, and agreeable, to act a part for me to another , to make love for me, instead of receiving love made to her; and there is no way of obtaining of 'em but by making love to them. They are used to no other language, and understand no other. — Ho ! who waits there ? Enter Waiter. Waiter. Sir ; do you call, sir ? Sev. Pray, sir, call Mrs. Umbrage hither. If she be ill the green-room, tell her I beg to speak with her — I must form myself into all the good humour I can to entertain her, or I shall never get her to come into it. Enter Mrs. Umbrage. Oh, here she comes.— Well, madam, I have cast parts for you, and named you to many, but never so very nice a one as I am to desire of you to undertake at present. To overlook yourself and deliver the application made to another which had been more rightly directed to yourself, is a greatness of mind — is a candour, to be found only in Mrs. Umbrage. Umb. Well, Mr. Severn, you have waved your cap sufficiently ; you have done homage and made your acknowledgments; pray proceed to the matter. 378 THE SCHOOL OJP' ACTION. [ACT I. Sev. The northern young lady you have often heard me talk of, is in town, and lay in this house last night. Umb. That has been the conversation of the green- room. — But what do you design in all this yqu are going to let me into 3 Sm). I would be well with that young lady. Nay, I think I am so. Umb. A man may often be mistaken in those points, as knowing as you are. Sev. I grant it, madam ; I havp a mind to know it more explicitly, and ha.ve the most evident proofs of it ; which I will not desire till I have given her sufficient testimony of a (Jisinterested zeal and service for- her. Umk. That is, indeed, the noblest and the surest way to approach a sensible spirit, as I have heard you describe hers to be. Pray let me hear what argument you have for thinking she has a disposition towards you ; for you know we naturally are too apt to believe what we wish. Sev. A good opinion is in a man's own power- to create. I took care to appear in the best manner where she was ; to be always in great good humour, and show a wonderful deference to her in all my actions ; which I constantly expressed by my eye only, as afraid of notice and observation. She had her eyes as attentive to mine, and she never lost t^^g Jeasf expression that I made to her, but turned away her eyes when mine grew too iami- liar.T— But give me leave to tell you one particular occa- sion wherein I plainly think she declared herself to rne. Umb. That will be worth hearing indeed ; I shall be glad to hear the language of the eyes translated by the tongue. \Smiling. Sev. You are to know, madam, that there happened one day in the north, a great Quaker's wedding at which she and I were present. They went with the greatest gravity and decorum through the whole circurnstance of it. But at night she was invited, so was I, to see the ACT!.] THE SCHOOL OJf ACTION. 379 ^ride and bridegroom put to bed. geveral of her maidens attended her; several of their young men him. It is the nature of their supe^stitipq to keep their passions bridled, restrained, and formally dissembled. They have none of those flights, palpitations, gambols, and follies, which divert the mind and break it from its main object. Vmb. You are going into a fine story ; but I must trust your discretion. Sev. Madam, yo,u may. \Bowing^ To be sure, the bridegroom is laid by his bride ; the company stands in the most profound silence, as contemplating the objects before them ; he a young man of twenty-five, she a ypqng ^q^nap of fvy-enty ; Jie wishing our ab,seiiee ; she fearing it, ^f h^ eyes C|f evefypne of us spectators naturally searching tl^p object yit^i \Yhich they could b,^st be plpa^ed \x\ the s.amf; condition, my eyes met Miss^Pincers', i^ which there was s^iph z, sweet compliance, such a revel Jnyitation, immedif^tgly cl^ecked whep o1^serye(5 and answered by me, tha,t I have eyer since concluded that she had something mpre than gpodwill for me. ^mb. Well, if she h^s it, I sha|l be far from lessening it ; but will, as you seem tQ desire, acpompany her, av\d improve it. S,ev. \ form g^eat hopes of success frpip that deplara- fion ; but as the lady is mjghty theatrically ^isppsed, I JDeseech you tp shpw |ier the pleasure and beauties of the house. I^rfip.. i^ll tl^a,t; is ip my pqwer ; all that is not I ntust leave tp you. Sev. I will not doubt of success. To gain a she, a sure she-friend provide ; For woman is to woman the best guide. ACT THE SECOND. Pincers and his Wife discovered with Miss Dolly, Ralph, and Margery. IN. Fie, Miss Dolly ; do you say you heard no manner of noise when I was knocking my heart out ? Dolly. None in the least. In the country they talked of the rattling of coaches here in London. I heard nbthing of it; I can hardly think I am yet in the City. Mrs. Pin. Why, Miss Dolly, you won't say so, sure ! Did you hear no drums nor trumpets ? Dolly. Not in the least. Mrs. Pin. O gemini ! Then, to be sure, the house is hauntedj and the man of the inn has killed some traveller, and hid him behind the hangings, and we are all disturbed for it — 'tis so to be sure. Ralph. It is no otherwise. I wonder Counsellor Severn would bring master to such an inn as this is, so I do. Pin. Chamberlain ! why, chamberlain ! Enter Spider {as Chamberlain). Spi. Do you call, sir ? Pin. Do you call, sir ? Ay, marry do I, sir. What has ACT II.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 381 been doing in the inn here, or in the streets, with trumpets and kettle-drums? ., Spi. Trumpets and kettle-drums ! Poor gentleman ! Pin. Poor gentlefnan ! no, no poor gentleman.- — I am afraid this house is no better than it should be. Spi. Has not your worship lain warm ? The bed is as good a bed as any in the house. A man of fifteen hun- dred a-year lay in it, and slept all night. He came to town to be fluxed. He was very much a gentleman, and owned he slept very well ; and his bones ached but little in that easy bed. Pin. Rogue ! put honest folks, that have been man and wife these twenty years, into a p bed together ! Mrs. Pin. In a p bed, husband ! Take the law of him. Pin. Sirrah ! has not Counsellor Severn been here this morning ? Go, sirrah, bring me some water and a towel ; I'll go to the Counsellor's chambers immediaitely. I'll trounce this house. [Exit Spider. Dolly. [Aside.] I'll look over my letter again. [Peads.] " Be afraid of nothing ; but know, that the disagreeable shapes Mr. Pincers is entertained with are not to appear to you ; and when you know this, you may partake of that diversion of tormenting those who attempt only to sell and betray you. What you see are persons and appearances belonging to the several plays which are acted in this house." — Oh me ! how pure is all this ! Re-enter Spider, with a Barber. Spi. Here is the. water and towel, and here is a barber if you want him. [Exit. Pin. Harkee, Mr. Barber ; you look like an honest man, put on your trimming cloths about me. I'll inquire of you what sort of people live in this house — Ha ! what's this here? 382 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act II. " To Mr. Pincers, Esq:" \A letter has come down from tlte air with ihis direction.^ " Sir, repent of the ill you are contriving before it be too late. I skali appear to you and your wife only. In hopes of justice, I remain, " Your dead and buried brother, " Ralph Pincers." Enter SpideR, as tapster. Spi. Sir, do you call for nothing this morning ? are iiot you dry, nor your wife neither, ha, old dry-boots ? Pin. What does this mean? A letter coifie directed to me out of the air — and niy bi'Other coming ! Wife ! Margery, do you see that letter ? What can it iheah ? Look you, sauce-box ; good man. Tapster, I shall take a course with you, sirrah, I shall. Spi. You are a sneaking country bumpkin, sir. jEn'ter Dotterell, dr'e's's'ed like a Country Sqidre. ■Pin-. Bless us ! there comes on my brother, in his old Boots aiid grey riding-coat. 'Tis he : I ha'n't the heart to speak to it. , , . Dot. [Aside.^ A country ghost ! 1 sliall laugh out. How frightened the dog is ! I'll warrant the rogiie has a, great sum of money of mine. I'll make him give it me. ^-[To PiNCERSi] Repent, and don't cheat your brother, and break your A^ord with, a man that is dead and buried. — I shall laugh before the old put has reiundea [Aside. Mrs. Pin. There is the justice come to fetch, us away with him — he's come for Dolly's portion.— You kiioW I was always forrgiying it all to her since Nancy's death. J?ot. Give me my money — give me my money. Pin. Oh ! how I tremble ! yet dare not speak to him [He covies nearer. ACT II:] THE SCHOOL OiF -A CTTOm 383 •Dot. Show my last will and testameht; Give tne my money; Fim I cannot Speak to himj to tell him I'll do every- thing. Dot. I will haunt thee, and tear thy wife from the fell Mrs: Pin. He presents the figure of the poor child we had to cheat Dolly with ! Oh, husband, he'll have me to punish thy sins ! Oh, he has me, now, now, husband I [They both sink with the Barber at a trap-door\ Ralph. "He presents the figure of the poor child we had to cheat Dolly with ! " How shall I get off this ground. \Going away, fearfully. •Marg. Oh, Ralph ! can you leave me? \They meet trembling, as if ihey foukd the place open.] Ralph. Let u& keep together, and not go underground in a strange place. Marg. Tell me, Ralph, whether there was anything between you and Nan ? Ralph. Ask no questions, ask no questions, good Margery. \Exeunt. jDolly. Whither shall I gb, or where will this adventure etld? Sui-e, Mr. Severii will [Four leaves of the MS. are here missing.] ^^ A a^ -^ Umb. The pretty good-natured absurdity ! \Asitie?^^^^ But, madam, you forgot Lorenzo that you mentioned just hdw : you must ^ee \&&—\Wlitstre. Scene chaW^es^] th'ere, madalii; there's the place He ispoke those charming words in.- But I forget, madam, you are a country lady^ and delight .rather in airy prospects, tracts of land, and beauteous lawns. , [Scene changes io the Park. Dotlj. Is this the Park? Pfay^ madaia- wh^re is the Birdcage Walk, where lovers meet for mtrigij'e? 384 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [ACT 11. Umh. You shall see it in due time ; for I have a thou- sand other things to tell you of. You must understand human life; and what passes in the world, before you give yourself away. — But I must not inform you of it abruptly and hastily. Dolly. It will be charitable in you, madam, to do so. Umh. I know you must be an admirer of poetry and good sense, without which music is insipid, or at least but half-informed. " Dolly. I have wished myself at London a thousand times, to see operas ; but I would not have them sing nonsense. j - Umb. Therefore, madam, I hope you'll like the poetry which Mr. Severn has ordered for the stagie in celebration of two faithful lovers : they were persons in an humble condition, and no ways conspicuous but by their passion for each Other; indeed, just what ' they should be conspicuous for "-"-!.-"' ' ' ' An Inscription and Epitaph in a Country Chorch.'- ■ " Near this place lie the bodies; ofr John Hewett and Sarah Drew, an industrious young man and a virtuous maiden of this parish, who, having been contracted in marriage, and being with many others at harvest-work, were both in one instant killed by lightning on the last day of July, 1718." ', Dolly,-' Ob. ! but t-he poetry— what a sad thing 'twould have been if one of them had bepn left alive-^But pray let's see the poetry. • . ' Pope tells the story of these lovers in a letter to Lady M. W. Montagu. He wrote two poetical epitaphs, one of which, with slight modifications, is ,given by Steele, and afterwafds this prose inscription, which Lord Harcourt thought would be better under- stood by the coininon people. ' -■ ACT II.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 385 Umb. Have but patience and we will have conveiiience, miss, to sit down and hear it. \Scene changes to a bower. " Think not with rigorous judgment seized, A pair so faithful could expire ; Victims so pure Heaven saw well pleased. And snatched them in celestial fire. Live well, and fear not sudden fate ; When death calls virtue to the grave. Alike 'tis justice soon or late, Mercy alike to kill or save. Virtue alike can hear the call. And face the flash that melts the ball." But let us take our places, and carry it gravely, suitable to your fortune and merit. \^Here it is performed. 5teeIo. C ACT TllE THIRD. Enter Severn and HuinBik. ' \ EV. I have often tegged you to let me shift for fiiyself, let tfty character sink or swim. Every man who attempts any new thing must allow mankind to talk of him as they please. I do not regard what the world says, but what they should say. Hum. It is very odd that we have never happy moments but at midnight, so different are our tempers ; and we are made to keep together from no other rule, but that we never expostulate upon past mistakes ; to meet again after a misunderstanding, contains in itself all manner of apology, all expostulation; but, if I might, I would com- plain that the business of the house is neglected while you are attending yoiir amours. Sev. No ; there is a present leisure to attend anything of that kind, to hear ariy person or persons that pretend to the stage, to examine scenes or goods to be shown or exhibited there, and give them their answers. — Let us take our places accordingly. Hum. It is wondrous to consider the folly of mankind, that think so lightly and so meanly of the faculties of a player. — Roscius had three thousand scholars, and but one only fit for the purpose. ACT HI.] THE SCHOOL 6F ACTION. 387 Sev. Thete's no £irgilitl^ ttiariRiiid bilt of their htlTtiour or their taste 3 they mdy be gained upoti by skill aiid laboiif, but that must be felt befdfe it'S seen. Hunt. Now you begiti to pTiiloSophisfe .* but let us hear the people, in spite of vef-haculat dialect or tone, attertipt- ing to reptesent the rtioSt difficult chdrattfers 61 state. Mr. JixraXAiAt, if you pleasfe, we will no* sit down and hear them. [Tkey sit down at table ^ticcdrdingly.'] Mr. Severn, you see he consents to takfe out plates. {^Rings the bell.] Who waits ? £nter Servant. Servant. A great many people, sir ; but none so im- pottunate to be admitted as the Wel^h gentleman, ■iVho offets to dfct the character of Hairilet for his own pleasure. Hiiih. Plague oh him, whose jjleasure will it be teides ? Sev. Oh, all the world will like him ; let us admit him by all means. Hum. Hej in his vernacular tone, will disparage a scene for ever by repeating it ; but do as you will. Sev. Pray desire the gentleman to walk in : pray, gentlemen, keep your countenance, for he is no fool] or if be is, he is a valiant one, and hath a great estate half- way up the atmosphere. Enter Mr. Gwillyn. \They all rise from their seatsl\ Sir, we understand the high obligation ydti ky upon us (pray sit down, sir) in condescending to tread the stage in the character of the Prince of Denmark ; in which, sir, you are sO far right, that hfe was a prince of a very attcient family, and not unworthy a gfentleniiri of your character to represent. 388 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act iii. Gwil. I have a respect for him, both for his plutt and his prainSj and think I could do him justice. Sev. There is no doubt of it, good sir; and if you please to pronounce the sentence, "To be and not to be," you'll mightily raise these gentlemen's expectations and gratitude to you for the favour you intend them. Gwil. Sir, that will I do, if the gentlemen please, to hear it. \They all rise, and come firxaard with him. Gwil. " To pee and not to pee," &c.V Sev. Most admirably spoke, sir. Be pleased to give us time to concert measures what day to act this play. Let our tailor wait upon you to adjust the shape and all things necessary. [£a:// Gwillyn. Hum It's well we have got well clear of this humorous exceptious gentleman ; but I was in terrible pain lest he should have observed your incUnation to laugh.^-But let us not lose time, but go on to answer other persons. \Rings the bell. Enter Servant. Hum. Who waits without? Servant. Very many people, sir ; but the lady with her daughter says she has been here so often that she will be next admitted. Sev. She will ! ^ she insists to see us altogether and makes a difficulty even to show her daughter's face. Now that is so preposterous and humourous, that I could not answer her civilly and in general, and so put her off. Hum. Let her come in, however, and have her answer from us all. Enter Mrs. 'E'E.T/m'ELL, with her Daughter. Hum. Madam, what are your commands here? ' A copy of the speech from Pope's edition of Shakespeare, "was sent to Steele by William Plaxton, on July 22, 1725 ; and in. the margin Steele wrote: "Mr. Gwilliin speaks this speech in the Welsh tone, looking at the gentlemen suspiciously, not speaking improperly, but as he is a Welshman " (Add. MS. SI45C f. 170). ACT III.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 389 Mrs. Fen. Gentlemen, I am a gentlewoman of a very ancient family. Sev. Very likely, madam ; but, indeed, madam, we sit here to provide for the stage, and not to hear pedigrees. If you are of a house of yesterday, and please to-day — you'll pardon me, madam — that is what we are to mind chiefly ; but pray, madam, break into your business. Mrs. Fen. Why, gentlemen, this young lady in a mask with me is my daughter, and I propose her for the stage ; for I am reduced, and starve or beg we must not. Sev. But, madam, please to show us how your daughter will help to keep us from wanting. Madam, we have a great charge already. Mrs. Fen. Why, you see, gentlemen, her height is very well ; she is neither tall nor short. Sev. We allow it, madam ; but that is not all : she must speak with a good air and grace. — Won't she un mask ? Must not we see more than thus much of her ? Mrs. Feri. No, no, gentlemen, we must come to some manner of agreement before you see any further. To be a maid of honour, a waiting lady on your Statiras and Roxanas,^ or any of your theatrical princesses, she'll deserve twenty shillings a week for mere dumb show — and I'll have assurance of that in case you like her face ; or else it shan't be said she was offered to the playhouse. Sev. Well, but, madam, that is not all ; for let her be for dumb show only, her face is not all ; she must be well limbed {^They whisper and confer.^ — she may sometimes be in a boy's dress^ — a Cupid, a young heir to a great family, a page, or a gentleman-usher. Mrs. Fen. Why, I was aware of the objection, and have had a model taken of her legs, which you shall see, gentlemen. There they are ; as fine a straight leg and 1 Statira, wife of Alexander, is murdered by'Roxana, the Bactrian, in Lee's tragedy, The Rival Queens. 3?P T^^ SCHOq^L OF 4CTipN. [act iii, If proper a palf— you sjjall selidgj^ gg? 3 woman's leg so well made. — I don't question, gentlemen, but ypu have s,eeii great choice, gpntlejjaen, in your posts; ar? jvell acqi|aifite^ witfi the symijoetry of parts, a^cl corrgspppdejijei? of lim^?. S^v. Wejl, madatp, ypu speak of your goods so advan- tageoi4|Ijrj arjd set thef]t|i 9f"sp reasppibly, fhat if tb^,lady pleaseg Jo §hojv her face, we sfj^,}} give tiyenty shillings a wppk, eprfain. Mrs. ^^n. She |? youj- seryapt, and slj|,Jjl constantly atfpj}^ rehe3.rsals. [I)^ughter unmasks. Sev.. ,Qn my word, a very surpfising f^pe-— :Pf3-y, madam, may I beg the favour to see thpge pretty lips move ? Daughter. Yes, sir. ^ev. Pray, mac^afn, raise your voice a ppte higjier. M^. J^e^. Genfiemen, I beg slip may be kept yiffiolly for tragedy, fgf ^ji^ takfis procj^giously after nje. She can act only ij.^ haughty part ; I was prodigiously baugjity in njy youth. S^e jyilj neyer ,^p| natur^|ly anyFhpg but vyjjat'.s cruel an4 jjnp^tj^ral, f ? the men gaU ?t- 5?p. gut, rnadam, can't s|j,e reppaf ^ny verses, any parts pf a play ? Jt's §tj.ange pjj^ sbp.ulc} hax? an inclination tp the ptafe, a|id yet jjpjihjng by jjept. Mrs, Fen. Oh, I have jpijrgd Ijer to get as mariy things as possible to arm her against the_ wiles of men ; as those concerning Sir Charles Sedky — Say on, good Betty. p^ughfet:. " Sedley }}as th^t prgyailing gentle aft. That can vyjth a fe.sistle^s cjiarm impart The Ippsest wishes tp the cha^fept heart." ' Sev. "The loosest wjshe? ! ■'— I fancy somebody or pth^r hfs seen her legs otherwise tiiap by a mpdel-rshe speaks so sepsibly ! [■^{'^^■ I>aug/U^r. " Raise such a convict, kinfile sucji f. ^r?, Between declinirig virtue and desire, ' These well-known Ijnes are by I-prd Rochester. ACT III.] TE[E SCHpQL QF 4fTIQ£j: ^91 Till the poor vanquish'd majd dissolves ?way, In dreams all night, in sighs aijd Jears a}l day." Sev. Well, madam, pluck up a spirit ; and Igt us hear you grace it, ^nd do it with ap air. Speak it politely, with a side face ; you are to imagine an audience though there is none ; and pray speak it with courage — " Sedley has that prevailing," &c. Hum. Madam, you may be sure of all the encourage- rnent and care ypur beauty and merit deserve. \Exeunt Mrs. Fennell and Daughter. Well, now, let us look into some scenes that are under examination, whether proper to be exhibited or not. Let the scene of Mr. Buskin come on. \Trumpets squn4i <^^^ drums beat a march.^ Enter Buskin. Busk. " In vain has conquest waited on my sword, f n vain th' pjjedient waves have wafted o'er The bark in which I sailed ; as if the gods Had ordered nature to preserve her course With gentle clime and season, to convey In safety me, tlfeir instrument of fate." ^um. Ho ! brave, ho ! brave. What's to come after that ? Busk. '' All this was vain, since Clidiamira's eyes Have met with mine — and stopped my race ojf glory. Oh, Clidiamira— Oh ! oh! oh! let' all The elements break loose — " ffuni- Ay, ay, to be sure, they can do no less, if Clidiamira's really angry ; but not so fast, not so fast, if you please. Busk. Pray, sir, give me leave — Oh, Mr. Humber, is it you ? Your hurnble servant. — I submit — I know you are a critic. Hum. To be free, si^, you must know this way pf 392 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act hi. blustering is a stage legerdemain ; a trick upon the eyes and ears of the audience. Look you, sir, this is a time of licentiousness; and we must examine things, now we are setting up to strip you, to know whether what you say is good or not. Busk. How, strip me ! Hum. Ay, strip you — for if it be not sense in your doublet, it is not in your long robe. High, heels on your shoes, or the feathers on your beaver, cannot exalt you a tittle. No ; you must know, good folks, this is all a cheat. Such stuff as this is only a tragedy of feathers — it is only lace and ribbon in distress ; undress the actor, and the speech is spoiled. All. Strip him — strip him ! [They pull off his clothes. Hum. Now speakj now speak. Busk. Give me my truncheon at least ; I got it by heart with a stick in my hand. Many. Ha, ha, ha ; let him have his truncheon — let him have his truncheon. Busk. Nay — pray, gentlemen and ladies, let me come on the same board. — Nay — Hum. You shall do that.— Well, but begin. Busk. " In vain has conquest "—shan't I have a little of the trumpet? All. No, no, no. Busk. Then the drum only 1 All. No, no. Busk. " Oh, Clidiamira— oh ! oh! oh ! "—It won't do ; one can't follow either love or honour without some equipage. Hum. Well then, master, to keep you in countenance, you shall take up your things, and in your doublet speak that sentiment in the play called The Patriot^ wherein ' The only dramatic piece called The Patriot that was in print in Steele's time was Gildon's tragedy (1703); and no such lines as those ^ven here are to be found in it. ACT III.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 393 the great lord speaks to his friend, who applauds the bestowing of his bounty. The friend, taking notice of his conveying secretly relief to a distress'd person of great merit, and thinking to please him, tells him that the man obliged has found out who sent it, and said it was a God-like action. To which the answer : " God-like indeed, could one bestow unseen ! Thanks are too large returns, from soul to soul. For anything that we can handle thus : Heaven has no more for giving us our all. The means of sustenance man owes to man, As angels give each other thought for thought." Mr. Buskin, your most humble servant ; mingle with the company. — Take your things. Say that in a doublet, cap, or waistcoat, with or without shoes, and make it little if you can. \The crowd takes in Buskin. Hum. But I see you grow uneasy, to be diverted from your main design ; I'll only trouble you with two circum- stances, which to me appear very magnificent, tragical, and great : the one is a great favourite in a court, a man of consummate honour, who was surrounded with many difRculties and enemies. They got the better of him so far, as that he must be sacrificed unless he would open a letter which came by an error into his hand, but was directed to his enemy. He comes on in a soliloquy, but chooses to preserve his honour and abstain from opening it, and goes on to his ruin. He says but a word or two ; but let him come. Enter a Tragedian, with a letter in his hand. Tragedian. " Here is my fate : 'tis put into my hands ; 'Tis in my hands to take or to refuse ; I cannot open it but with loss of honour — Be it for ever closed. I cannot escape death ; that will come soon or late ; 'Tis in my power to make it find me innocent." [Exit. 3^1 T^E &CBQQZ Q^' 4CTIQ.N. [act ui. H^ni. Yo}! fijjserve, ]j4j-. ^§?verp, Ogre's 110 npise, np eglat, rio bijstjg, b^); simple and c^im grpatness.— ^'The next pijrcupstance for yhiph I beg your patience is that of a great EngU.sh geperal, yvhp, pbseryipg the cpnfederate horse seized with a panic f§ar, and all, to a jnan, in the utmost disorder, assuipes himself ap^ rnoupts ap emi- nence, and says Jie would sfand ther^ to revive the arniy. He did so ; the enemieg jopn pbgerved so reiiiarkable an object, and cannonaded it. He stood the fury of their cannon while the army marched — ^ut he comes on. \I)ruins and trumpets to precede his march^ Enter Peneral. Gen. " Nothing, but seeing me meet all they fear, Can avert the same contagion from the troops. Let them behold me die ; or, what is more. Let them behold how J expect to die ! " \Es!:it. Hum. It is allowable to help great thoughts, and alarm the audience with warlike instruments, to give the inattentive a sense of what is truly sublime. Bijt I wpp't detain you longer ; let us go in ; but as we are going off a stage, let me repeat to you a couple of versgs. Would you reform an heedless guilty age. Adorn with virtuous characters the stage. ACT THE FOURTH. Enter Mr. Pincers, and Barber, and Constable. IN. How do you say, sir ? A-H this is a delusion ! an imposition ! Barb. Perfectly so, sir; no other- wise, indeed, sir ; jnd they have . seized Mr. Constable there, my neigh- bour, whq came into the hbu^e to keep the peace, when they were waging war in it. Pin. )yhat, lay hold upon a constable ! detairi the constable ! i)o they know what they do ? Barb. Ay, they ki|0w very well ; but they jipn't care yhat tljey dp. Pin. Aijid was the ghost a cheat, and calling fhis an inn all imposition ? Barb. Yes, sir ; but here Mr. Constable has found below stairs an inlet into fhe house, and whence he can let ip all the peopje of Drury J^ane and tlig parts adjacent. Piri. \ have heard of Drury Lane in fhp country; but they will do as well as any for this purpose. Barb. That is most excellent good Itick; we will swing them for false imprisonment, and that of so great an officer as a constable. 396_ ., ^ TJI£ SCHOOL OF A CTIQN. [act iv. Constable. But, sir, I want a warrant to do what I ' would on this occasion. Fin. There need none, sir ; you have the law, which will uphold you in it ; the recovery of your liberty, and my liberty, as well as that of the barber, will support you. There is in your person the liberty of every man in England. As you are a constable concerned, I an^ a lawyer. I'll stand by you, I warrant you. But let's be silent before you bring in the posse. Take these deeds in your care and custody. \Giving him deeds.\ Observe, Mr. Barber, I deliver them to him ; and now let us go, or him go, and let in his people. \Exit Constable.] What a prodigious villainy was here, Mr. Barber! I placed such a confidence in this Mr. Severn, and took counsel with him for the disposal of my niece, and thus he has served me ; but I have put my deeds relating to her into the constable's hand; and if he can let 'W\'& posse into the house, I'll warrant you we will recover all. \A noise of people : — " Beat down the doors ; deliver the lady."] £ard. Hark, hark ! he has got them in, I warrant ye the posse is raised ; I'll warrant we shall have the whole city and country on our side. Fin.' The whole matter is, how to conduct it legally. Let me be but of the council, and we will knock them all o' the head, and not transgress the law at all ; we will murder the dogs, I would say the rogiies. Why, what is there in it ? they are no people, they are nobody in law ; and if they are no people, to kill them is to kill nobody ; for to fire at /era natura, creatures by nature wild — those animals are lawful game, and any man that has so much a year may kill them ; so, Mr. Barber, any man may fire upon these fellows ; these stage-players, who are no per- sons, have no right in themselves ; and therefore any man may kill them. ACT IV.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 397 \A noise without : — " Deliver the lady ; give her to her guardian ; give her to her uncle."] Barb. They are just a-coming in ; I know the neigh- bourhood and the constable ; you shall direct us all. Pin. Nay, I'll warrant you all shall be safely and legally done. [Enter a crnvd of people^ Rabble. Where is the gentleman ? where is the gentle- man? Barb. Here he is, gentlemen ; and the players have taken his niece from him ; and, for aught we know, they have ravished her ; but, let it be so or no, we'll indict them for it. Harkee, Mr. Pincers, will an indictment for a rape lie in Drury Lane ? Pin. Lookee, gentlemen, we will fall upon them for taking her and her clothes ; and then afterwards come upon them for the body, as we shall see cause ; but we must find this body before we can do anything. Barb. We will bear- all down before us but we will find her. Down with all their sham heavens, their counterfeit seas ; down with their false unsafe lands ; down with their windmills and their dragons ; burn their barns ; and when we have got the lady, fire the house. — Come, follow the gentleman. All. Ay, ay. Pin. Huzza, huzza 1 Ail. Huzza, huzza ! \Pog barks. \st Rabble. Don't mind their great dog; he barks a sham. He is no true dog. Unkennel the dog within. Harkee, neighbour, keep up your dogs — keep your dogs. Halloo, halloo ! 2nd Rabble. Keep your dogs, gentlemen butchers ; keep the dogs to charge their house. I'll warrant we'll spoil their battling, and rioting and fighting, and decoy- ing all our daughters and nieces to see sights, and never 398 THE SCirdOL OF AtTiON. [ACT IV. feind their busities's. Hb ! th!e lad^, the kdjf— we'll have the lady. Bard'. We'll frialie this yoiiiig lady is fimcjilsf as' Ileleti of Troy wsisl We'll buTn all tjefordi as for iM salce. Come, let us hunt, let's see what's abbui this hoflse iri all its parts — halloo, hunt. Pin. Let the constable march first ) there's our safety, that's our security.— Take notice, I declare before all this cbiiijiatfy, it is in deferice of this honest ^ He 4: >|c ¥ THE GENTLEd^oAN. (A FRAGMENf.) HE date of this fragment, which Nichols named The Gentleman^ is uncertain ; it was first printed in 1 809, together with The School for Scandal. The autograph MS. is in the British Museum (Add. MS. 5145c). Steele had written of high life below stairs in the Spec- tator (No. 88), where he says that menservants "are but in a lowei: degree what their masters themselves are ; and usually affect an imitation of their manners : And you have in liveries, beaux, fops, and cox- combs, in as high perfection as among people that keep equipajges. It is a common humour among the retinue of people of quality when they are in their revels, that is when they aire out of their master's sight, to assume in a humorous way the names and titles of those whose liveries they wear." He then describes their behaviour at an ordinary at Westminster, where he " heard the maid come down and tell the landlady at the bar that my Lord Bishop swore he would throw her out at window if she did not bring up more mild beer, and that my Lord Dick would have a double mug of purl." When news arrived that the House of Lords was rising, " down came all the company together, and away ! " Servants were wont to congregate at the entrance to Hyde Park, while the gentry were at the Ring. " There are men of wit in all conditions of life ; and mixing with those people at their diversions, I have heard coquets and prudes as well rallied, and insolence and pride exposed (allowing for their want of education), with as much humour and good sense as in the politest companies." (See pag^ 281.) THE GENlLEmcAN. Enter Tom Dimple and Sir Harry Severn. OM. I'll serve you very faithfully in this particular, since you have a curiosity to pry into the affairs of us poor servants. Sir Har. I think you are happier than we masters. But how do yoli contrive it, to be at a ball and mas- querade of your own, all the time we are at ours, and yet be in readiness to a;ttend when we break up or want you? Tom. Sir, we leave sentries at all the places where you come out. All of us cannot expect tp be at the diversion every night; but the forty or fifty who are to stay about the playhouse, or the person of quality's who entertains, send frequent expresses to us. Besides, I own to you, sir, that we find means to have tickets of our own, and can send in among you, by the help of them, when we please, and have warning enough of your motions. If we are a little too tardy, the coachmen can, when they thint It convenient, make stops so as no one can §tir, and keep everything in a ferment till all troops are come together. Steele. D T> 402 THE GMNTLMJifAN. Sir Har. You put me in mind of a great many things that )iave been till ppw iiyiacGOuntable. Why, then, the sudden motion when we have been all locked %'i\, tearing and swearing, coachmen lashipg, footmeij bailing, and link-boys offering help to call chairs or coaches, and striving to lead or light you, is usually a hurry contrived and made up on purpose ; and the sudden getting loose of one another, is only thai the word is given, " all are come," "all is right"! Tom. It is nothing else in the world. Sir Har. But, then, how do you do for your habits and your music, and all the rest of the conveniences ? Tom. You have been so good and kind a master, that I'll hide nothing that may contribute to your diversion. We are in fee with the wardrobe keepers at the play- houses ; and when the play is over, and all the parties concerned are disposed of; as you are at your diversions, the whole stock of clothes are in their hands j and they let them out for so many hours, and pack [them] up agaip with great order, and np Jiftrm done. ^^'r Har. Well, well, np)v there is no mystery ; there \% nothing so easy, as a}l is safe without possibility of dis: appointjnent qr surprise^— Biit as to ^h^t is tq be done to-night Tom. This alehouse, ^\\&t% we all nieet, is joining to a gj-gat hoiise very Jif^ll fi^rjjishgd ; and the care of letting it is committ^ji| to oijr j^ndjord' He lias bfpkep ^own a partition, lyhiph; he can, in a day or %■^<^\, piake up again ; an^ we liave noble apartniei^ts for quif entej-tainments, not iflf^nor to those ^herein ouf rfia^ters themselves are received. Si-^ H^r. You divert pje extremely vsrith this; ^:jew sceiie ofp^easm-p. ;^^. We sh^ll he ip qur tip-top jollity to-night; all the Ipwer ^prld [wilH be together to-nighf ip a^ muqh pleaspr^ as ever the upper themselves enjoyed. THE GENTLEMAN. 403 Sir H(ir. Wh^t l^aye. you ejftraordjp^y at this time more than any other ? Tom. Our landlord is giving up* his business, and tnarries Ms daughter, Mrs. jenny, my Lady Daiiity's chambermaid, to the favourite fpotrnan of Sir Johii Pldvef', who is a greait leader among us, and will keep and increase the cUstorn Of the house. Btit the humour is, no one is tci know which is the bridegroom ; for none but the girl herself [knows] Which of the cotnpany is Sir John. &ir Har. How ! Sir John ? Tom. I should have told you that W6 always call one another by the names of our masters ; arid yOU must not be surprised at hearing Hie answer to your honour's to all who call to me ; for, as I am a rnaiiager, and to be barefkced, I cantiot disgtiise that / ani yoU. Sir Har. It is no matter if they will take the as readily for your fellow-servant. Tom. They'll never suspect you for my tnaster. — But here comes my landlord. Landlord. Come, Sir Harry, Sir Harry, 'tis past nine o'clock ; the compaiiy is cotaing — they hiVe put all in at the masquerade and the assemblies. Tom. \Whis'perifig 'Stin Harry.] As I am barefaced^ you can come to me when you please, when you are at a loss. — But you see J must atteqd my chs^rge. Sir Har. I beg your pardon; I'll interrupt you no mare ; but if I like — you understand. Tom. You know my skill and diligence, ihy g6dd master ; but ^dieu.— f-LandJord, ypji sep the house fills ; let all the waiters be ready ; pipes, tobacco, bread, cheese and the like, fpr those Who are ih habits proper for steh coarse fare. What ! none of the stewards teady btit myself? - 1 TheMS. Kas ''off." 404 THE GENTLEMAN. Enter three others with wands, barefaced. 2nd Stewar'd. Ay, ay, here we are — here we are,, yd Steward. We staye,d only, till we saw some quality figures coming in, ,^ 2hd Steward. Lpplfc you,, how. ^.e are overrun with nymphs and shepherds ! — But look, Ippk ! there is some sense in those stalking things, which move like pageants, and are not of human shape. 1st Steward. Right, they cannot be out in their parts—: there are no such things in nature — but patched-up beings, out of mere fancy and irnagination. ^rd Steward.. But have a care,, ladies,, shepherdesses, nymphs; run, run— Here, here is a dragon. that devours virgins, as a pike does small fish. 2nd Steward. Have a care— here he comes, here he come— he eats all virgins without mercy, but will touch nobody else. Several women^ s voices together. Let him come, let him come. , An old, withered, Maid, crying cft^t. Old Maid. Have a care, have a care, have a care ; let ine get off, let me get off ; oh me-*— oh me ! :\Jiunning off. Figure of St. George — Dicky, borne on a war-horse. Dicky. Fear not, fair one, fear not. I am St. George, I'll save thee. , , Dragon anii St. George fight. The crowd, cry out. Ho-bpy, St. George ! Ho-boy, dragon ! — there's the knight of the world. , \st Masquer. Hear, hear, the knight is going to speak. As he's stout, he's merciful. He is going to give the dragon his life — no, no, he's going to speak to him. THE GENTLEMAN. 405 Constable. Hold, hold, sir knight ; the dragon's my neighbour — he's a tailor in my neighbourhood. 2nd Masquer. Open the dragon ; open the dragon ; keep the peace,; take out the tailor. Lawyer Masquer. Take care what you do ; take care what you do. If he is a denizen, the law is very severe. — Though there are nine to make up a man, by a fiction of law it is murder to kill any one of them : the law supposes him a whole man. \st Steward. Ho ! Mr. Fly-flap, Mr. Wardrobe- keeper, give the company an account of the knight and of his horse. Wardrobe-keeper. This is the poet's horse that trod down all the persons who have been killed in tragedy ever since I came to the house. The gentleman that rides him has some verses about him, if he would speak them. Many Masquers. Hear, hear ! — Hear the verses ! St. George. On this bold steed, with this dead-doing arm, Without art magic, help of draught or charm, Crowds have I slain, and routed from the field, Or made, as captives, to my mercy yield. My horse and me none could escape by flying. But saved their lives by well dissembled dying. Cobbler Masquer. Very well, very well, i'faith. Look ye, look ye, gentlemen, I know the humour of that. I live just by in Vinegar Yard, and I know the humour of that. You must know he means by that — that by pretending to be dead, the men whom the valiant man in the play rides over, or cuts down, are carried [off] safe and sound. Why, I have been called in, when there has been a great battle in the house, to help to carry off the dead ; and I have brought a man oflf dead over-night, and mended his shoes next morning. 4o# THB GENTLEMAN. j,tier. Ho, bfsye Crispin !— that's 9. good jgst, 4,th A i'faith. QfkHer. But my wife said a very good thing upon that. " Look thee, Will,'' slid she* for yeu must know ijiy name is Williapij " we shall never make anything of this, if we are to wait for dead men's shoes.'' A,th Masquer. Ho-boy, Crispin ! Thou art a menjt^ roguCj Crispin ! (^TPENVIX. APPENDIX.' I. STEELE V. RICH, (Pages xxviii — xxx.) PLAINTIFF'S BILL} 3° die Julii 1707. To the right hoTf^^ William Lord Cowper Baron of IVingham Lord high Chancellor of Great Brittaine Humbly Complaining, Sheweth unto y' Lordship your Orator Richard Steele of Westm" Gent That your Orat" haveing writt Severall Comedyes & Playes at the request of & for Christopher Rich Esq' for the use qf the Theater or Playhouse in or near Bridges Street in Covent Garden in the County of Middx of which playhouse tl;e said Christopher Rich was & is cheife Patentee or has an assignm' or some other Conveyance of the Patent thereof or otherwise hath the cheife Interest therein and the ' The documents printed in this Appendix are taken from my Life of Steele, 1889, in order to illustrate, more fully than was possiiile in the Introduction, Steele's relations with the thea,tre at different periods. * Chancery Proceedings (Pub. Rec. Office), B and A. Hamilton, IV., before 1.714, No. 642. 410 APPENDIX. pfitts ariseing from the aetidg of Piayes there He the s&id Christopher Rich to induce your Orator to write further for him on or about the Month df December in the year of our Lord one Thousand seaven hundred & tivo advanced & payd to your Orat""' the Sume of Seaventy & two pounds upon this Agreement then or about that time made between them That your Orator should bring to him the said Christopher Rich & for his use the next Comedy your Orator Should be the Author of and out of the Profitts when the same should come to be acted that belonged to your Orator as the Author according to the Usage and Custorae in such Cases he the said Chris- topher Rich was to deduct & pay himself for the said seaventy & two p6unds and Intei-est thereof and in the meane time for the said Christopher Rich's security your Orator was j?vailed with to give and accordingly did give his bond of one hundred forty and four pounds penalty condiconed for the paynieht of i;he said seaventy two pounds and alsoe a Warrant of Attorney to enter up Judgment on the said bond to him the said Christopher Rich And afterwards (viz.) sometime in or about the Month of Aprill in the Year of oUr Lord biie thousand seaven huridrfed & fouri your Orator being the Author of the Comedy called the Tender Husband he did bring td and deliver into the hands bf the said Christopher Rich the Said Comedy beitig the next Comedy your Orator was author of and it being then in an ill season df this Year and your Orator being therefore unwilling to have it then acted the said Christopher Rich promised tb & agreed with ^our Orator that it should not be to your Orator's losse or Detriment but that your Orator should have assigned tp him the profitts of Two Nights made by ' There is a curious mistake in the date of the TetMer Hushdn^ throjighout Steele's Bill. As we have seen, it was first pfodtiebd in ApHl, 1705; There are several allusions in the play to the battle of Blenheim, which was not fought until August, 1704. APPENDIX. 4ti acting of the said Play the next following Winter in Lieu of his Two dayes Profitts according to the Usage & Custome in such ease And the said Christopher Rich did cause the said Comedy or Play to be acted oh the said Theatre in or about the Month Qf Aprill & year one thousand seaven hundred & four aforesaid And severall dayes in the Autumne or Winter following which proved very successefull and the said Christopher Rich made & received great profitt thereby And by the Agreement aforesaid and accordinge to Usage & Custome in the like Cases your Orator was to have the whole profitts of the first third day it was acted in Autumne or Winter afore- said without any diduccon of Charges of Acting and alsoe of the second third day or Sixth day it was acted on as aforesaid diducting only the charges of Actipg Which profitts of the said two dayes came to the hands of Sf was received by the said Christopher Rich and was more than sufficient to pay & satisfye the said Seaventy two pounds & Interest Whereupon your Orator expected m he ha4 reason that the said Christopher Rich would have delivered up to your Orator the said bond & acknowledged satisfaccon on the Record of the Judgment which the said Christophef Rich had caused to be Entred upon Record against your Orator and would have payd your Q'^^.tor what was over & above the said seaventy Two pounds & ini;erest thereof — But jiow soe it is May it pleasfe your Lordship That the said Chris- topher Rich minding to oppresse your Orator and extort great sumCs of Mdny from him refuses to allowe your Orator the profitts of the said two dayes Acting in Autumne or Wihter following according to his Agree- ment or any dayes profitts or any other profitt whatsoever in ednsideraCon of the said Comedy or Play but threatens to Sue your Orator on the said judgment & take your Orator in ExeCucon for the same and hath Caused a Scire facias or sotrie other Suite or accon to be comenced 412 APPENDIX. against your Orator on the said Judgment' In Tender Consideracon of all whieh pmisses & for as much as your Orator can have noe releife therein save in a Court of Equity and for that your Orator's witnesses who could prove all & singular the premisses are either dead or in parts beyond the Seas or in other parts remote & to your Orator unknown To the end therefore that the said Christopher ,Rich may true & perfect answare make to all and singular the premisses as if here againe particularly interrogated and charged and in a more particular manner sett forth & discover what Playes your Orator hath brought & delivered to him & for his use And whether he did not advance & pay your Orator the said sume of seaventy two pounds upon such Agreement as aforesaid ' In Easter terra, 1707, the Queen sent her writ to the Sheriif of Middlesex in these words : Whereas Christopher Rich, Esq., in our Court at Westminster by our writ and by judgment of the said Court recovered against Richard Steele, gentleman, alias Ricliard Steele of the parish of St Martin-in-the-Fields, genileman, 5^144- of debt, also 53s. for his datriages, whereof Richard is convicted as is manifest to us by the Records : Now on the part of the said Christopher we understand that in spitd of the judgment aforesaid the debt and damages siill remain unpaid, wherelore Christopher prays us to give him a suitable remedy We willing to do what is just in the matter command you by honest men of your bailiwick to cause Richard to know that he is to come before us at West- minster on Wednesday next after the Quindene of Easter to show if he knows or can say anything m bar of execution why Christo- pher may not have execulion of his debt and damages, according to the force, form, and eflect of recovery, if he shall think proper, and further to do and receive what the Court shall consider to be just in the matter. — On the 12th February, 5 Aime (170?), at West- minster, Christopher came, and the Sheriff acknowledged that Richard has nothing in his bailiwick by which he could cause him to know, &p. \i.e.y he had no property to which he could affix the notice]. Richard did not come ; therefore it was commanded to the Sheriff to make known to him that he was to be before the Queen at Westminster on Wednesday next after the month of Easter, to show if, &c., and further, &c. The same day was given to Christopher, whereupon he carrie, and the Sheriff again acknow- ledged that Richard had nothing, &c., but Richard did not come. It was therefore considered that Christopher might have execution against him of debts and damages, according to the form and effect of the recovery aforesaid (Queen's Bench Judgment Roll, Easter 6 Anne, 375). I have not found the original juilgment here referred to. , APPENDIX. 413 or upon what other Termes or Agreement and whether your Orator did not bring and deliver to him for his use the said Comedy or Play called the Tender Husband and when the same was soe given or delivered as afore- said & whether he & your Orator did not come to such agreernent for your Orator's share of the profitts of the said play as aforesaid and what other Agreement was made between him and your Orator about itt and how often the same play was acted in the sumer of the said Year one thousand seaven hundred & four & how often in the autumne or Winter of that year and whether your Orator was not to have been allowed all or any and what profitts of any & what days and what & how much he the said Christopher Rich hath received of the said profitts and that the said Christopher Rich may come to an account with your Orator and that the said bond may be delivered up to your Orator and the said Christopher Rich may acknowledge satisfacion of Record on the said Judgment and your Orator may have what is over and above the payment of the said seaventy two pounds and Interest payd to him and may be further relieved in all & singular the premisses according to Equity & good Conscience & that in the Meantime all his vexatious proceedings att Law against your Orator may be stayed by the Injuncon of this hon'"'' Court May it please your Lordship to grant unto your Orator her Maj'^°^ most gracious writt of Spa to the said Christopher Rich directed therein & thereby commanding him personally to be & appeare before your Lordship in this hon''''° Court at a certaine day & place therein to be limited & appointed to true & perfect answare make to all & singular the premisses and further to stand to abide & obey such Order & Decree as your Lordship shall think fitt to make touching the premisses And your Orator shall ever pray etc. Jn° Squibb. Rawlrne. 4H APPENDIX. BEFBNDANT'S ANSfVEk. Jurat 9 die Npvefnbris 1707 Coram me Jo: Edisbtiry. T^e Answers af Christopher Rich Ms^ Deft to the pi^l of Complaynt (/f Rich^c^rd^ Steele gent Complaynant. This deft now & att all times hereafter saveing & receiving to himselfe all & all manner of Benefitt & ad- vantage of Exeption that liiay be had or taken to the manyfold Errors untruthes uhsufEciencies & Imperfections in the Complaynant's said Bill of Odrnplaynt conteyrled ffor an s were thereunto Or unto as rtiuch thereof as this Defend* is advised is any wise; materiall for him this Deft to make answere unto Hee this Deft ahsWereth and sayth That this Deft being ofie of the Assignees of the patents of the Theatre Or Pldyhonse in or neslre Bridges Street iti Coverit Garden as the Cotiiplt's Bill mentbneid and of one other Theatre or Playhouse in Dbrsett Garden London and owherof part of the shares or profitts arising by acting (if itty) To liis owhe use the Complaynant in or about the month of Ofctober ill the yeldfe of our Lord One thousand Seaven hundred and one brought a Comedy or play to this Defend' which He the Cotnplayhant alleadged he had written aild Stiled th^fTunerall for which he the Complaynant came to sin Agreemertt with this Defend' in writiiig oh about the Ninth day of October Anno Dni 1701 and thereby for the Considerafcdh therein menconed sold the same to this Deft to be acted by the Actors under this Deft's Government as sobne as they could conveniently which Comedy ivas soone after acted in pursueance of the said Agreement and the said Corn- play nan t was paid and ssttisfyed in full accoi-dirig to the Conditions and tlie tenor and true Intent of the Said Agreement and to the Content and Satisfaccon of him the Complt as he acknowledged and declared and this Deft is informed and believeth that he the Complt gave APPENDIX, 415 a Receipt to M' Zachary Baggs ' the then and ilow Treasurer of the said Company for his the Complayn'''' profitts arising by aetitig of the said Comedy by vertue of the Agreement aforesaid And this Defehd' further sayth that the Complayn' in or about the month of January Anno Dni 1702* inforeming this Defend' that he had neare iinished another Comedy which he intended to call the Election of Goatham he proposed to sell the same to this Deft and accordingly in or by a certaine writing or Agreement beareing date on or about the Seaventh of January Anno Dfii 170^ signed by the Complaynant in Consideracon of one shilling to him the Complt then paid by this deft and for the Cbtisidferacoh therein and herein after menconed he the said Complaynant did sell or is therein or thereby menconed to sell unto this Defend' his heires abd assignes A Certaine Comedy which he the Complayn' was then writing called the Election ot Goatham and which he was to deliver to this Defend' oh or about the Twentyeth da,y of ffebruary then next in or4er to b§ acted by the Company of Actdrs under this Defend*'^ Governra' assoane as they could coiiveniently ' In Consideracon whereof the said Complayn' was to have all the Receipts of the third day Otl which the said jDlay should be acted Hee the Complt paying out of the same all the Charges of the house both constant and Incidetit But if the Receipts on the ffourth da^ should double the Charges thereof then the Charger of the third should bfe returned to him and he thereby obliged himSelfe to make good the Charges of the second day out of the profitts of > Baggs comnnence4 an action for flebt against ^teelp jn the Cburt of Queen's Befach in Michaelmas term, 1707, claiming damages of ;SiS- 2 1703, N.S. * The Examiner iar October 12, 1713, evidently written by some o»e welj acquainted with Steele's afiSirs, said^ ^'I and tBS Up- holsterer retired to the bench and parade in the Park, npt doubjing but your Author would iitlish his rough draiight of the Election, at Goatham, according to agreement ^th Mr. Rich." 4i6 APPENDIX. the third day in case the Charges of the second day should not arise to soe much Item if the Receipts on the flfourth day of acting the said play should amount to fiforty pounds or upwards the said Company was to act it the ffifth day and if the- ffifth dayes Receipts should be fforty pounds Then they were to act it the sixth day for the Benefitt of the Complayn' Hee paying out of the same the Charges of that day But if att any time there should appeare Reason to doubt whether the play would bring Chardges or not Then the Company should not be obliged to act it the next day unlesse he the Complayn' would oblige himselfe to make good the full charges And lastly the Complaynant was not to print the said play untill a, month should be expired from the ffirstday it should be acted and three of the printed Books in Marble paper Covers 3.i?d Gilt edges were to be delivered into the office for the use of the patentees assoone as the same should bee printed (As in and by the said Agreem' in Writing last menconed under the hand of the said Com- playn' and to which this Defend' for more Certainty referreth himselfe ready to be produced to this honoble Court may appeare) And this deft sayth that there being a ffreind^hip contracted between him the Comiplt arid this Deft arjd the Complt expressing greate kindnesse to this Deft and telling him of his the Complts want of Money and of his being likely to be arrested for moneys oweing by him prevayled with this Deft to advance lend and pay to him the Complt and to his use the Sume of Seaventy and Two pounds And he the Compilaynant in or by one Bond or Obligacon bearinge date on' or about the Seaventh day of January Anno Dni 1702' became bound unto this Defen' in the penall Sume ' of One Hundred fforty and ffower pounds Conditioned for the payment of the said Seaventy and two pounds with Interest on the Eighth day of March then next And alsoe 1 \16i, N.S. APPENDIX. 417 he the Complt executed a Warrant of Attorney to qon- fesse a Judgetn* upon the said Bond in the Court , of Queen's Bench att Westm' which; Judgement was Entred up accordingly as. by the said Bond Warrant, of Attorney and the Record of the said Judgement and, to, which, this Defend' referreth himselfe may appeare And this defend' sayth that he the: Complt Steele as an Additional Security for the better payment of the said Debt did, by a, writing under his' hand beareing date the Seaventh day of January Anno Dni 1702^ assigne and. sett over or is therein menconed to assigne and sett over unto this. Deft all the Money and profitts which was or were to come to him the Complt; for his play intended to be called, the Eleccon of Goatham by the Agreem' therein, before written upon this Condition Thatif the said dehti^hould not be- paid unto this Deft before the acting of Jlje said, play That then' this deft his Executors or assignes might, retaineand apply such profitts for or towards pay m' of the said debt of Seaventy and two pounds) with dama,ges, But if such profitts should amount to more moneys.^then should be due to this Deft or his assignes aft; the time, of acting such play, then, the Overplus of the moneys and profitts arising due to the Complaynant on his play by thg, agreem' aforesaid was to gbe to the use of the Complt and his assignes after payment of the aforesaid debt with damages to this deft and his assignes as by an Agreement in writing under the hand of the Complt bearing date the said Seaventh day ^ J.anuary Anno Dni 170.2^ ready to be produced to this honoble Court and to which this deft alsoe referreth himselfe may appeare And this,, deft sayth that the- Complt did not pay or cause- to, be;, paid unto this deft the said debt of seaventy and two pounds or any pirt thereof or any Interest for the same accords^ to the Condition of -the said recited Bond on the E^jjlg day of March next after the date thereof nor hath,h4>ej5^ • .', 1-1703, N.S. , - '1703, .N.S., i^-nillirJi Steele. E E 4*^ APPENDIX. since paid thfe' said debt oi any part the'reof m arvy Iiitef^&t for the same to'thiis deft And this deft satyth tfeat he ffifg Complt did riot deliver to this deft the said Comedy scld as aftiresaid to this deft, by the writing before ttieficxjned to beare date the seaventh of January AniiO Dni 176! on the tvrentyeth of ffebruary then next as thfe'reby was mentioned nor hath he the Complt ever siiie6^ that time deHvered to this deft any Coraedy called the Election of Goatham altho this deft very often reqiiestied him the Complt- for the samfe But this deft conffesseth that the Complt about the latter end of March Anno Dni 1705 brought a Comedy to this dfft which he stiled or called the Tender Husband or the accorapliished fiW&ies & desired and urge'd this deft afid his cheife Actors that the same might be acted by them with all speed which he the Complt said was in leiiu and in stead of the said play which he intended tc* have called the Election of Goatham and the same was the next and oHgly play or Comedy which the Complt has brought sold and delivered to this deft since the lending of the ^aid Seavfeniy Two : pounds as afbresaid And this deft fedeivfeth that his this defts Company of Actors did aCcbrdifig' td his the Gomplts desire gett up the said G6medy Galled the Tender Husband with all the speed thtijf eottld and acted the same the first time on the three & twentyeth of Aprill 1705 and acted the same the second time the next day after and the third time on Wedfle'sday the five arid twentythvof the same iiionth of Aprill for the Benefitt of the Complt the, Author aecQrdr iiig- to the safee Conditions vA the said : f&rst ,and .gCieond Agreements menconed and acted tiie same the ifoiirth time oij the next dSiy aft-er being Thursday the sji% ai>fi iSHSntyeth of Aprill 1705; on which day the Ree,?ip|s l^ihg- bat Twenty Six pounds and Eleaven shillings sts SMS'-'deft belfeivBS the same was thirteen pounds gjid jjine shillings shor-t or wanting of fiforty pounds the contingent .11 .■! Appendix. 419 tri tfte said agreement menconed This deft was not obliged by the sa;id Articles of any Agreement to cause the same to be ^cted oh the Sixth day or any more for the Benefitt of the Complayn' save as hereinafter is men- eofted Arid this deft sayth that the said M' Baggs the Treasurer computing each dayes cha:rge of acting the said pta^ called the Tender Husband to amoiint to Thirty Eight pounds ffifteen shillings and Ten pence and the Receipts of the third day being Sixty one pounds and six shillings & noe more as this deft beleives out of which the said Sume of Thirty Eight pounds ffifteen shillings and ten p^nce being deducted there then rested two and twenty pounds ten shillihgs and two pence as this Deft computes the suffle But the Receipts of the second day of acting- the same play amounting to but twenty and six pounds and ffourteen shillings being deficient Twelve pounds one shilling and ten pence to make up the charge of that day which twelve pounds one shilling and Ten pence being deducted out of the said two and twenty pounds and ten shillii»gs the Residue of Neate and cleere profitts to come t6 the Gomplt pursueaint to the Agree^ ment aforesaid amounted to Ten pounds Eight shillings and two pence and noe more as this Deft is informed and beleives with which this deft beleives the Complt wais aequairtted artd that he was well contented and satisfyed with the account given to him the Complt of the Receipts and Charges of and for the said play called the Tender Husband for the ffower ffirst dayes of acting thereof And this Deft sayth that the profitt accrewing due to the Complalynant being- soe small the Complaynant applyed himselfe to this deft and alsoe to the principall Actors under this deft's Government That he the Comph Would waive his pirofitt by the said play being Ten pounds Erght' shillings and two pence as aforesaid' and permitt the same to goe to the use of the Company pro- vided they would act the said play the theh> next Winter 420 APPENI>IX. one day for his the said Complt's iBgnefit instead of the third day aforesaid he paying or allowing out of the Receipts on such day in Winter the constant and incident charge thereof and alsoe what money the Receipts on the said second! day of acting the said play wanted to make up the full charge for that day being Twelve pounds one shining and ten pence as aforesaid which this deft as well as most of the Cheife Actors Consented ,tO; or to such effect And thereupon the sMd Treasurer, made the full Receipts on the third day of acting the sai4 play called the Tender Husband to be charged for the use of the •Company without chargeing any part thereof paid to -the Complaynant ;iH regard the Complaynant refused to receive the profitts due to him. for that day. But chose to have a day in Winter in Leiu thereof as aforesaid And this .deft sayth that in pursueance of such Request made by the Complt to this deft and the Cheife actors as afore- said a day was appoynted, in the, winter following accord- ing as the Complaynant desired and Bills were sett up the day before it was to have been acted and it was ordered by this deft to be geven out that Night and, Bills putt up for the same to be acted the next day for the Author's Benefitt ; But a little before, it was, to have been given out the Complt forbidd the same to be given out on the Stage or putt into the Bills for his Benefitt saying that he did not thinke there would be such an Audience att it as would please him or, used words to some such or the like Effect But ]jow ever the same play was acted on the then next day and the whole Receipts that day being Thursday the Twentyeth of November^ one thousand seaven hundred and ffive amounted to sixty ffower pou^ids three shillings and; Six pence and noe more (as this deft ibeleiyes: & is informed by the said Treasurer) which was about two pounds .seaventeen shillings more th&n, the ' Tliere ifrsome mistake in this date. On November 20, 1705, the ^3jjc^?- TaW^ was acted for the first time. APPENDIX. 421 Receipts came to on the said third day that the same play was acted as aforesaid which' two pounds seaventeen shillings and Six pence this deft and the said principal Actors were willing should be paid to the said Complt as well as the sume of Ten pounds Eight shillings and twO pence before menconed And this deft sayth that as to the Ten pounds Eight shillings and two pence which was due to the Complt out of the Receipts of the said third day according to the Agi-eement before menconed this deft never received the same or any part thereof nor the said two pounds seaventeen shillings and six pence But both the said Sumes remaine in the said Treasurers hands for the use of the Complt as this deft beleives And this deft gave order to the said M"' Baggs the Treasurer to pay the same to the Complaynant amounting together to Thirteen pounds ffive shillings and Eight pence as this deft computes the same And this deft beleives that M' Baggs hath severall times offered to pay the same to the Complt and is still ready to doe the same But that he the Complt hath neglected or refused to receive the same as the said Treasurer has informed this deft And this deft denyeth that the said play called the Tender Husband was acted att any time in the yeare one thousand seaven Hundred and ffower either in the Summer or Winter as in the Cbmplt's Bill is suggested But the first time the same was acted was on the said three & twentyeth of Aprill Anno Dni 1705 as this Deft verily Beleives and as is before sett forth And this deft denyeth that he this deft ever made any other agreement with' the Complt touching or cohcerniiig the Coraedyes or Playes before menconed or either of them other than as is herein before sett forth And this deft denyeth that he lent the said Seaven ty two pounds upon any other agreement then as aforesaid and Sayth that he this deft did never agree to stay for the said debt untill the Complt, should bring the said play' called the Eleccon of Goatham or any other play to this 422 APPENDIX. deft And this deft denyes that he was or is minded to Oppresse the Cojmplt and extort greate SuM,e§ of money from hira and not allow the Coraplt any profitt whgitso- ever in Coh^ideracon of the said Comedy called Ihe tender Husband which Comedy as this deft hath been informed and beleives hath been severall tjmes acted in the last yeare hy the Company of Actors ii) the playhouse in the Hay Markett* without this deft's consent or direccion & in Opposition to this deft's Interest which this deft has reason to beleive was soe done by the Incouragement or att least the Cpnniyeance of the Complt But what Benefitt or profitt the Complt hath had from thence for the same this deft doth not know And this deft Confesseth that the Complt ha-yeing for a long time delayed the payment of the said defet of seaventy two pounds with Interiest and Damages to fhis deft and not keeping his promises touching the same this ^eft hath caused prosecucon to l?e made against Cpmplt fpr Recovery of the said debt wjtji Interest ^ d^pjages which this deft humbly insists was & is law%ll for him to doe and humbly hopes this hpnobjg Court will not hinder him therein raha.m as a common trustee between them, until the ;£'2 5oo should be paid to Steele and a proper defeasance executed by Minshull ; and until that was done no use was to be made of the assignnjent,and then Steele's former assignment for ;£i 500 was also to be delivered up to him. And Steele requiring some further memorandum from Wilbraham of such trust, ' The following ineraorandum, in Steele's writing, is ainpng tlie Blenhejm, IjiISS. : "Whereas S' R: S : has made a Sale of His income and interest in a Patent of the "... (some words illegible) " an absolute sale in Words yet it was never intended nor should be ever insisted uppn as a sale in fact, but that when the nioney lent by M' Minshull should be repaid to Him, the Instruments df Sale and all other deeds or securities should be Vesci^ded and made void and inefiectual in wha|t proper manner S' Richard Steele should require either before or after the time limited in the said instrunjents.'' 428 APPENDIX. Wilbraham wrote a short memorandum, acknowledging that he had received the indenture of the 31st January, purporting a sale from Steele to MinshuU of the fifth part of the Letters Patent, scenes; clothes, &c., and profits in consideration of _5£'4oc)o, which Deed was deposited in his hands in order that in case Steele, his executors, &&, should redeem the same within two years, the same should be delivered up to be cancelled and destroyed; and this he promised to do, unless the Deed were lost by fire or other unavoidable accident. Wilbraham and Minshull witnessed this memorandum by affixing their signatures; and Steele depended upon Minshull's Note, and Wilbraham's memorandum, and Wilbraham's privity to and knowledge of the whole affair, and the Deed- being kept by Wilbraham, so that there should be no prejudice to Steele, that the _;^2 5oo would have been paid, and the former assignment delivered up ; and he therefore then delivered his counterpart and defeasance theteof to Minshull. Arid Minshull, or Gery at his order, continued by virtue of the first assignment of July 1716 to receive Steele's fifth part of the profits ; but Minshull never paid Steele the ,^2500, to the very great disappointment of Steele, who, depending upon the same, was reduced to great straits, and therefore desired Minshull would supply him with some part of it; this Minshull agreed to do if Steele would consent that the agreement in Wilbraham's hands should remain as security for such further sums as Minshull should advance beyOnd the ;^ 15 60 for which the first security was given. Steele consented, being desirous that ' whatever money was really advanced to him should be repaid with interest; and thereupon Min- shull supplied several sums and paid several sums for Steele ; and Gery received out of Steele's share of the profits ;^2398 i6s. lod., or some such sum ; and Steele's sh'ar^ was received by Minshull, or his order, Gery, for the years 1716 and 1717, to the amount of ^1418. APPENDIX. 429 Having paid to Minshull by one Mr. Paterson X49°j Steele desired Minshull, on or about the 22nd OGtOjber; to state accounts with him, which Minshull did, and not- withstanding the debt of Aston was included in the first security for _;^i5oo, yet Minshull charged; Steele with the sum of ;^47 8s. for the costs thereof, and also with several sums over and above the ;^i5oo, the total of one account amounting to ^£768 19s. gd., and the total, of the other tO;^7i2 15s. lod., so that on the whole Min- shull charged Steele as debtor for ;£3029 3s. 7d., and at the same time gave Steele credit for ;^i4i8 received of Castleman and ^£400 received of Paterson, whereby there was a balance of ;£i2ir 3s. 7d. due from Steele to Minshull, as will appear by the said account signed by Minshull and Steele ; and Gery was privy to the stating of this account, and continued by virtue of Steele's note endorsed by Minshull to receive . Steele's share of the profits until the 24th January 1719, and received thereby ;^348. There remained then due to Minshull for prin- cipal and interest only ;£886 i6s, 6d. or thereabouts, but Steele tendered to Minshull ;^90o, and demanded the assignment for_;^4ooo, and a;lso the assignment for ^1500, which Minshull pretended he had long before redeemed, and often promised to deliver to Steele, and had received back the defeasance and counterpart from Steele, and also Steele's note to Castleman. Minshull sent to Wil- braham's house for the said assignment, but Wilbraham -being out of town or from home, Minshull desired the matter- might be put off to another opportunity, and that in the meantime he might continue to receive the profits belonging' to Steele, the same to be afterwards deducted out of the said ;^886 16s. 6d. •.To.this :S,teelp agieed; and on the 4th February 1719 paid Minshull the further sumof;^3o6. And afterwards, on or about the: 26th November 1719, Gery, by virtue of Steele's. note, received the further sum of ^238 ; but Minshull had in the mean- 430 APPMNDIK. time paid to and for Steele some other sums^ so that, on the nth December 1719, there remained due from Steele to MinshuU ;£s96 2s. ^d. ; and thereupon MinshuU by a v^riting dated the safd nth Deeemlaer declared that Steele before the expiration of two years from the 31st January 1717 tendered to him full satisfaction for the consideration raon&y mentioned to be advanced to Steele by the said defed of sale, but that he (MinshuU) could not then come at fKe deed by reason of Wilbraham not being at home when he sent for it, and therefore he desired Wilbraham by this writing to deliver up to Steele or his order the deed dated 31st January 17 17 on payment of the sum of ;£s96 2s. ^d., that being all the money then dde to MinshuU. Steele sent this writing to Wilbrafham, offering to pay the ;^S96 2S. pd., arid well hoped the deed would have been delivered up to him, and that the other assignment of the 24th July 17 16, and the order to Castkrtian, would have been delivered up by MinshuU. But now MinshuU, Wilbraham, and Gery, combining to- getherj a:nd with William Woolley, Esq., of the county of Derby, and with others as yet unknown, to defraud Steel? of his share in the Theatre, Wilbraham utterly refused to deliver up the deed of assignment of the 31st January 1 717, but threatened to deliver it to Gery, with whom he entered into an agreement for that purpose ; and Gery insisted that there was due to him from Steele ;^3Soo Or some Such; great sum, and that Steele's fifth share ©ught to be charged therewith ; aind to cover these unjust pro- ceedings . he ' fwetended that he advanced ;^iSoo to MinshuU upon MinshuU assigning over to him Steele's security of the 24th July 1716, sind that on the 31st Jalnaary 171 7 he advaticed to MinshuU the further sum of ;^2 5oo, and- that MinshuU paid the same to Steel« ; and that by a deed poll dated on or about the 3is;t January 1717, MinshuU declared that the ^^4000 men- tioned to be the consideration nl<5ney of the s^ijdj deed pf ApPMi7DlK. 431 sale of that date was the proper money of Gery, Min- shuU's name being used only in trust for Gery j and by rtjcans of this pretended deed poll of trust Minshull and Gery endeavoured to charge Steele with the whole ;^4ooo, although for _;^i5oo, part thereof, they or one of them had a former assignment, which was never delivered up, afid no part of the residue, ;£2 5oo, was paid until long after, and then only some part thereof in small suHis, and, as Steele had reason to believe, raised out of the very share of the profits belonging to him ; and in truth no such sum of £^2 500 was advanced by Gery at that time upon the said security, nor was the said de- claration of trust executed till long afterwards^ when there were various accounts between Minshull arid Gery, and Gery was apprehensive that he should lose money by Minshull ; nor did Gery till lately inform Steele of the said declaration of trust, and Steele apprehended he had nothing to do with any person but Minshull, as Minshull often informed him ; arid he looked upon Gery only as the order of Miiishull, and accountable to Minshull for What he received ; nor did Gery ever oppose or forbid Steele paying money to Minshull. And- if any such trust vt^ere fa^fly declared for Gery, yet he ought only to stand irS the place of Mirishull as to what was due to Minshull 6n the 3rst January iyiy, and which he long since received with interest and a great overplus; and Wit- blratham, in whose custody the assignment for ^4600 was left, ought to have acquainteid Gery that no part of the _;^4ooo' Was advanced except the _;^i|oo secured by Steele' for the assignment ; or at least Gery would have fecfeived such iriformation if he had inquired of Wilbra- ham dr Steele. And at other times Gery pretended he had kissighedhis interest in the premises to Woolley,- and would not Concern himself about the same, although he well knew that since the nth December 1719, he had received of Castleman at several times the further sum of 432 APPENDIX. ;^394, so that upon a fair accouiit there now remained due from Steele to MinshuU or his order only about £,220, which sum Steele was willing to pay to M^nshull or Gery or Woolley, as the Court should ordain, upon the cancelling of the several securities entered into by Steele to Minshull. But MinshuU, Geiy, and Woolley most un- reasonably insisted upon charging Steele with, the whole ;^400o and interest from the 31st January, 1717, and nevertheless refused to discover when or hpw this ;^4ooo was advanced or paid by Gery, to Minshull, or what they knew or had been informed, or what interest Woolley had therein. All w^hich being contrary to equity, Steele prayed that writs of subpoena might be directed to Minshull, Gery, Wilbraham, and Woolley, commanding them to answer the matters contained in this Bill.. Wilbraham's answer, dated i7tli March i72i[-2], is the only one existing. It states that some shprt time before the 31st January 17 17 MinshuU, gave Wilbraham directions f6r preparing such assignment or sale from Steele to Minshull of Steele's fifth part in the Theatre, as was mentioned in Steele's Bill, and t\yo parts of such assignment were, engrossed, leaving a blank for the con- sideration money ; and Wilbraham said that to the, best of his remembrance he carried the, engrossments to Steele's then house in St. James's Street, and not to the Horn Tavern ; and Wilbraham read over the. assignment, and then Steele and Minshull retired to another, room^ as he apprehended to converse together uppn t^p subject- matter of the assignment. When they returned, a pro- posal was made by one or both of them, that inasmuch as the assignment was drawn, ; absolute and without any clause of redemption, and. yet it was int^rjd^d^^to be redeemable and to be only in the nature of a mortgage, the assignment, when executed by Steele, shpuld, be de- posited -in Wilbraham's. hands as a cpmrnpn, trustee, and APPENDIX. 433 that he should give to MinshuU a note that the deed was in his custody, and that he would deliver it up to Steele upon Steele's redeeming the same within two years' time from the date of the deed. Steele particularly asked Wilbraham whether, in case the deed was deposited in his hands, the note would be sufficient to make the deed a mortgage, and Wilbraham said that it would, if the note were attested and witnessed by MinshuU. Steele then acquiesced in the proposal, and did not in Wilbraham's hearing require any other defeasance of the deed ; and Wilbraham was ordered to fill up the blank, and make the consideration _;^4000. The engrossed copies were then signed, and Steele gave a receipt for _;^4ooo, which was endorsed on the deed executed by him, and Wilbra- ham added his signature as witness. The deed was then handed to Wilbraham, who gave a receipt — as mentioned in Steele's Bill — which was attested by MinshuU. Wil- braham was of opinion that Steele, like himself, then believed MinshuU to be a man of substance. Wilbraham did not remember to have seen any money paid by MinshuU to Steele, but believed MinshuU gave Steele a note or receipt for _;^25oo, for which sum MinshuU pro- mised to be accountable to Steele, and Wilbraham be- lieved he added his signature as witness. : Wilbraham denied that he assured Steele that this note or receipt would effectually secure him from any prejudice which might arise to him by his signing the receipt for _;£'4ooo, or that he told Steele that if the £,2100 were not paid him he would, by virtue of the note or receipt for ;^25oo, be entitled to an allowance thereof out of the ^^4000, or that Steele asked him any questions relating thereto. He also denied that the deed was placed in his hands as a common trustee until the ;£25oo should be paid to Steele and a proper defeasance executed, or that until the same was done no use was to be made of the deed, or that then Steele's former assignment for ;£i5oo was to be 434 APPENDIX. delivered up to Steele ; and he also denied that the de^d was given to him upon any other terms than those set forth in the note which he gave ; nor did he use atSyf per- suasion to induce Steele or Minshull to entrust the deed to hinij or to induce Steele to sign the deed or the receipt thereon endorsed, or to accept MinshuU's note or receipt for ^^2500; nor was he any way privy to or acquainted with the reasons which induced Steele to do the same, save that he knew the ;^iSoo was or was mentioned to be the consideration of a former deed of sale of Steele's fifth share, dated about 24th July 171 6. And Wilbraharei had hear^ that Gery had, before the 31st January 1717, advanced ^^1500 to Minshull upon the credit of Steele's first assignmetit, and that Minshull had assigned over to Gery Steele's first assignment as security; bat he did not then apprehend that Gery had advanced to MinshuUj or was to. advance, ^^2500, and therefore he understood himself to be only a trustee as between Steele and Min- shull. But some time afterwards Minshull and Gery came to Wilbraham and told him that Gery had- advanced a ftirther sum of ;^2goo, and that the whole _;^4ooo was therefore, in truth, Gery's money. Wilbraham then drew up a declaration of trust to that effect, dated 31st January 1717, which was duly gxeouted by Minshull in the presence of one Mr. William Aspin and Wilbraham, witnesses. But Wilbraham admitted that this deed was not executed on the 31st January 1717, as dated, but some time afterwards, though he could not remember the particular time. After the execution of this last deed Wilbralvani considered himself as a common trustee between Steele and Gery. After all this, when, as Wilr braham believed, Minshull had failed in answering Steele's drafts «f money upoji him, Steele sent to \yil- brabam and offered him thirty guineas to deliver up th§ deed of assignment of the 3 rat January, and said MinsHnU was consenting thereto; but \Vilbraham answered tha^ APPENDIX. 45S : Minshull's consent would, not indemnify him for so doing, , because he knew that the money intetided to be secured, , by the assignment was not then Minshull's biit Gery's, and that he must have Gery's consepf; he therefore ^ refused to dehver up the deed. And he beUeved Min- shuU sent to him when he was not at home, as narrated in Steele's Bill ; and he from time to time acquainted Gery with the proceedings of Steele and Minshull; but he denied that he had threatened to give the deed to Gery, or hg,d entered into any engagement with Gery for that purpose. The deed was still in his hands or power. He was never taken into council by Stpple and Minshujl, except that he paid, subsequently to the assignment of the 31st January 1717, £,10 to Hugh Reason, Esq.,' for Steele by order of, and with the money of, MinshuU, and had also seen several notes \^fhiGh Steele drew on MihshuU, which he believed were paid by MinshuU. There is no record pf thi^ cas.e having ever come before the Court, and there are no answers to Steele's Bill frqm Min^hi|ll, Gery, or WooUey. Fresh arrange- ments were entered into in 1723, as will be seen below. 1 Reason w^s landlorti of the house in York Buildings where Steele had his Censorium, 30^ he brought aii aeUOR for <^?l)t agaia^t Steele in 1718. ' ' ' ■ ' ■ III. STEELE AiJD SCURLOCK V. WILKS, GIBBER, BOOTH, CASTLEMAN, AND WOOLLEY, 1725—8- (Page Ixviii.) , N their bill, dated 4th September 1725, the complainants,' after describing the Indenture Quadrupartite of June 3, 1724,'' the Articlesof Agreement of Sep- tember, 1 7 21,' the Indenture between Steele and Woolley of June 17, 1723, and the note to Castleman of July 17, 1723,* said that they well hoped they should have had the benefit of the assignment and letter of attorney to Scurlock 1 Chancery Proceedings, Sewell 1714—58, No. 300. 2 Page Ixvii. = Page Ivii. /• * On the 17th June, 1723, an indenture was made between Steele and WooUey, reciting that there then remained due to Woolley /goo, the residue of a greater sum for which one-fifth part of the profit's of the theatre was mortgaged by Steele to Minshull, by whom it was assigned to Charles Gery, and by him to Woolley (page 430). This original mortgaged deed for ;^i2oo WooUey delivered to Steele, upon payment of ^^300 on delivery, and the assignment to Woolley, his exeeutprs, &c., of the fifih part of the stock, for the better security of the payment of the remaining ;^900 ; and on the 17th July Steele signed a note upon Richard Castleman. and every other treasurer of the Company of Comedians at Drury Lane, requiring each of them yearly on the 23rd January to pay to WooUey or his order ;f 200 out of the profits coming due to Steele, until the £yxi with interest at five per cent., should be fully paid. APPENDIX. 437 for the payment of Steele's, debts and incumbrances, and that Wilks, Gibber, and Booth would have ordered the treasurer of the theatre to have paid and duly accounted with Scurlock weekly, and for all arrears due to Steele at the time of the assignment, as in all justice and equity they ought to have done, the rather because Woolley had been long since paid the ;^9oo due to him, together with all interest thereupon. But Wilks, Gibber, and Booth, confederating together with Gastleman, their treasurer, and with Woolley and others, to defraud the complainants of their just right, and to elude the force of the assignment made by Steele for the benefit and had set aside for their own use, ^£'20 a night or some greater sum under the name of several constant charges, contingencies, and bills, and pretended that Steele had no right to shate therein ; and Steele charged that in favour of Mrs. Old- field, Mrs; Porter, and Mrs. Booth, three of the actresses at Drury Lane, on their respective benefit nights the defendants had forborne to deduct the necessary expenses of the house out of the profits of the night> as they ought to have done, but had placed the same to the account Of the partnership^ whereby Steele had been charged a fourth part of those expenses without any profit whatever ; and on the benefit nights allowed to under-officers and others of the theatre, they had deducted ;Q^ each night, which they had shared and dividedj without admitting Steele to any share. And sometimes the defendants pretended that Steele had no colduf to call them to account touch- ing any of these deductions or allowances to themselves, because he had from time to time passed and allowed these accounts without objection, arid agreed to the said deductions) &c. ; but this he never did ; if he had passed accounts without objection, it was through want of know- ledge or oversight; And Wilks, Gibber, and Booth had 44° APPENDIX. in, other ways defrauded Steele ; it was therefore prayed that writs of subpoena might be issued to compel them, together with Castleman and WooUey,* to answer these premises. , The "joint and several answers" of WilkS, Gibber, Booth, and Castleman are dated October £3, 1725. Long before the Letters. Patent to Steele, Wilks, Gibber, and Booth had, as they: said, a licence to act at Drury Lane, and were acting there at the Queen's death, and had scenes, &c., there of great value ; and a short time after the Queen's death, they, looking upon Steele as a person who had a great acquaintance, and who was fit and able to promote the interest of the theatre, did, for these reasons, and out of friendship and kindness to Steele, invite him to come into a share and benefit of the theatre, for which he seemed very thankful ; and it was agreed he should apply for a new licence, which he obtained, and which was afterwards, by agreement with them, changed for a Patent. The application for the Patent was to be in Steele's name only, but upon the express trust that Wilks, Gibber, and Booth should have an equal share in it ; and when Steele applied, he informed these defendants that he could not obtain a reference to the Attorney and Solicitor-General for havjng such a Patent without first having their consent, as they shared with him in the licence ; and they thereupon gave their written consent to Steele, to whom a Patent was then granted. And some time afterwards Steele agreed to give them £,\ 200 as a consideration for the fourth part of the scenes, clbthes, &c., belonging to them, and did pay to each of them .^^400, as appears from the receipts. Then came the Articles Quadrupartite of September 172 1. By acting under the Letters Patent the defendants had received large sums, which had been entered in books and kept by Richard Castleman, their treasurer and cashier. Divers sums had been paid to great numbers of persons APPENDIX. 441 weekly and otherwise, as they were entitled to receive the same; and the accounts had been at sundry times stated and settled by the defendants and Steele, and Steele had received his share ; on the i8th June 1723, in particular, he gave his receipt as follows : " Received of Richard Castleman ^^708 8s. 2d., being so much due to me arising from the profits of the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, I say received in full to this day, Richard Steele." This was a stated account, and ought not to be ravelled into. From June 18, 1723, to June 25, 1725, divers other considerable sums had been received and paid on account of the theatre ; and Steele, or persons lawfully authorised by him, had received his share thereof On June 25, 1725, Richard Eadnell received of Castleman, by virtue of a letter of attorney executed to him by Steele, ;^S2 los. 3d., as Eadnell's receipt showed: "I say received for Sir Richard Steel's use ballance due for the year 1725, ;£\1\ 13s. 2d., being a fourth part of the clear profits," &c. ; and these defendants acknowledged that they had each of them received to their own use from the i8th June, 1723, JC^\ 13s. 4d. for every day upon which a play had been acted, exclusive of Steele. This they claimed as a consideration for their acting and the extra- ordinary charge they were put to in respect thereof, for which they had no allowance in the said accounts ; and they said that Steele never made any objection to the same to their knowledge till the filing of this bill. There had been from time to time paid to other actors more than jQ\ 13s. 4d. a day for acting. On the i8th June last the defendants left off acting under the Letters Patent, and so discontinued until the 4th September last, during which interval no profits did or could arise ; and since the 4th September they had acted seventeen nights and no more up to the time of putting in this answer, and the clear profits of those seventeen nights could not at present be set forth, because tradesmen's bills were not 442 APPENDIX. sent in ; but ds soon as they could the defeildants were ready to account for the same and to shdr^ all jiist allows ances. They denied that they had dedubted 6t claimed _;^io a week for management or actings or any sUm bthfef than as above mentioned, nor had they Set apai^t or divided among themselves ;^2o a night Or Other sum on pretence of incidental chargeSj &c., exclusive of Steele, nor had they taken to their owh use, exclusive of Steele, any part of such boiinty money as His Majesty or any members of the Royal Family had given. Arid they said that MrSi Oldfield, Mrs. Pbrter, and Mr. Mills had plays once in every year acted for their respective benefit, without any sums being deducted for the charge of the house, which was the best agreement the defendants could make with them ; no other actors had the like privilege of having benefit plays without deduction for the charges of the house ; and these defendants denied that they had had any benefit thereby^ exclusive of Steele. And they said thatj finding by long experiehde that the profits grew less towards the end of the sjjring and until June or July, the time of leaving off acting, _5^5 for every acting night was and had been kept back irt order to make up the charges of the house in case the money received should not be sufficient for that purpose^ — which often happened about the latter end of the season ; but when they left off acting the said sum of £,% was always brought to account, and what remained after the charges were paid was divided among these defend- ants and Steele equally. And these defendants said that they had great ground to expect that Steele would not, contrary to his own express agreement with them in writing, have soldj parted with, or encumbered his pro- perty in the Patent, clothes, scenes^ and profits to any one without the defendants' consent in writing, especially because that to aeeomraodate Steele and at his particulat request (he being indebted to Edward Minshullj Esq., in APPENDIX. 443 the sum of £,2oq, by whom the debt waS assigned tb Mt. Gery, and by him to Mr. Woolley) these dfefendafits consented and agreed with Steele and Woolley that Castl6m£tn should pay to Woolley ^200 a year out of Steele's share till the debt, with interest; should be paid. There was now ;^Soo of the debt unpaid, and no interest had been paid. By Articles Quadrupartite, dated igth September 1721,1 bfetween Steele, Wilks, Gibber, and Booth, reciting the aforesaid Articles, and also that the then Lord Chamberlain did some time since by his order direct that Steele should not be paid his fourth part, Steele did, for himself, his executors, &c., agree that if at any time the King, Lord Chamberlaiii, or other person authorised by the King should order that Steele be not paid his share, but should direct that Steele's share should be paid to any other pferson, that Steele's share should cease to be paid to him, and he should be de- barred from demanding his share during the continuance of such order ; and so with any proportion of Steele's sharei Steele had some time since been suspended, but the defendants denied that they ever took advantage thereof. They were strangers to the several demdhds made by persons named in the complainants' bill as creditors of Steele, and conceived they were in nowise concerned therein. Castleman denied that he refused tb let Steele see the books. Richard Eadnell, of the Inner Temple, Gent.^ solicitor to Steele and Scurlock, made oath on the 27 th October, that on Wednesday the 20th October he applied to Castleman, treasurer at the old playhoiise in Drury Lane, oh behalf of the complainants, and told him that he had occasion to look in the books of accounts kept foi- Steele and the defendants, and that he, the deponent. Would wait on Castleman for that piirpose when convenienti But Castleman said he could show no books or give any 1 Page Ivii. 444 APPENDIX. information without an order to do so from the other defendants. And on the 21st Eadnell applied to Wilks, Cibber^and Booth, but they utterly refused to give an order to Castleman, saying that no one should inspect the books or papers save Steele himself. Notice was subsequently given to tlie defendants' solicitor that the Court would be asked to make an order that these books could be ex- amined by Steele or his solicitor ; ' and the order was duly granted. On the 2nd February 1726 Eadnell made oath that by virtue of this order he had looked over the books, and by them it appeared that Wilks, Gibber, and Booth had each received of Castleman ^^480 los. {sic) for clear profits from the beginning of that season till Saturday, 15th January last, and Castleman had received the like sum of _;^487 los.for the use of Steele, out of which he had paid j^2oo to Woolley, as arranged ; but Castleman refused to pay Eadnell the remaining ;^287 los. without the consent of Wilks, Gibber, and Booth. Eadnell there- upon applied to them, and gave them a copy of a letter of attorney duly executed by Steele and Scurlock, empower- ing him to receive and give discharges for such money as should become due to them from the theatre ; but Wilks, Gibber, and Booth absolutely refused to direct Castleman to pay Eadnell, unless Eadnell would give them dis- charges for £,yi which they received weekly on pretence of acting exclusive of Steele, and which was now in dis- pute in that Court. Wilks, Gibber, and Booth had received this ;^to apiece weekly over and above the ;^487 los. since the commencement of the winter season, and still intended to receive the same, as they informed Eadnell, notwithstanding the same was in dispute. And it appeared that over and above the ;^487 los. and the £,y:i weekly, the sum of £^y:> a week was kept in the hands of the treasurer under the name of contingencies, in case there should be occasion to advance any money ' Chancery Affidavits (Registers), Mich. 1725, Nos. lOI, 102. APPENDIX. 445 at any time on account of any new performances or other- wise.' The defendants having put in their answer, Steele's counsel obtained leave, on the 12th February, to amend the complainants' bill.' The answer of Wilks, Gibber, and Booth to this amended bill is dated 15th June 1726. The defendants said they never refused to disclose to Steele the expenses incurred for scenes, clothes, &c. ; those charges were entered in books which Steele could examine, and which they had reason to believe he had often inspected. In accordance with the order of the Court of the 28th October last, Eadneli had often exa- mined the books, and was never denied the same. They submitted, therefore, whether they need do more than refer to the books as regards the particular sums laid out in clothes, scenes, &c. They never denied that Steele might controvert the accounts, but they apprehended he had no reason to do so, for the allowances they de- manded were reasonable, and were for the daily and extraordinary labour and expenses in acting their several parts not otherwise charged for. If they had not taken upon themselves to look after and manage the theatre, they and Steele, instead of being gainers, would have lost by it ; and if Steele had been as active on his part in the management as they (which he ought to have been by their Agreement), the same would have been an addition to- the clear profits of the theatre, at least one fourth part. In the meantime, Wilks, Gibber, and Booiii had com- menced a cross action against Steele." In their bill, dated nth January 1725 — 26, they said that Swiney and Collier had both constantly attended the business of the theatre, and much benefit had resulted therefrom ; Collier ' Chancery Affidavits (Registers), Hilary i725[-6], No. 204. ^ Chancery Decrees, 17258, 203. "Chancery Proceedings, Reynardson, 1714 — 58, No. 2416; Chancery Decrees, 1727B, 224. ^t) APPENDIX. SQlicit^d perspns of quality, and drew audiences to the theatre. When Steele was invited to come into partner- ship, he faithfully promised to attend the meetings and cpn^ultat-ions of tlje Company, and to write plays and otV\?r performances, and to use his utmost endeavour to supporf the interest thereof ; and he did continue to ^l;tend tlig, business of the Company until 28th January 17 19 — 20, since when l^gh^d ^.Upgether absented himself. From that d3,te ^hey h^(l pach talsesn to their own use £^1 13s. 4d. a day, and Steele was so conscious that they deserveci 3. much greater sum that he aUovyed the accounts \yherein |he s^me was pharged. The scope of this cross bill, therpfoye, was that Wilk?, Cibber, ^ijd Booth might lije quieted in receiving the s^id £,1. 13s. 4d. apiece e^fj^lusive of Stffle, and might have such allowance as the Gpij^-t shpul4 think reasonable for the expense they were at in clothes, periwigs, laces, and linen, and for th^ir trpuble in instructing the actors and overseeing artificpri, &c., an^cj tijight be indemnified in paying the ^1200 ^r^4 inffirest tp Woolley, and be relieved. ^tqeje'^ answer to this bill was taken by commission, by Alexat^f^f r ^ndTheophilus Scurlock on June 23, 1726. He denied that on entering into the partnership, he pro- mised tp attep4 meetings or instruct young actors, not b^ing qualified or required to appear as an actor j but he t^eiieve^ bp did iri general promise to write plays, and to prppipte th)e i^ter^sts of the theatre, and this he had done to the utmost of his power, as the managers had often admitte(^ \ seq, for example. Gibber's dedication to him of. Xim^na. The Conscious Lovers " brought more mppey to the House th^-n any play was ever known to do ; " and he was at that tinig preparing, as fast as his l^ealfh would permit, a fle^ Comedy, which, God willing, he hoped to. finish by the ne^.^ season, the plot of which play was formed for the reformation of the theatre, and restoring the credit and good seflse of theatrical entgrT APP'ENDIX. 447 tainments, which he was sadly sensible was never more wanted. He had done and was doing as much as his health would permit. He had entered into an agreement on the 4th September 1721, and then or shortly before, when accounting for his share during the time of the pretended suspension by the Lord Chamberlain, the other managers had trged that they had lost much in 1720 in connection with the South Sea scheme, and that Steele had not borne his share of the cost of scenes ; and he then, out of pure friendship and good-will, forgave them _;^i,2oo, which he believed was due to him. Steele in- sisted that he was not obliged to make Wilks, Gibber, and Booth any allowance for their managing and acting, as they were by the Articles obliged to do their duty in consideration of the three fourth parts they received ; but he denied that he had pretended they ought not to be allowed for clothes, &c., used on the stage, he being willing to allow his share out of the joint stock ; and he believed they had frequently taken out of the joint stock iox their own private clothes, which they brought Ma the joint account; all which Steele allowed without ob- jection. He admitted he asked permission to assign his share, and, being refused, assigned his interest without such consent to Scurlock, and he hoped that what he did through the need of satisfying his creditors would not in equity be a breach of his covenant. He did not know of the deduction of £^i 13s. 4d. a day till the beginning of i724[-5], when he brought his bill to be relieved against it; and he hoped that iiotwithstanding his signing the receipt of the i8th June 1723, he should be at liberty to call the managers to an account touching the said de- duction. The original cause was before the Court several times in August and October 1726.1 Leave was given to Wilks, Gibber, and Booth to ^^amine Castleman, a ' Chancery Decrees, 17258, 425; 1726B, 464, :, 115. 448 APPENDIX. material witness for their case, and in no way concerned in point of interest in the matters in question ; and upon application that Castleman should pay Steele £,\()Z 4s., which was found to be his share of the clear profits for 1725, it was ordered, by consent, that Castleman should pay Steele ;^200, subject to the order which should be made upon the hearing of the cause. In December leave was given to Steele and Scurlock to examine Castleman as a witness for them. The " answer of William WooUey, Esqre., one of the Defendants to the Bill of Complaint " of Steele and Scurlock, was not put in until the 20th October 1726.' It contains nothing fresh of importance. WooUey said he had received jPfioo of the ^£^900 due to him from Steele, and that ^£^300 was still due, besides interest ; and he urged that he was entitled to his ^£200 a year in preference, to all other creditors mentioned in Steele's bill. On the 21st November, Wilks, Gibber, and Booth obtained, leave to amend their bill in the case in which they were complainants ; and Alexander and Theophilus Scurlock were again commissioned to take Steele's answer.'' In this answer to the amended bill, which was not sworn until the nth May 1727, Steele said it was true that he had declared that Gibber's zeal for the Conscious Lovers was an obliging favour and friendship to him, but he was referring to Gibber's care in instructing the actors, &c. Gibber did make several alterations in the play before it was acted, but to its dis- advantage, and therefore he did not pay Gibber anything for his meddling. The piece ran eighteen nights, and brought ;^2j536 3s. 6d. to the house, but how much was paid for charges and how much to him Steele could not say, save ;^3Z9 ss. or thereabouts, which he received for three author's benefit nights. He could not set ' Chancery Proceedings, Sewell, A., 17 14 — 58, No. 66. ' Chancery Decrees, 1726B, 105; Chancery Proceedings, Rey- nardson, 1 714 — 58, No. 2416. APPENDIX. 449 forth particular passages altered by Gibber; if Jie did, it might run him, in, vindication of his own perform- ance, into a . sort of criticism very improper, as he apprehended, for the entertainment of that Honourable Court. In October and November 1727, publication in the original cause was twice enlarged, upon the petition of the defendants, and on the 3rd February 1728, upon the original cause coming before the Court, the defendants' counsel alleged that the counter action was ready for hearing, but that as Steele lived at Carmarthen the plaintiffs in that action had not had time to serve him with a subpoena to hear judgment ; and they said that both causes were proper to be heard together. Where- upon it was ordered that the original cause should stand over to the fourth day of causes after the term, and that judgment should then be pronounced in both causes.' The combined suits accordingly came to a hearing before Sir Joseph Jekyll, Master of the Rolls, on Saturday night, the 17th February 1728, at the Rolls Chapel,^ when Cibber addressed the Court, acting upon the advice of his counsel, who pointed out that he could speak better upon the question of the business of a manager than the most learned lawyer. Two of the counsel for Steele afterwards held the post of Lord Chancellor, and Cibber professes to have almost broken down with nervousness ; but he succeeded, with the help of notes, in making a successful speech of an hour's length, which he has printed at length in the sixteenth chapter of his Apology. He maintained that Steele was as much obliged to do the 1 Chancery Decrees, 1726B, 461 ; 1727B, 8, 133. ''' Chancery Decrees, 1727B, 224; St. James's Evening Post, February 17 — 20, 1728; The Weekly Journal (Read's), and Tlie Country Journal ; or, The Craftsman,'E€aTa3.-rj n, 1728. Cibber, with his usual inaccuracy, speaks of the case coming to a hearingin 1726, though, as Genest remarks, he mentions a theatrical corona- tion which, of course, was prompted by the coronation of George II. in 1727. Steele. 6 G 450 APPENDIX. duty and business of a manager as either Wilks, Booth, or Gibber; and the reason why he had ceased to take any part in the management was, that he was annoyed at his fellow-managers, who had often helped him when- he was in want of money, but who found it necessary at last to peremptorily refuse to advance another shilling until it was due to him. After that Steele not only absented himself, but made an assignment of his share, without the consent of the others, in breach of their Agreement, thereby exposing them to the chatice of trouble and in- convenience. His absence, too, had led to more than proportionate loss, because his rank, and figure in the world, and the ready access which he had at Court, had been of great service ; that was, in fact, the very end and consideration of his share in the profits. Gibber pro- ceeded to argue that he, Wilks, and Booth had been justified in charging _;^i 13s. 4d. a day for their extra- ordinary labour, in Steele's absence, by graphically describing the multitude of duties and disagreeable tasks which fell to a manager's lot. Steele had not written plays for nothing, and though, said Gibber, in writing The Conscious Lovers, " he had more assistance from one of the managers than becomes me to enlarge upon, of which evidence has been given upon oath by several of our actors, yet, Sir, he was allowed the full and particular profits of that play as an author, which amounted to three hundred pounds, besides about three hundred more which he received as a joint sharer of the general profits that arose from it." Gibber adds, in another place, that when' they told Steele of the salary they meant to take for themselves in future, Steele only, remarked that he had no reason to doubt of their doing him justice, and he never complained for nearly three years ; indeed it was not until his affairs were put into the hands of lawyers and trustees that his lawyer thought that here was a fair field for an action in Ghancery, in APPENDIX. 451 which, whatever the result might be, his bill would be paid. After hearing Gibber, and the counsel on both sides, — the, proceedings lasted five hours, — the Master of the Rolls declared that he saw no good cause for breaking through the account dated "i 8th June 1723, or for varying the allowances of £^\ 13s. 4d. which had been made at that time to each of the defendants, Wilks, Gibber, and Booth. He therefore ordered that the account dated the 1 8th June 1723 should stand, and that it should be referred to Mr. Bennett to take an account of the profits of the theatre from that time ; the defendants were to produce before the said Master upon oath all books of account, &c., and to be examined as the Master should direct; and in taking the account the Master was to make to the defendants all just allowances. His Honour declared he conceived the allowance of £^\ which had been already made to each of the defendants for manage- ment every night was a reasonable allowance, and that they ought to have this allowance continued to them until Steele should come into the management of the theatre ; but the Master must determine what the defen- dants respectively deserved for their charges for wigs, lace, and linen, for which Steele admitted by his answer that an allowance should be made ; and he was also to take an account of what was due to WooUey for principal and interest on his mortgage, and to tax WooUey's costs "in this suit. The Master was also to ascertain what would be coming to Steele for his fourth part of the profits on the balance of the account, and from what was certified as due to Steele, Wilks, Gibber, and ^ooth should pay to Woolley what was reported due to him in the first place for principal, interest, and costs as aforesaid, and should pay the remainder to Scurlock for the uses mentioned in the deed of assignment from Steele to Scurlock, or to whoever Scurlock should authorise to receive the same ; 452 APPENDIX. and Wilks, Gibber, and Booth were hereby indemnified for so doing ; and they were to continue to pay Steele's fourth part of the growing profits, under such allowances as aforesaid, to Steele or to whoever he should authorise to receive the same. And 'it was further ordered that Steele and Sciirlock's bill against Castleman be dismissed out of the court ; and that no costs be paid to either of the said parties, except to Woolley. The Master's Report is dated July lo, 1728.' Mr. Bennett said that the plaintiffs' solicitors having allowed Wilks, Gibber, and Booth 13s. 4d. apiece for every day a play was acted, from the i8th June 1723, as the same had been allowed up to that time, he had taken an account of Steele's fourth part of the profits from the said i8th June to the present time, and found that that fourth part amounted to ;£'2,692 3s. 3d., in discharge whereof he fovind that the said defendants had paid to Steele or order several sums, amounting tO;^i,6oi 3s. 3d., leaving due to Steele ;^i,o9i. And the clerk in court for Woolley had admitted that Woolley had been already paid off and discharged all the principal and interest due to him on Steele's account ; and the Master had already, by his Report of the sth instant, taxed WooUey's bill of costs at ;^2 9 2S. I od., which sum he appointed Wilks, Gibber, and Booth to pay Woolley out of the said sum of ^1,091 in their hands, and the residue, _;^i,o6i 17s. 2d., they were to pay to Scurlock, as directed by the order of the 17th February. On the following day, July II, 1728, upon motion made by the counsel for the defendants in the original cause, this Report and all con- tained therein was confirmed by order and decree of the Court.2 1 Masters' Reports, Easter, 1728 ; Steele, &c., v. Wilks, &c. 'Chancery Decrees, 17278,425. TIJ.E END. NOVELLO AND CO., LTD., PRINTERS, LONDON.