iV^ l^m mm' fit f f^l THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF Mrs. Marion Keiper ? COLLECTION OK ANCIENT AND MODERN BRITISH AUTHORS. VOL. CLI. THE MISCELLANEOUS WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH PRINTED B¥ JULIUS DIDOT, SENIOR, 4 , boulev.irt d'Enfcr. THE MISCELLANEOUS WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH WITU AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS. EDITED BY W\S?IINGTON IRVING, ESO. 3n four Volumes. VOLUME II. PARIS, BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY, RUE DU COQ , NEAR THE LOUVRE. SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, RCE DE LA PAIX; TRCCIIY, BOULEVART PES ITALIESS : TIIEOPHILE BARROIS JUN. , RUE RICHELIEU; LIBRAIRIE UES ETllAMJKRS, RUE NEUVE-SAIST-AUGUSTIN ; AM) UEIDELOFF AMI CAMPE, KIE VIVIESSE. 1837. CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Pat/e Prologue by Labcrius 3 The Double Tfansformation 5 New Simile, in the manner of Svvift 9 Description of an Author's Bedchamber "2 The Hermit; a B.illad i3 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 24 Stanzas on Woman 26 The Traveller; or, a Prospect of Society 27 The Deserted Village 49 The Gift 69 Epitaph on Dr Parnell 7° Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters 7' Epilogue spoken by Mrs Rulkley and Miss Catley 7^ Epilogue intended for Mrs Bulkley 77 The Haunch of Venison 79 Song from the Oratorio of the Captivity 86 Song ib. The Clown's Reply 87 Epitaph on Edward Purdon • ■ • •''• An Elegy on Mrs Mary Blaize 88 vi CONTENTS. Page Retaliatiui) .... 91 Postscript to ditto 100 Son;; 102 I'rologuo to Zobeiile io3 K|)il(){;ue spoken by Mr Lewes io5 riie Lo{;irians llefuteil 107 Stanzas on tlic Taking of Quebec 109 On a beautiful Youth struck blind by Lightning no A Sonnet ib. DRAMATIC. The Good-natured Man. A Comedy ill She Stoops to Conquer; or, the Mistakes of a Night. A Comedy. ... 219 An Oratorio; now first printed from the original in Dr Goldsmith's own hand-writing - SSy PREFACES. The Preface to Dr Brookes's Natural History 357 Introduction to a New History of the World 367 The Preface to the Roman History 375 The Preface to a History of England . . 383 The Preface to the History of the Earth, etc , 389 The Preface to the Beauties of Enghsh Poetry 399 Tiie Preface to a Collection of Poems, etc 4i3 Criticism on Massey's Translation of the Fasti of Ovid 4' 9 Criticism on Barret's Translation of Ovid's Epistles 4^1 POEMS. VOL. II. PROLOGUE, WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CAESAR FORCED X'PON THE STAGE. PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.' What ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, And save from infamy my sinking age ! Scarce half alive, opprest with many a year, What in the name of dotage drives me here? A time there was, when glory was my guide, Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ; Unawed hv power, and unappalFd by fear. With honest thrift I held my honour dear : But this vile hour disperses all my store, And all my hoard of honour is no more ; For ah ! too partial to mv life s decline, Cajsar persuades, submission must be mine ; ' This translation was first printed in one of our author's earliest works, II The Present State of Learninjj in Europe," lanio. f/Bc); hut was fjinittt-d in the second edition, wliich a])peared in f"4- I . PROLOGUE. Him I obey, whom heaven itself oJjeys, Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. Here then at once I welcome every shame, And cancel at threescore a life of fame ; No more my titles shall my children tell, The old buftbon will fit my name as well ; This day beyond its term my fate extends, For life is ended when our honour ends. THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION A TALE.' Secluded from domestic strife Jack Book-worm led a college life ; A fellowship at twenty-five Made him the happiest man alive ; He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, And freshmen wonder d as he spoke. Such pleasures, unallay d with care, Could any accident impair? Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Our swain, arrived at thirty-six? O had the archer ne er come down To ravage in a country town ! Or Flavia heen content to stop At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop. O had her eyes forgot to blaze ! Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! ' This and llic foUowiiif; poem were published by Dr GoUIsmiih in lii vulunie of Essays, which appeared in i jBS. 6 THE DOUBLE O ! but let exclamations cease, Her presence banish'tl all his peace. So with decorum all thin{;s carried ; Miss frowned, and blush'd, and then was — married. Need we expose to vul^^ar sight The raptures of the bridal night? Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, Or draw the curtains closed around ? Let it suffice, that each had charms ; He claspVl a goddess in his arms ; And though she felt his usage rough. Yet in a man 'twas well enough. The honey-moon like lightning flew. The second brought its transports too ; A third, a fourth, were not amiss, The fifth was friendship mix d with bliss : But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away. Jack found his goddess made of clay ; Found half the charms that deck'd her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace; But still the worst remain d behind. That very face had robb'd her mind. Skilfd in no other arts was she, liut dressing, patching, repartee ; And, just as humour rose or fell, Bv turns a slattern or a belle. J 'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, Half naked at a ball or race ; But when at home, at board or bed, Five greasy night-caps wrapp d her head. TRANSFORMATION. Could so much beauty condescend To be a dull domestic friend? Could any curtain lectures bring To decency so fine a thing? In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting ; By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy Of powder d coxcombs at her levee ; The squire and captain took their stations. And twenty other near relations : Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke A sigh in suffocating smoke ; While all their hours were past between Insulting repartee or spleen. Thus as her faults each day were known, lie thinks her features coarser grown ; He fancies every vice she shows, Or thins her lip, or points her nose : Whenever rage or envy rise. How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes ! He knows not how, but so it is. Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; And, though her fops are wondrous civil. He thinks her ugly as the devil. Now, to perplex the ravelfd noose. As each a different way pursues, While sullen or loquacious strife Promised to hold them on for life, That dire disease, whose ruthless power Withers the beauty's transient flower ; — 8 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. Lo ! the small-pox, Avhose horrid ylare Leveird its terrors at the fair ; And, rifling every youthful grace, Left but the remnant of a face. The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright : Each former art she vainly tines To bring back lustre to her eyes ; In vain she tries her paste and creams. To smooth her skin, or hide its seams : Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And even the captain quit the field. Poor madam now condemned to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown. Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old : With modesty her cheeks are dyed, Ilumilitv displaces pride ; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean : No more presuming on her sway. She learns good-nature every day : Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. ]\E>\' SIMILE, I.N THE MANNER OF SWIFT. Long had I sought in vain to find A hkeness for the sci ibbhng kind ^ The modern scribbhng kind, who write, In wit, and sense, and nature's spite : Tdl reading, I forget what day on, A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, I think I met with something there To suit my purpose to a hair. But let us not proceed too furious. First please to turn to god Mercurius i You'll find him pictured at full length. In book the second, page the tenth : The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our simile. Imprimis, Pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side — mark that. Well ! what is it from thence we gather? Why these denote a brain of feather. 10 A NEW SIMILE. A biaiu of feather ! very right, With wit that's flighty, learning hght; Such as to modern hard s decreed ; A just comparison, — proceed. In the next place, his feet peruse, ^Vings grow again from both his shoes ; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air : And here my simile unites. For in the modern poet's flights, im sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head. Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, Fiird with a snake-encircled wand ; By classic authors ternVd caducous, And highly famed for several uses. To wit — most wondrously endued, No poppy water half so good ; For let folks only get a touch. Its soporific virtue s such, Thoujjh ne'er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore. Add too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men s souls to hell. Now to apply, begin we then ; — His wand's a modern author's pen ; The serpents round about it twined, Denote him of the reptile kind ; Denote the rage with whicli he writes. His frothy slaver, venom'd bites ; A NEW SIMILE. 11 All equal seinblanco still to keep, Alike too both conduce to sleep. Tins difference only, as the {{od Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod. With his {loose-quill the scribbhn^; elf, Instead of others, damns himself. And here my simile almost tript, Yet grant a word by way of postscript. Moreover Merc ry had a failing ; Well ! what of that? out with it — stealing ; In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he : But even this deity's existence Shall lend my simile assistance. Our modern bards ! why what a pox Are they but senseless stones and blocks? DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHORS BEDCHAMBER. AVhere the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; Where Calvert s butt, and Parson's black champagne, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane ; There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug. The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug ; A window, patclVd with paper, lent a ray. That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; The roval game of goose was there in view. And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; The seasons, framed with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face. The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : AVith beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored. And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney board ; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night — a stocking all the day ! THE HERMIT; A BALLAD. FIRST PRINTED IN MDGCLXV. THE FOLLOWINC LETTER, ADDRESSED TO THE PRINTER OF THE ST JAMESS CHRONICLE, APPEARED IN THAT PAPER IN TONE, MDCCLXVII. Sir, As there is nothing I dishke so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published ; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one ' by the ingenious Mr Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in cpiestion. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to INIr Percy ' The Friar of Orders Gray. " Reli(j. of Anc. Poetry," vol. i. book 2. No. 18. 16 A LETTER, etc. some years ayo ; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good-humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing ; and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature. I am, Sir, Yours, etc. Oliver Goldsmith. Note. — On the subject of the preceding letter, the reader is desired to consult « The Life of Dr Goldsmith, » under the year 1765. THE HERMIT A BALLAD. « Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. « For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds, immeasurably spread. Seem lengthening as I go. » « Forbear, my son, » the Hermit cries, « To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. « Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. « Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows ; My rushy couch and frugal fare. My blessing and repose. VOL. II. IS THE HERMIT. « No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn ; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them : « But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. « Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; All earth-born cares are wrong ; Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long. » Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell : The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Fajf in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay, A refuge to the neighboring poor And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master s care • The wicket, opening with a latch. Received the harmless pair. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, THE HERMIT. 19 The Hermit trimm'd his httlc fire, And cheer d his pensive guest : And spread his vegetable store, And gaily pressed, and smiled ; And, skiird in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguiled. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries, The cricket chirrups in the hearth. The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger s woe ; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spied. With answering care opprest : « And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, « The sorrows of thy breast? « From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove? Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd. Or unregarded love ? « Alas ! the joys that fortune bi'ings. Are trifling and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things. More trifling still than they. 20 THE HERMIT. « And what is friendship hut a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows w ealth or fame, But leaves the wi^etch to weep ? » And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. « For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex, » he said ; But while he spoke, a rising blush His fove-lorn guest betray'd. Surprised he sees new beauties rise. Swift mantling to the view ; Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms. « And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn, » she cried ; « Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where Heaven and you reside. « But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray; THE HERMIT. Who seeks for rest, but finds tlesj)aii- Companion of her way. « My father hved beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark'd as nmie, He had but only me. « To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber d suitors came ; Who praised me for imputed charms, And felt, or feign d a flame. « Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow d, But never talk'd of love. « In humble, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had. But these were all to me. « And when, beside me in the dale, He caroird lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale. And music to the grove. « Tile blossom opening to the day. The dews of Heaven refined. Could nought of purity display To emulate his miud. >^ » AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song. And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man. Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran. Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. ' This, and the follow in{5 poem, appeared in « The Vicar of Wakefield, » which was published in the year 1765. AN ELEGY. 25 And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there ho, Both mongrel, JHippy, whelp, and hound. And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends ; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering neighbours ran. And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The Avound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye ; And while they swore the dog was mad. They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light. That show'd the rogues they lied ; The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died. STANZAS ON AVOMAN. When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover. To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover. And wring his bosom — is to die. THE TRAVELLER; OR, A pr6spect of society A POEM. 11 USX PniNTED IN WDCCI.XV. 4 ' /•• '• »l «. TO THK KEY. HENRY GOLDSMITH Dfar Sir, ^ I AM sensible that the friendship between us can ac- quire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedication ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decUne giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and fortune, has ictired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a-year. I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of vour humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few ; while you have left the field of afnljition, where the labour- ers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, that which pursues poetical tame is the wildest. 50 DEDICATION. Poetry makes a principal amusement among impolishcd nations ; but in a country verging to the extremes of re- finement, painting and music come in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less laborious entertamment, they at first rival poetry, and at length supplant her ; they engross all that favour once shown to her, and though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder s birth-right. Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in great danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse, and Pindaric odes, cho- russes, anapests and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence ! Every absurdity has now a champion to de- fend it ; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always nmch to say ; for error is ever talkative. But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, — I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom de- sists fi-om pursuing man, after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appe- tite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted thing, who Avants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet: his tawdry lampoons are called satires ; his turbulence is said to be force, and his phrensy fire. What reception a poem may find, which has neither DEDICATION. 31 abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are ri^lit. With- out espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may be equal happiness in states that are differ- ently governed from our own ; that every state has a parti- cular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge better than yourself how for these positions are illustrated in this poem. I am, dear Sir, your most affectionate brother, Oliver Goldsmith. THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, A weary waste expanding to the skies ; Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. My heart untravelFd fondly turns to thee ; Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; ' In this poem, as it passed througli different editions, several alterations were made, and some additional verses introduced.^ We have followed the ninth edition, wliich was the last that appeared in the lifetime of the author. VOL. II. 3 34 THE TRAVELLER. Blest that abode, Avherc want and pain repair, And every stranjjer finds a ready chair ; Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Lau^h at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or si(jli with pity at some mournful tale ; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destined such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; Impelfd, with steps unceasing, to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view ; That, like the circle bounding earth and skies. Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; ]\Iy fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own. E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; And placed on high above the storm's career, Look downward where an hundred realms appear ; Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus Creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store should tliankless pride repine? Say, should tlu; j)liilosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? Let school-taught pride disseml)le all it can, These little things are great to little man ; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the jrood of all mankind. THE TJiAVELLEll. 35 Ye glittering towns, with wealtli and splendonr crown'd; Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the husy gale ; Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale ; For me your tril)utary stores combine : Creation s heir, the world, the world is mine ! As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er ; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill. Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : Thus to my breast alternate passions rise. Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies ; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall. To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find Some spot to real happiness consigned. Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. But where to find that happiest spot below. Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. And his long nights of revelry and ease : The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all tlie good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam. His first, best country, ever is at home. 56 THE TRAVELLER. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations makes their blessings even. Nature, a mother kind alike to all, Still grants her bliss at labour s earnest call ; With food as well the peasant is supplied On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; And though the rocky crested summits frown. These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. From art more various are the blessings sent — Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. Yet these each other s power so strong contest. That either seems destructive of the rest. Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails. And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. Hence every state to one loved blessing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone. Each to the favourite happiness attends. And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; Till, carried to excess in each domain. This favourite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try these truths with closer eyes. And trace them through the prospect as it lies : Here for a while my proper cares resign d, Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; Like von neglected shrub at random cast. That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. THE TllAVELLER. 57 Far to the right where Apennine ascends, Ihight as the summer, Italy extends ; Its uplands sloping deck the mountain s side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; Whde oft some temple s mouldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene. Could natures bounty satisfy the breast. The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in different climes were found. That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear. Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; These here disporting own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter s toil ; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. But small the bliss that sense alone bestows. And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; And e'en in penance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind ; For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date, When commerce proudly flourished through the state ^ 38 THE TRxVVELLER. At her coinmand tlie palace learn d to rise, Apain the lony-lliirii column sou^^ht the skies ; The canvass glow'd heyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form : rill, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores displayed her sail ; \Vhile nought remain d of all that riches gave. But towns unmann d, and lords without a slave : And late the nation found with fruitless skill Its former strength was hut plethoric ill. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; From these the feeble heart and long-falfn mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; Processions form d for pietv and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguiled. The sports of children satisfy the child; Each nobler aim, repressed by long control. Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; While low delights, succeeding fast behind. In happier meanness occupy the mind : As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway, Defaced by time and tottering in decay. There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wondering man could want the larger pile. Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. THE TRAVELLER. 59 My soul, turn from tliein ; turn we to survey Where rougher chmes a nohler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain s breast. But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all ; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; W^ith patient angle trolls the finny deep. Or drives his venfrous ploughshare to the steep ; Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, And drags the struggling savage into day. At night returning, every labour sped. He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; :10 THE TRAVELLER. While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on the board : And haply too some pil^jrim, thither led, \Vith many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise Enhance the bliss his scanty fimd supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother s breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, Rut bind him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states assigned ; Their wants but few, their wishes all confined. Yet let them only share the praises due. If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; For every want that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest ; Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies. That first excites desire, and then supplies ; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy. To fill the languid pause with finer joy; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame. Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. Their level life is but a smouldering fire, Uncjuencird by M^ant, unfann d by strong desire ; Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer On some high festival of once a-year. THE TRAVELLER. 41 In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow ; Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low \ For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unalter d, unimproved the manners run ; And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain s breast May sit like falcons cowering on the nest ; But all the gentler morals, such as play Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way. These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease. Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir. With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! ^yhel•e shading elms along the margin grew. And freshen'd from the w ave the zephyr flew ; And haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring still, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill ; Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 42 THE TRAVELLER. So blest a life these thoiiglitless realms display, Thus idly busy rolls their Avorld away : Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honour forms the social temper here. Honour, that praise which real merit gains, Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise ; They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise ; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought. Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; And the weak soul, within itself unblest. Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art. Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace. And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer. To boast one splendid banquet once a-year ; The mind still turns where shifting fashion di-aws, N'or weighs the solid worth of self-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand. Where the broad ocean leans against the land, THE TRAVELLER. 43 And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall lampire's artificial pride. Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry roar. Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile. Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; The slow canal, the yellow-blossomVl vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescued from his reign. Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign. And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here display d. Their much loved wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts : But view them closer, craft and fraud appear. E'en liberty itself is barter d here. At gold's superiour charms all freedom flies. The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; M THE TRAVELLER. War in each Ijreast, and freedom on each brow — How much imhke the sons of Britain now ! Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And bri{}hter streams than famed Hydaspes ghde ; There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on every spray ; Creation's mildest charms are there combined, Extremes are only in the master s mind ! Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state With daring aims irregularly great ; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, l see the lords of human kind pass by ; Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band. By forms unfashion d, fresh from nature's hand, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagined right, above control, While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan. And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; Too blest indeed were such without alloy. But foster'd e'en by freedom ills annoy ; That independence Britons prize too high. Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; The self-dependent lordlings stand alone. All c;laims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; Here by the bonds of nature feebly held. Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd. THE TKAVELLEK. Ferments arise, imprison VI factions roar, Reprcst ambition struggles round her shore, Till, over-wrought, the general system feels Its motion stop, or phrensy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, As duty, love, and honour fail to sway. Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force vm willing awe. Hence all obedience bows to thee alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown : Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms. Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, Where kings have toifd, and poets wrote for fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour d die. Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, I mean to flatter kings, or court the great : Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; Thou transitory flower, alike undone By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun. Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, I only would repress them to secure : For just experience tells, in every soil. That those that think must govern those that toil ; And all that freedom's highest aims can reach. Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 46 THE TRAVELLER. Hence, should one order disproportion^ prow, Its double weight must ruin all below. O then how blind to all that truth requires, Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms. Except when fast-approaching danger warms : But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free ; Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam. Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home ; Fear, pity, justice, indignation start. Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart; Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour, When first ambition struck at regal power ; And thus polluting honour in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste. Like flarinj; tiipers brightening as they waste? Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern depopulation in her train, And over fields where scatter d hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose? THE TRAVELLER. ^7 Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call, The smiling long-frequented village fall? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed, The modest matron, and the hlushing maid, Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main ; Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thundering sound? E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways ; Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murdVous aim ; There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise, The pensive exile, bending with his woe, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, Casts a long look where England's glories shine, And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind : Why have I stray VI from pleasure and repose. To seek a good each government bestows ? In every government, though terrors reign. Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain. How small, of all that human hearts endure. That part which laws or kings can cause or cure. Still to ourselves in every place consigned. Our own felicity we make or find : With secret course, which no loud storms annoy. Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 48 THE TRAVELLER. The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel. To men remote from power but rarely known. Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 'f^' ^ * THE DESERTED VILLAGE; • A POEM. FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXIX. VOL. U. TO DR GOLDSMITH, AtrHOR OF THE DESERTED VILLAGE. BY MISS AIKIN, AFTERWARDS MRS BARBAULD. In vain fair Auburn weeps her desert plains ; She moves our envy who so well complains : In vain hath proud oppression laid her low ; She wears a fjarland on her faded brow. Now, Auburn, now, absolve impartial Fate, Which, if it makes thee wretched, makes thee great. So unobserved, some humble plant may bloom, Till crushed it fills the air with sweet perfume : So had thy swains in ease and plenty slept, The poet had not sung, nor Britain wept. Nor let Britannia mourn her drooping bay, L'nhonour d genius, and her swift decay ; O, patron of llie poor ! it cannot be. While one — one poet yet remains like thee. Nor can the Muse desert our favour d isle. Til] thr)u desert the Muse, and scorn her smile. TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. Dear Sir, I CAN have no expectations, in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to estabhsh my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am igno- rant of that art in which you are said to excel ; and I may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you. How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire ; but I know you will object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion), that the depopulation it deplores is nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarcely make any other answer than that I sincerely believe what I have written ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I 4- 52 DEDICATION. allege ; and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to dis- plav. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, Avhether the coiuitry be depopulating or not; the discus- sion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indilfcrent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem. In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the increase of our luxuries ; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages ; and all the wis- dom of anli(piity in that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continued) think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which so many vices are introduced, and so many king- doms have been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right. I am, dear Sir, your sincere friend, and ardent admirer, Oliver Goldsmith. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Aururn ! loveliest villajje of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer d the labouring SM^ain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer s lingering blooms delayed : Dear lovely bowsers of innocence and ease. Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loiter d o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear d each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm. The shelter d cot, the cultivated farm. The never-failing brook, the busy mill. The decent church that topp d the neighboring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree \ W^hile many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed ; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; 54 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the miillilul band inspired; The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out to tire each other down ; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, ^Vl^ile secret laughter titter d round the place ; The bashful virgin s sidelong looks of love. The matron s glance that would those looks reprove. These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed. These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain. And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. But choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; Along thy glades, a solitary guest. The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. And the long grass o'ertops the mould ring wall ; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler s hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Princes and lords may flourish, or may lade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; But a bold peasantry, their countiy s pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man ; For him light labour spread her wholesome store. Just gave what life required, but gave no more : His best companions, innocence and health, And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter d ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : Along the lawn, where scatter d hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose ; And every want to luxury allied. And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that askVJ but little room. Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brighten d all the green ; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour. Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds. Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin d grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. .nf) 56 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. In all my wanderings round this world of care. In all my griefs — and God has given my share — I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown. Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose : I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn d skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past. Here to return — and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's decline. Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease ; Who quits a world where strong temptations try. And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretches, born to work and weep. Explore the mine, or tempt the dangVous deep ; Nor surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate : But on he moves to meet his latter end. Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way ; And, all his prospects brightening to the last. His heaven commences ere the world be past. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 57 Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evenin(j's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften d from below ; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung ; The sober herd that lowVl to meet their young ; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool ; The playful children just let loose from school ; The watch-dog s voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fdfd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, ^ But all the bloomy flush of life is fled : All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plasliy spring ; She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; She only left of all the harmless train. The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, Avhere once the garden smiled. And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher s modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a-year ; 58 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e er had changed, nor m ish'd to change his place ; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, Ry doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train. He cliid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; The long remember d beggar was his guest. Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; The ruin VI spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allovv'd ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder d his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn d to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe • Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings Ican'd to virtue's side ; Rut in his duty prompt at every call. He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all ; And, as a bird eacb fond endearment tries. To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Reside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 59 The reverend cliampion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled die strugghng soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents Avhisper d praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn d the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevaifd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man. With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; E'en children followed with endearing wile. And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man s smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed. Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. There, in his noisy mansion, skilld to rule, The village master taught his little school : A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew ; Well had the boding tremblers learn d to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 60 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Full well the busy whisper circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidm^js when he frown d : Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault ; The village all declared how much he knew, 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. And e'en the story ran — that he could guage : In arguing too, the parson own d his skill, For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; While words of learned length, and thundering sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around, — And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew. That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. — Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound. And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place \ The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest contrived a dotd^h; debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; The pictures placed for ornament and use. The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; The hearth, except when winter chilld the day. With aspin boughs, and flowers and fennel gay, THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 61 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Hanged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain transitory S|)lcndours ! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour s importance to the poor man s heart ; Thither no more the peasant shall repair. To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer s news, the barber s tale, No more die woodman's ballad shall prevad ; No more the smidi his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train. To me more dear, congenial to my heart. One native charm, than all the gloss of art : Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; Liohtly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. With ail the freaks of wanton wealth array d, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. The toiling pleasure sickens into pain : And e en whde fashion s brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy? 02 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor s decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the hmits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. And shouting folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards e'en heyond the miser s wish ahound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name, That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. Space for his horses, equipage and hounds : The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth. Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their growth ; His seat, where solitary sports are seen. Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product flies. For all the luxuries the world supplies. While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain. Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; But when those chai-ms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. In all the glaiing impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd ; In nature's simplest charms at first array'd. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 05 But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; While, scourged by famine ftom the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms — a garden, and a grave. Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. And c en the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped — What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind , To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display. There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! Sure these denote one universal joy ! Are these thy serious tlioughts ? — Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 64 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has ^vept at tales of innocence distrest ; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled, Kear her betrayer s door she lays her head. And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour. When idly first, ambitious of the town. She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. At proud men s doors they ask a little bread ! Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charmed before, The various terrors of that horrid shore ; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day ; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing. But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown d, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. And savage men more murderous still than they ; THE DESERTED VILLAGE. (; )0 While ol't in whirls the mad tornado flies, Min{jlin{j the ravaged landsca])e with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling; hrook, the grassy vested green. The breezy covert ol the warbling grove. That only shelter d thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day That calfd them from their native walks away ; When the poor exiles, every pleasure jjast. Hung round the bowers, and fondly lookVl their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in \ain For seats like these beyond the western main ; And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still return d to weep. The good old sire, the first prepared to go To new-formd worlds, and wept for others' woe ; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. The fond companion of his helpless years. Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover s for her father s arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ; And kiss'd her thoughtless babes widi many a tear. And clasp d them close, in sorrow doubly dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! VOL. II. \ 66 THE DESEPxTED VILLAGE. How do thy potions, with insidiovis joy, Difliisc their pleasures only to destroy ! Ivingilonis by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own : At every draught more large and large they grow A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done ; E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. That idly waiting flaps with every gale. Downward they move, a melancholy band. Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; And piety with wishes placed above. And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or stiike for honest fame; Dear charming nymj)h, neglected and decried. My shame in crowds, my solitary pride. Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; Thou guide, by Avhich the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! Farewell, and Oh ! where'er thy voice be tried. On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, THE DESERTED VILLAGE. G7 Whether w here equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours oi th' inclement clime ; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Though very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. As ocean sweeps the labour d mole away ; While self-dej)endent power can time defy. As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 5. THE GIFT. TO IIUS, Say, cnicl Iris, pretty rake, Dear mercenary Jjeaiity, What annual offering shall I make Expressive of my duty ? My heart, a victim to thine eyes, Should I at once deliver, Say, would the angry fair one prize The gift, who slights the giver? A bill, a jewel, watch or toy, My rivals give — and let em ; If gems, or gold, impart a joy, 111 give them — when I get em. ril give — but not the full-!)lown rose. Or rose-bud more in fashion : Such short-lived offerings but disclose A transitory passion. ril give thee something yet unpaid, Not less sincere, than civil : 1 11 give thee — ah ! too charming maid, I'll give thee — to the devil. EPITAPH ON DR PARPsELL. This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, That l(!ads to truth through pleasure's flowVy way ! Celestial themes confessed his tuneful aid ; And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow. The transitory breath of fame below : More lasting rapture from his works shall rise. While converts thank their poet in the skies. EPILOGUE TO TIIF. COMEDY OF THE SLSTERS. What? five long acts — ^ancl all to make us wiser? Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. Had she consrdted me, she should have made |Bk Her moral play a speaking masquerade ; Warm VI up each bustling scene, and in her rage Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. My life on't, this had kept her play fiom sinking ; Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking : Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill. What if I give a masquerade? — I will. But how ? ay, there s the rub ! [pausing] — I 've got my cue ; The world s a masquerade ! the masquers, you, you, you. [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! Statesmen with bridles on ; and close beside em, Patriots in party-colour d suits that ride em. There Hebes, turn d of fifty, try once more To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore : These in their turn, witli appetites as keen, Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. 72 EPILOGUE. Miss, not yot lull fllieen, with firo uncommon, Fliuffs down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure. And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure : Thus 'tis with all — their chief and constant care Is to seem every thing — but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, ^Vllo seems t' have robb d his vizor from the lion ; Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, Looking, as who should say, dam'me ! who's afraid? [Mimicking. Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am You'll find his lionship a very lamb. Yon politician, famous in debate, Perhaogko vulgar eyes, bestrides the state ; Yet, wfRi he deigns his real shape t' assume. He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, And seems, to every gazer, all in white. If with a bribe his candour you attack. He bows, turns round, and whip — the man in black ! Yon critic, too — but whither do I run? If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! Well then a truce, since she requests it too : Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you. EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MRS BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. Enter MRS BULKLEY, who courtesies very low as beginning to speak. Then enter MISS CATLEY, who stands full before her, and courtesies to the Audience. MRS BULKLEY. Hold, ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here? MISS CATLEY. The Epilogue. MRS BULKLEY. The Epilogue ? MISS CATLEY. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. MRS BULKLEY. Sure you mistake, ma'am. The Epilogue, / bring it. MISS CATLEY. Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it. RECITATIVE. Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring. Suspend your conversation while I sing. MRS BULKLEY. Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue of singing, A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning. 74 EPILOGUE. Resides, a singer in a comic set — Excuse me, ma'am, I know the etiquette. MISS CATLEY. what if we leave it to the house? MRS BULKLEY. The house ! — x\greed. Miss CATLEY. Agreed. MRS BULKLEY. And she whose party's largest shall proceed. And first, I hope you'll readily agree I 've all the critics and the wits for me ; They, I am sure, will answer my commands : Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands. What ! no return? I find too late, I fear, That modern judges seldom enter here. MISS CATLEY. I 'm for a different set. — Old men Avhose trade is Still to gallant and dangle av ith the ladies. KECITATIVE. Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling. Air — Cotillon. Turn my fairest, turn, if ever Strephon caiifjlit thy ravish'd eye, Pitv take on your swain so clever, Who Avithout your aid must die. Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, liu. Yes, I shall die, ho, ho, ho, ho, Da capo. MRS BULKLEY. Let all the old pay homage to your merit ; Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. EPILOGUE. 75 Ye traveird tribe, ye macaroni train, Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, Who take a trip to Paris once a-year To dress, and look hko awkward Frenchmen here ; Lend me your hands. — O fatal news to tell. Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. MISS CATLEY. Ay, take your travellers — travellers indeed ! Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. Where are the chiels? Ah ! Ah, I well discern The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. Air — ^A bonny young lad is my Jockey. I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, And be unco merry when you are but gay ; When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, My voice shall be ready to carol away With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, W^idi Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. MRS BULKLEY. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, INIake but of all your fortune one va toute : Y^e jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, « I hold the odds. — Done, done, with you, with you.» Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, « My lord, — Your lordship misconceives the case. » Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, « I wish I d been calld in a little sooner : » Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, ^ Come end the contest here, and aid my party. Miss CATLEY. Air — Ballinamony . Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack; 76 EPILOGUE. For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. For you're always polite and attentive. Still to amuse us inventive, And death is your only preventive : Your hands and your voices for me. MRS BULKLEY. Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring. We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring? MISS CATLEY. And that our friendship may remain unbroken. What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken? MRS BULKLEY. Agreed. MISS CATLEY. Agreed. MRS BULKLEY. And now with late repentance, Un-epilogued the poet waits his sentence. Condemn the stubborn fool who can t submit To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. [Exeunt. AN EPILOGUE, INTENDED FOR MRS BULKLEY. There is a place, so Ariosto sings, A treasury for lost and missing things : Lost human wits have places there assigned them, And they who lose their senses, there may find them. But where's this place, this storehouse of the age? The Moon, says he ; — but I affirm, the Stage : At least in many things, I think, I see His lunar, and our mimic world agree. Both shine at night, for, but at Foote s alone. We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down. Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, And sure the folks of both are lunatics. But in this parallel my best pretence is. That mortals visit both to find their senses ; To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits. Come thronging to collect their scatter d wits. The gay coquette, who ogles all the day. Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. Hither the affected city dame advancing, Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing, 78 EPILOGUE. Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on, Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low, Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. The Mohawk too — with angry phrases stored. As « DanVme, sir,» and « Sir, I wear a sword ;» Here lesson d for a while, and hence retreating. Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. Here come the sons of scandal and of news. But find no sense — for they had none to lose. Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser. Our author s the least likely to grow wiser ; Has he not seen how you your favour place On sentimental queens and lords in la ce? Without a star, a coronet, or garter, How can the piece expect or hope for quarter? No high-life scenes, no sentiment : — the creature Still stooj)s among the low to copy nature. Yes, he 's far gone : — and yet some pity fix, The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.' ' This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr Goldsmith to Dr Percy (iate Bishop of Dromore); but for what comedy it was intended is not remem- bered. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON; POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. FIRST PRINTED IN MBCCLXV. PHF HAUNCH OF VENISON; POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never ranged in a forest, or smoked ni a platter. The haunch was a picture for painters to study. The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view. To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ; As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. But hold — let me pause — don 1 1 hear you pronounce, This tale of the bacon \s a damnable bounce ? Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try. By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. VOL. II. (] 82 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. lUit, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn, It's a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr Burn.'j To go on with my tale — as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose ; 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's : But in parting with these I was puzzled again. With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's H — d, and C — y, and H — rth, and H — ff, I think they love venison — I know they love beef. There's my countryman, Higgins — -Oh ! let him alone For making a blunder, or picking a bone. But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat, Ycmr very good mutton's a very good treat ; Such dainties to them their health it might hurt. It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. While thus I debated, in reverie centred. An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd ; An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he. And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me. « What have we got here ? — Why this is good eating ! Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting?" « Why whose should it be?w cried I with a flounce; « I get these things often » — but that was a bounce : « Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation." « If that be the case then, » cried he, very gay, « I 'm glad I have taken this house in my way. ' Lord Clare's nephew. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 85 To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; No words — I insist on't — precisely at three ; We'll have Johnson, and lUnke, all the wits will he there; My acquaintance is slight, or Td ask myjjord Clare. And, now that I think on t, as I am a sinner ! We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. What say you — a pasty? it shall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter — this venison with me to INIile-end: No stirring — I hcg — my d(>ar friend — my dear friend ! » Thus snatching his hat, he hrushVl off like the wind. And the porter and eatables foUowVl behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And « nobody with me at sea but myself; » ' Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never disliked in my life, Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due splendour to make my approach , I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine, (A chair-lumber d closet, just twelve feet by nine,) My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumi), With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; « For I knew it,» he cried ; « both eternally fail. The one with his speeches, and f other with Tlirale ; But no matter, TU warrant well make up the party With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you : ' See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. — i2mo. 1769. G. 8/» THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. The one Myites the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; Some think he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge.» While thus he descrihed them hy trade and by name, They enter d, and dinner was served as they came. At the top a fried hver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinage, and pudding made hot ; In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, ^Vhile the bacon and liver went merrily round : But what vex'd me most was that d d Scottish rogue. With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue. And « INIadam,)) quoth he, « may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst. But I Ve eat of your tripe till I 'm ready to burst. » « The tripe," cpioth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, « I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : 1 like these here dinners, so pretty and small ; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all. » « O — ho !» quoth my friend, « hell come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice ; There s a pasty »• — « A pasty ! » repeated the Jew, « I don't care if I keep a corner for t too. » « What the de'il, mon, a pasty ! » re-echoed the Scot, « Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.» " We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; « We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. AVhile thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid : THE HAUNCH (3F VEMSON. 8ii A visage so sad, and so pale with allri^jht, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains hy night. But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her? That she came with some terrible news fiom the baker : And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — And now that I think on t, the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced To send such good verses to one of your taste ; YouVe got an odd something — a kind of discerning, A relish — a taste — sicken d over by learning ; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your own : So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss. You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. KROM Tlll£ OllATORIO OF THE CAPTIYITY. SONG. The wretch condemn d with hfe to part, Still, still on hope relies ; And every pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimmering taper s light, Adorns and cheers the way ; And still, as darker grows the night. Emits a brighter ray. SONG. O Mkmory! thou fond deceiver. Still importunate and vain. To former joys recurring ever. And turning all the past to pain : Tliou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, I'liy smiles increase the wretch's woe; And he who wants each other blessing, In thee must ever find a foe. THE CLOWN'S REPLY. John Trott was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears ; « Ant please you,» quoth John, « I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; However from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be saved ! without thinking on asses. » Edinbur{jh, 1753. EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON. Mere lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller s hack ; He led such a damnable life in this world, I don t think he 11 wish to come back. ' This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of lliat employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade. AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS MARY BLAIZE. Good people all, with one accord. Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word, — From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door. And always found her kind ; She freely lent to all the poor, — Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please With manners wondrous winning ; And never followed wicked ways, — Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satms new, W^ith hoop of monstrous size ; She never slumber d in her pew, — But when she shut her eyes. AN ELEGY. 89 Her love was soiij^lit, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more ; The kiny himself has followed her, — When she has walked before. But now her wealth and finery fled. Her hangers-on cut short all ; The doctors found, when she was dead, — Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more, — She had not died to-day. RETALIATION; A POEM. FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXXIV. AFTER THE ACTHOH's DEATH. Dr Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St James's Coffee-house. — One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and per- son, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the fol- lowing poem. RETALIATION; POEM. Of old, when Scarron liis companions invited, Each guest hrou{]ht his dish, and the feast was united ; If our landlord ' supplies us with heef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish; Our Dean ^ shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; Our Burke ' shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains ; Our Will ' shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour, And Dick^ with his pepper shall heighten the savour ; Our Cumberland's*^ sweet-bread its place shall obtain, And Douglas " is pudding, substantial and plain ; ' The master of the St James's Coffee-house, where the doctor, and the friends he has characterised in this poem, occasionally dined. ^ Doctor Bernard, dean of Derrj', in Ireland. ^ The Right Hon. Edmund Burke. * Mr William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin. * Mr Richard Burke, collector of Granada. ^ Mr Richard Cumberland, author of «The West Indian," « Fashionable Lover," u The Brothers," and various other productions. 7 Dr Douglas, canon of Windsor, (afterwards bishop of Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes. 1 i m RETALIATION. Our Garrick's ' a sallad ; lor in him we see Oil, vineg;ar, su^ar, and saltness agree : To make out the dinner, full certain I am, That Ridge ^ is anchovy, and Reynolds ^ is lamb ; That Hickey \s ^ a capon, and, by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast. Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I ni able. Till all my companions sink under the table ; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head. Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good dean,^ re-united to earth. Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, At least in six weeks I could not find em out ; Yet some have declared, and it can t be denied em, That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide em. Here lies our good Edmund,^ whose genius was such, W^e scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind. And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy Townshend " to lend him a vote ; ' David Garrick, Esq. ' Counsellor John RiJge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. ^ Sir Joshua Reynolds. * An eminent attorney. * Vide page gS. ® Vide page gS. 7 Mr T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch. RETALIATION. 95 Who, too deep for his liearers, still went on refininfj, And thou{jht ol" convincing, whiU; they thon(;ljt of dinin^^ : Thoiijjh equal to all tliinjfs, for all tliinf;s unfit. Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; For a patriot, too cool ; for a drud^je, disobedient ; And too fond of the right to puisue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, unemployVl or in ])lace, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William, ' whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the {jood that was in't ; The pupil of impulse, it forced him along. His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam. The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard, ^ whose fate I must sigh at ; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ! Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ! Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at old Nick ; But missing his mirth and agreeable vein. As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. ' Vide page 98. ' Mr Richard Burke ; (vide page gS.) This gentleman having slightly frac- tured one of his arms and legs at different times, the doctor has rallied hiin on those accidents, as a kind of rotrihulivo justice for breaking his jests upon other people. 96 RETALIATION. • Here Cumberland lies, haviii[j acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine ; Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own : Say, where has our poet this malady caught. Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men s virtues, and finding them few. Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines. Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines When satire and censure encircled his throne, I fear d for your safety, I fear d for my own ; But now he is gone, and we want a detector. Our Dodds ' shall be pious, our Kenricks ^ shall lecture ; ' The Rev. Dr Dodd. ' Dr Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of u The School of Shakspeare.» RETALIATION. 97 Macpherson ' write Ijombast, and call it a stylo, Our Townsliend make speeches, and I shall compile ; New Landers and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over. No countryman livinj] their tricks to discover ; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark. And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaster d with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turned and he varied full ten times a-day : Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick : He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack. For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came. And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame ; Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease. Who pepperVl the highest, was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind. If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. ' James Macpherson, Esq. wlio lately, from the mere force of liis style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. VOL, II. 7 98 ' KETALIATION. Ye Ken ricks, ye Kelly s,' and Woodfalls ^ so grave, What a commerce was yours, while yon got and you gave ! How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, While he was lie-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised ! But peace to his spirit wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies : Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will. Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love. And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. ^ Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature. And slander itself must allow him good-nature ; ' Mr Hujjh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clemen- tina, School for Wives, etc. etc. - Mr William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. ^ The following poems by Mr Garrick, may in some measure account for the severity exercised by Dr Goldsmith in respect to that gentleman. JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE. Here Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow. Go fet(-h me some clay — I will make an oddfellow .' Viiyhl and wrong shall be jumbled, — nnicli f;old and some dross; Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross; Be sure, as I work, to tlirow in contradictions, A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions; Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking, Turn'd to learning and qmning, religion and raking. With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste; Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste; That tile rake and the poet o'er all may prevail. Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail : For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it, This scliolur, rake, Clirislian, dupe, gamester, and poet; Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, And among brother mortals — be Goldsmith his name; When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear, You, Hermes, shall fetch him — to make us sport here. IIETALIATION. IMI « He cherish'cl his friend, and he relish'd a bumpei', Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser? I answer no, no, for lie always was wiser. Too com^teous, perhaps, or oblijjin^ly flat? His very worst foe can t accuse him of that. l^erhaps he confided in men as they go. And so was too foolishly honest? ah, no ! Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye : He was, could he help it? a special attorney. Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind. He has not left a wiser or better behind ; His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing : When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff. He shifted his trumpet,' and only took snuff. ON DR GOLDSMITH'S CHARAGTERISTICAL COOKERY. A JEC n' ESPRIT. Are these the choice dishes the doctor has sent us ? Is this the great poet whose works so content us ? This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books ? Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks. ' Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the neces- sity of using an ear-trumpet in company. POSTSCRIPT. After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the piibhsher received the followin{5 Epitaph on Mr Whitefoord,' from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith. Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily hved, he is now a grave man : ^ Rare compound of oddity, frohc, and fun ! ^Yho reUsh d a joke, and rejoiced in a pun ; Whose temper was generous, open, sincere; A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ; Who scatter d around wit and humour at Avill ; Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill : A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. What pity, alas ! that so liheral a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, Yet content « if the table he set in a roar ;» W'hose talents to fill any station were fit. Yet happy if ^Voodfall ' confessed him a wit. ' Mr Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. " Mr W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep liiin company, without bcinjj infected with the ilch of purMiin{j. ^ Mr II. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. RETALIATION. 101 Ye newspajiCT witlinys ! ye pert scril)l)lin{; folks ! Who copied his s(juibs, and re-echoed his jokes ; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come. Still follow your master, and visit his tomb : To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; Then strew all around it (you can do no less) Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.' Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit. This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, « Thou best humour d man with the worst humour d Muse. » ' Mr Whitefoord lias frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the I'ublic Advertiser. SONG: IKTENDEn TO HAVE BEEN STJNG IN THE COMEDY OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.' Ah me ! when shall I marry me? Lovers are plenty ; hut fail to relieve me. He, fond youth, that could carry me. Offers to love, hut means to deceive me. But I will rally, and comhat the miner : Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her. Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. ' Sir, — I send you a small production of the late Dr Goldsmith, which has never been pubUshcd, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of « She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out, as Mrs Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called « The Humours of ]3alamagairy,» to which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt words ; ]jut he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affec- tionate care. I am. Sir, Your humble servant, James Roswell. PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE; A TRAGEDY: WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ. ACTED AT THE THEATRE-nOYAL, COVENT GARDEN, MDCCLXXIF. SPOKEN BY MR QUICK. In these bold times, when Leai ning s sons explore The distant climates, and the savage shore ; When M^se astronomers to India steer, And quit for Yenus many a brighter here ; While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, Forsake the fair, and patiently — go simpling ; Our bard into the general spirit enters, And fits his little frigate for adventures. With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden, He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading — Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before. To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost ! This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. 104 PROLOGUE. Lord, what a sultrv climate am I under ! Yon ill foreboding) cloud seems big with thunder : [Upper Gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than Tve seen 'em — [Pit. Here trees of stately size — and billing turtles in 'em. [ Balconies. Here ill-condition d oranges abound — [Stage. And apples, bitter apples strew the ground : [Tasting them. The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : I heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! O, there the people are — best keep my distance : Our captain, gentle natives! craves assistance ; Our ship s well stored — in yonder creek we \ e laid her, His honour is no mercenary trader. This is his first adventure, lend him aid, And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, Equally fit for gallantry and war. What, no reply to promises so ample? rd best step back — and order vip a sample. EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR LEE LEWES, IN THE CHABACTER OF IIARLEQCIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. Hold ! Prompter, hold ! a word before your nonsense : I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. My pride forbids it ever shoidd be said, My heels echpsed the honours of my head ; That I found humour in a piebald vest, Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. [Takes off his mask. Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth? Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth ; In thy black aspect every passion sleeps. The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. How hast thou filfd the scene with all thy brood Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued ! Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; \Vhilst from below the trap-door demons rise, And from above the dangling deities ; And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew? May rosin d lightning blast me if I do ! No — I will act, I 11 vindicate the stage : Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 106 EPILOGUE. Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns ! The ina(krning monarch revels in my veins. Oh ! for a Richard s voice to catch the theme : Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! — soft — 'twas but a dream. Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating, If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 'Twas thus that iEsop's stag, a creature blameless. Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless. Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavill'd at his image in the flood. « The deuce confound," he cries, « these drumstick shanks. They never have my gratitude nor thanks ; They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead ! But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head. How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow ! My horns ! — I'm told horns are the fashion now.» Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his vieAV, Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew; Hoicks ! hark forward ! came thund'ring from behind, He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind : He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. At length, his silly head, so prized before, Is taught his former folly to deplore ; ^Yhilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, And at one bound he saves himself, like me. [Taking a jump through the stage door. THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. Logicians have but ill defined As rational the human mind ; Reason, they say, belongs to man. But let them prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious, Have strove to prove with great precision, With definition and division. Homo est ratione ^yrceditwn ; But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ; And must in spite of them maintain, That man and all his ways are vain ; And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a Aveak and erring creature. That instinct is a surer guide, Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; And that brute beasts are far before em, Deus est anima brutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute. Bring action for assault and battery, Or Irientl beguile with lies and flattery? 108 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. CVer j)lains llicy ramble unconfiii'd, No politics disturb their mind ; They eat their meals, and take their sport, Nor know who s in or out at court ; They never to the levee go, To treat as dearest friend, a foe ; They never importune his grace, Nor ever cringe to men in place ; Nor undertake a dirty job, Nor draw the quill to write for Bob : Fraught with invective they ne'er go To folks at Pater-Noster Row ; No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters. No pickpockets or poetasters. Are known to honest quadrupeds, No single brute his fellows leads. Brutes never meet in bloody fray, Nor cut each others' throats for pa . Of beasts, it is confest, the ape Comes nearest us in human shape : Like man he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling passion ; But both in malice and grimaces, A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold liim humbly cringing wait Upon the minister of state ; View him soon after to inferiors Aping the conduct of superiors : He promises with equal air. And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators : At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 100 Their masters' manners still contract, And footmen, lords, and dukes can act. Thus at the court, both great and small Behave alike, for all ape all. STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. AMmsT the clamour of exulting joys. Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice. And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. O Wolfe ! to thee a streaming flood of w^oe, Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow. Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrimg tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled. And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. Sure 'twas by Providence designed, Rather in pity, than in hate, That he should be, hke Cupid, bhnd, To save him from Narcissus' fate. A SONNET. Weeping, murmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight ; Myra, too sincere for feigning. Fears th' approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection? Or dim thy beauty with a tear? Had Myra folio w'd my direction, She long had wanted cause of fear. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN; COMEDY: AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, CO VENT GARDEN. FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXVIII. PREFACE. When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was stronjjly prepossessed in favour of tlie poets of the last age, and strove to imitate them. The term, genteel comedv, was then unknoAvn am.ongst us, and little more was desired by an audience, than nature and humour, in whatever walks of life they were most conspicuous. The author of the following scenes never imagined that more would be expected of him, and therefore to delineate character has been his principal aim. Those who know any thing of composition, are sensible that, in pursuing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the recesses of the mean ; I was even tempted to look for it in the master of a spuuging-house; but in deference to the public taste, grown of late, perhaps, too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs was retrenched in the representation. In deference also to the judgment of a few friends, who thiiik in a particular way, the scene is here I'estored. The author submits it to the reader in his closet ; and hopes that too much refinement will not banish humour and character from ours, as it has already done from the French theatre. Indeed, the French comedy is now become so very elevated and sentimental, that it has not only banished humour and Moliere from the stage, but it has banished all spectators too. Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the public for the favourable reception which « The Good-Natured Man» has met with ; and to Mr Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. It may not also be improper to assure any, who shall hereafter write for the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to his protection. VOL. II. 8 PROLOGUE, WlllTTEN UY DR JOHNSON; SPOKEN DV MH liENSLEY. l^REST l)y the load of life, the weary mind Surveys the general toil of human kind ; With cool submission joins the laboring train, And social sorrow loses half its pain : Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share This bustling season s epidemic care. Like Ca3sar s pilot, dignified by fate. Tost in one common storm with all the great ; Distrest alike, the statesman and the wit, When one a borough courts, and one the pit. The busy candidates for power and fame Have hopes and fears, and wishes, just the same ; Disaljibd both to combat, or to fly. Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. [Jncheck d, on both loud labblcs vent their rage, As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. Th' o/'ended bingess boards his angry tale. For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; Thcii- schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss. Till diat glad night, when all that hate may hiss. I»ROLO(;(IE. 115 « This day the powtlcr d curls and {joldcii coat, » Says swclhng Crispin, « begy'd a cobblers vote.» " This night, our wit,» the pert apprentice cries, « Lies at my feet — I hiss him, and he dies.» The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe ; The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet judged by those, whose voices ne'er were sold, lie feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; But confident of praise, if praise be due. Trusts, without fear, to merit, and to you. 8. DRA3IATIS PERSONS. MEN. ^^R HONEYAVOOD Mr Powell. CROAKER Mr Shuter. LOFTY Mr Woodward. SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD Mr Clarke. LEONTINE Mr Bexsley. JARVIS Mr Dcnstall. BUTLER Mr CrsHiso. BAILIFF Mr R. Smith. DUBARDIEU Mr Holtam. POSTBOY Mr Quick. WOMEN. MISS RICHLAND Mrs Bclklet. OLIVIA Mrs Mattocks. MRS CROAKER Mrs Pitt. GARNET Mrs Green. LANDLADY Mrs White. Scene — London. THK GOOD-NATURED MAN. ACT I. SCENE— AN APARTMENT IN YOUNG HONEYWOOD'S HOUSE. Enter SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD, JARVIS. SIR WILLIAM. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for this honest blunt- ness. Fidehty, hke yours, is the best excuse for every freedom. JARVIS. I can't help being blunt, and being very angry too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman as your nephew, my master. All the world loves him. SIR WILLIAM. Say rather, that he loves all the world ; that is his fault. JARVIS. I am sure there is no part of it more dear to him than you are, though he has not seen you since he was a child. SIR WILLIAM. What signifies his affection to me ; or how can I be proud of a place in a heart, where every sharper and coxcomb finds an easy entrance ? 118 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. .TARVIS. I grant you that he is rather too good-natured ; that he 's too much every man s man ; that he laughs this minute ^\ ith one, and cries the next with another ; but whose in- structions may he thank for all this? SIR WILLIAM. Not mine, sure? My letters to him during my em- ployment in Italy, taught him only that philosophy which might prevent, not defend his errors. JAR VIS. Faith, begging your honours pardon, I'm sorry they taught him any philosophy at all ; it has only served to spoil him. This same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey. For my own part, whenever I hear him mention the name on't, Tm always sure he's going to play the fool. SIR WILLIAM. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good-nature arises rather from his fears of offending the importunate, than his desire of mak- ing the deserving happy. JARVIS. What it arises from, I don't know. But to be sure, every body has it, that asks it. SIR WILLIAM. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for some time a concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as boundless as his dissipation. JARVIS. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other for them all. He calls his extravagance, generosity; and his trust- ing every body, imiversal benevolence. It was but last THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 119 week lie went security for a fellow whose face lie scarce knew, and that he called an act of exalted inu — mu — munificence ; ay, that was the name he {jave it. SIR WILLIAM. And upon that I proceed, as my last effort, tliou({h widi very little hopes to reclaim him. Tlial very fellow has just ahsconded, and I have taken up the security. Now, my intention is to involve him in fictitious distress, before he has jdimjjcd himself into real calamity : to arrest him for that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and then let him see w liich of his friends will come to his relief. JAR VIS. Well, if I could but any way see him thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be music to me; yet faith, T be- lieve it impossible. I have tried to fret him myself every morning these three years ; but instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear me scold, as he does to his hair- dresser. SIR WILLIAM. We must try him once more, however, and 1 11 go this instant to put my scheme into execution : and I don't de- spair of succeeding, as, by your means, I can have frequent opportunities of being about him without being known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man s good-will to others should produce so much neglect of himself, as to require correction ! Yet we must touch his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are some faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we can scarce weed out the vice without eradicating the virtue. [Exit. JARVIS. Well, go thy ways. Sir William Honey wood. It is not without reason, that the world allows thee to be the best of 120 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. men. But Ikmc comes his hopeful nephew; the strange, ^ootl-natined, foohsh, open-hearted — And yet, all his faults are such that one loves him still the better for them. Enter HONEYWOOD. HONEYWOOD. ^Vell, Jarvis, what messages from my friends this morn- ing? JARVIS. You have no friends. HONEYWOOD. Well ; from my acquaintance then? JARVIS [pulling out bills]. A few of our usual cards of compliment, that 's all. This bill from your tailor ; this from your mercer ; and this from the little broker in Crooked-lane. He says he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. HONEYWOOD. That I don't know ; but I am sure we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. JARVIS. He has lost all patience. HONEYWOOD. Then he has lost a very good thing. JARVIS. There s that ten guineas you were sending to the poor gentleman and his children in the Fleet. 1 believe that would stop his mouth for a while at least. HONEYWOOD. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the mean time? Must I ])e cruel, because he happens to be im- portunate ; and, to relieve his avarice, leave them to insupportable distress? THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 121 JARVIS. 'Sdeath ! sir, the question now is how to reheve yourself; yourself. — Haven 1 1 reason to be out of ray senses, when I see things going at sixes and sevens ? HONEYWOOD. Whatever reason you may have for being out of your senses, 1 hope you'll allow that Tm not quite unreasonable for continuing in mine. JARVIS. You are the only man alive in your present situation that could do so. — Every thing upon the waste. There's Miss Richland and her fine fortune gone already, and upon the point of being given to your rival. HONEYWOOD. I 'm no man's rival. JARVIS. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit you; your own fortune almost spent ; and nothing but pressing cre- ditors, false friends, and a pack of drunken servants that your kindness has made unfit for any other family. HONEYWOOD. Then they have the more occasion for being in mine. JARVIS. Sob ! What will you have done with him that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry ? In the fact ; I caught him in the fact. HONEYWOOD. In the fact? If so, I really think that we should pay him his wages, and turn him off. JARVIS. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog; we'll hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest of the family. 122 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. HONEY WOOD. No, Jarv'is ; it's enough that we have lost what he has stolen ; let us not add to it the loss of a fellow-creature ! JARVIS. Very fine ! well, here was the footman just now, to com- plain of the butler: he says he does most work, and ought to have most wages. HONEYWOOD. That 's but just ; though perhaps here comes the butler to complain of the footman. JARVIS. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the scullion to the privy-counsellor. If they have a bad master, they keep quarrelling with him ; if they have a good master, they keep quarrelling with one another. Enter BUTLER, drunk. BUTLER. Sir, 1 11 not stay in the family with Jonathan ; you must pai't w^ith him, or part with me, that's the ex — ex — expo- sition of the matter, sir. HONEYWOOD. Full and explicit enough. But what's his fault, good Philip? BUTLER. Sir, he's given to diinking, sir, and I shall have my morals corrupted by keeping such company. HONEYWOOD. Ha ! ha ! he has such a diverting way — JARVIS. O, quite amusing. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 125 BUTLER. I find my wine's a-(join(j, sir; and liquors don t go witli- out nioudis, sir; I hate a drunkard, sir, HONEYWOOD. Well, well, Philip, 1 11 hear you upon diat anodier time ; so go to bed now. JARVIS. To bed ! let him go to the devil. BUTLER. Begging your honour s pardon, and begging your par- don. Master Jarvis, Til not go to bed, nor to the devil neither. I ha\ e enough to do to mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr Croaker is below. I came on purpose to tell you. HONEYWOOD. Why didn't you show him up, blockhead? BUTLER. show him up, sir ! With all my heart, sir. Up or down, all's one to me. [Exit. JARVIS. Ay, we have one or other of that family in this house from morning till night. He comes on the old affair, I suppose. The match between his son that's just returned from Paris, and Miss Richland, the young lady he's guar- dian to. HONEY WOOD. Perhaps so. Mr Croaker, knowing my friendship for the young lady, has got it into his head that 1 can persuade her to what I please. JARVIS. Ah ! if you loved yourself but half as well as she loves 124 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. you, we should soon see a marriage that would set all tilings to rights again. HONEYWOOD. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. No, no; her inti- macy with me never amounted to more than friendship — mere friendship. That she is the most lovely woman that ever Avarmed the human heart with desire, I own. But never let me harbour a thought of making her unhappy, by a connexion with one so unworthy her merits as I am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve her, even in spite of my wishes ; and to secure her happiness, though it destroys my own. JARVIS. Was ever the like? I want patience. HONEYWOOD. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could succeed with her guardian, or Mrs Croaker, his wife ; who, though both very fine in their way, are yet a little opposite in their dispositions, you know. JARVIS. Opposite enough, Heaven knows ! the very reverse of each other : she, all laugh and no joke ; he, always complaining and never sorrowful; a fretful poor soul, that has a new distress for every hour in the four-and- twenty — HONEYWOOD. Hush, hush, he's coming up, he'll hear you. JARVIS. One whose voice is a passing-bell — HONEYWOOD. Well, well; go, do. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 125 JARVIS. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief; a coffin and cross bones ; a bundle of rue ; a sprig of deadly night- shade; a [Honeywood stopping his mouth, at last pushes him off. Exit JARVIS. HONEYWOOD. I must own my old monitor is not entirely wrong. There is something in my friend Croaker s conversation that quite depresses me. His very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits than an undertakers shop. — Mr Croaker, this is such a satis- faction — Enter CROAKER. CROAKER. A pleasant morning to Mr Honeywood, and many of them. How is this ! you look most shockingly to-day, my dear friend . I hope this weather does not affect your spirits . To be sure, if this weather continues — I say nothing — But God send we be all better this day three months. HONEYWOOD. I heartily concur in the wish, though, I own, not in your apprehensions. CROAKER. May-be not. Indeed what signifies what weather we have in a country going to ruin like ours ? taxes rising and trade falling. Money flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming into it. I know at this time no less than a hundred and twenty-seven Jesuits between Charing-cross and Temple-bar. HONEYWOOD. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or me, I should hope. 126 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. CROAKER. May-be not. Indeed, what signifies whom they pervert in a country that has scarce any rehgion to lose ! I m only afraid for our wives and daughters. IIO^EYWOOD. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, I assure you. CROAKER. May-be not. Indeed, what signifies whether they be perverted or no? the women in my time were good for something. I have seen a lady drest from top to toe in her o^vn manufactures formerly. But now-a-days, the devil a thing of their own manufacture's about them, ex- cept their faces. HONEYWOOD. But, however these faults may be practised abroad, you don t find them at home, either with Mrs Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland ? CROAKER. The best of them will never be canonized for a saint when she's dead. By the by, my dear friend, I dont find this match between INIiss Richland and my son much relished, either by one side or t' other. HONEYWOOD. T thought otherwise. CROAKER. Ah, Mr Honeywood, a little of your fine serious advice to the young lady might go far : I know she has a very exalted opinion of your understanding. HONEYWOOD. But would not that be usurping an authority that more properly belongs to yourself? CROAKER. Mv dear friend, you know but httle of my authority at THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 127 home. I*coj)le think, indeed, because they see me come out in a morninjj tlius, with a pleasant tace, and to make my friends merry, that all 's well within. But I have cares that would l)reak a heart of stone. My wife has so en- croached upon every one of my privile^^es, that I'm now no more than a mere lodger in my own house. HONEYWOOD. But a little spirit exerted on your side might perhaps restore your authority. CROAKER. No, though I had the spirit of a lion ! T do rouse some- times. But what then? always haggling and haggling. A man is tired of getting the better before his wife is tired of losmg the victory. HONEYWOOD. It's a melancholy consideration indeed, that our chief comforts often produce our greatest anxieties, and that an increase of our possessions is but an inlet to new disquie- tudes. CROAKER. Ah, my dear friend, these w ere the very words of poor Dick Doleful to me not a w eek before he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr Honeywood, I never see you but you put me in mind of poor Dick. Ah, there was merit neg- lected for you ! and so true a friend ! we loved each other for thirty years, and yet he never asked me to lend him a single farthing. HONEYWOOD. Pray what coidd induce him to commit so rash an action at last? CROAKER. I don't know; some people were malicious enough to say it was keeping company with me ; because we used to 128 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. meet now anil then and open our hearts to each other. To be sure I loved to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me talk ; poor dear Dick. He used to say that Croaker rhymed to joker; and so we used to laugh — Poor Dick. [Going to cry. HONEYWOOD. His fate affects me. CROAKER. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable life, where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress and undress, get up and lie down ; while reason, that should watch like a nurse by our side, falls as fast asleep as we do. HONEYWOOD. To say truth, if we compare that part of life which is to come, by that which we have past, the prospect is hideous. CROAKER. Life at the greatest and best is but a fro ward child, that must be humoured and coaxed a little till it falls asleep, and then all the care is over. HONEYWOOD. Very true, sir, nothing can exceed the vanity of our existence, but the folly of our pursuits. We wept when we came into the world, and every day tells us why. CROAKER. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satisfaction to be mi- serable with you. My son Leontine shan't lose the benefit of such fine conversation. I'll just step home for him. I am willing to show him so much seriousness in one scarce older than himself — And what if I bring my last letter to the Gazetteer on the increase and piogress of earthquakes? It will amuse us, I promise you. I there prove hoAV the late earthquake is coming round to pay us another visit, from London to Lisbon, from Lisbon to the Canary Islands, THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 120 from the Canary Islands to Palmyra, from Palmyra to Con- stiintinople, and so from Constantinople back to London again. [Exit. HONEYWOOD. Poor Croaker! his situation deserves the utmost pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits these three days. Sure to live upon such terms is w^orse than death itself. And yet, when I consider my own situation, — a broken fortune, a hopeless passion, friends in distress, the wish but not the power to serve them [pausing and sighing] Enter BUTLER. BUTLER. More company below, sir; Mrs Croaker and Miss Rich- land; shall I show them up? but they're showing up themselves. [Exit. Enter MRS CROAKER and MISS RICHLAND. MISS RICHLAND. You're always in such spirits. MRS CROAKER. We have just come, my dear Honeywood, from the auction. There was the old deaf dowager, as usual, bid- ding like a fury against herself. And then so curious in antiques ! herself the most genuine piece of antiquity in the whole collection. HONEYWOOD. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness from friendship makes me unfit to share in this good-humour : I know you'll pardon me. MRS CROAKER. I VOW he seems as melancholy as if he had taken a dose of my husband this morning. Well, if Richland here can pardon you I must. VOL. II. g 130 THE GOOD-NxVTURED MAN. MISS RICHLAND. You would seem to insinuate, madam, that I have par- ticuhir reasons for heing disposed to refuse it. MRS CROAKER. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, don t be so ready to wish an exphination. MISS RICHLAND. I own I should be sorry Mr Honey wood's long friend- ship and mine should be misunderstood. HONEYWOOD. There's no answering for others, madam. But I hope you'll never find me presuming to offer more than the most delicate friendship may readily allow. Miss RICHLAND. And I shall be prouder of such a tribute from you, than the most passionate professions from others. HONEYWOOD. My own sentiments, madam: friendship is a disinter- ested commerce between equals ; love, an abject inter- course between tyrants and slaves. Miss RICHLAND. And, without a compliment, I know none more disin- terested, or more capable of friendship, than Mr Honey- wood. MRS CROAKER. And, indeed, f know nobody that has more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom, praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddv IJimdle, she's his professed admirer. MISS RICHLAND. Indeed! an admirer! — I did not know, sii-, you were such a favourite there. I{iU is she seriously so handsome? [s she the mighty tiiin*; talked of? THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 131 IIONEYWOOD. The town, madam, seldom begins to praise a ladv's beauty, till she 's beginning to lose it. [Smiling. MRS CROAKER. But she's resolved never to lose it, it seems. For, as her natural face decays, her skill improves in making the arti- ficial one. Well, nothing diverts me more than one of those fine, old, dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age, by every where exposing her person ; sticking herself up in the front of a side box; trailing through a minuet at Almack's ; and then, in the public gardens, looking for all the world like one of the painted ruins of the place. HONEYWOOD. Every age has its admirers, ladies. While you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer climates of youth, there ought to be some to carry on a useful commerce in the frozen latitudes beyond fifty. Miss RICHLAND. But, then, the mortifications they must suffer, before they can be fitted out for traffic. I have seen one of them fret a whole morning at her hair-dresser, when all the fault was her face. HONEYWOOD. And yet. Til engage, has carried that face at last to a very good market. This good-natured town, madam, has husbands, like spectacles, to fit every age, from fifteen to fourscore. MRS CROAKER. Well, youVe a dear good-natured creature. But you know you're engaged with us this morning upon a stroll- ing party. I want to show Olivia the town, and the things ; I believe I shall have business for you for the whole day. 9- 152 THE GOOD-NATURED MxVN. nONEYWOOD. 1 am sonv, madam, 1 liave an appointment with Mr Croaker, m liicli it is impossible to put off. MRS CROAKER. AVhat! witli my husband? then I'm resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I protest you must. You know I never laugh so much as with you. HONEYWOOD. why, if I must, I must. Til swear you have put me into such spirits. Well, do you find jest, and TU find laugh, [ promise you. We 11 wait for the chariot in the next room. [Exeunt. Enter LEONTINE and OLIVIA. LEONTINE. There they go, thoughtless and happy. My dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you capable of sharing in their amusements, and as cheerful as they are. OLIVIA. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, when I have so many terrors to oppress me? The fear of being de- tected by this family, and the apprehensions of a censuring world, when I must be detected — LEONTINE. The world, my love ! what can it say? At worst it can only say, that, being compelled by a mercenary guardian to embrace a life you disliked, you formed a resolution of flying with the man of your choice ; that you confided in his honour, and took refuge in my father s house ; the only one where yours could remain without censure. OLIVIA. But con.sider, F.eontine, your disobedience and my in- discretion ; your being sent to France to bring home a sister, and, instead of a sister, bringing home THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 153 LEONTINE. One clearer than a tlioiisand sisters. One that J am con- vinced will he eqnally dear to the rest of the family, when she comes to he known. OLIVIA. And diat, I fear, will shortly be. LEONTINE. Impossihle, till we ourselves think proper to make the discovery. My sister, you know, has been with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a child, and you find every crea- ture in the family takes you for her. OLIVIA. But mayn t she write, mayn t her aunt write? LEONTINE. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my sister s letters are directed to me. OLIVIA. But won t your refusing Miss Richland, for whom you know the old gentleman intends you, create a suspicion? LEONTINE. ' There, there's my master-stroke. I have resolved not to refuse her ; nay, an hour hence I have consented to go with my father to make her an offer of my heart and fortune. OLIVIA. Your heart and fortune ! LEONTINE. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia think so meanly of my honour, or my love, as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from any but her? No, my Olivia, neither the force, nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my passion, leave any room to suspect me. I only offer Miss Richland a heart I am convinced she will refuse ; as T am IX^ 5i THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. confident, that, witliont knowing it, her affections are fixed upon Mr Honeywood. OLIVIA. Mr HoncyAvood ! You'll excuse my apprehensions; but A\ hen your merits come to be put in the balance — LEOXTINE. You view them with too much partiality. However, by making this offer, I show a seeming compliance with my fathers command; and perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have his consent to choose for myself. OLIVIA. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, I own, I shall envy her even your pretended addresses. I consider every look, every expression of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly, perhaps : I allow it ; but it is natural to sup- pose, that merit which has made an impression on one's own heart, may be powerful crver that of another. LEONTINE. Dou't, my life's treasure, don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to en- counter. At worst, you know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my father refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland ; and — Enter CROAKER. CROAKER. Where have you been, boy? I have been seeking you. My friend Honeywood here has been saying such comfort- able things. Ah! he's an example indeed. Where is he? I left him here. LEONTINE. Sir, I believe you may see him, and hear him too, in the next room ; he's preparing to go out with the ladies. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 135 CROAKER. Good {jracioiis ! can I believe my eyes or my ears ! I in struck dumb witb liis vivacity, and stunned witli the loud- ness of his lau^^ii. Was there ever such a transformation ! [A laugh behind the scenes, Croaker mimics it.] lia ! ha! lia ! there it {joes : a plague take their balderdash ! yet I could expect nothinjj less, when my precious wife was of the party. On my conscience, I believe she could spread a horse-laujjh throujjh the pews of a tabernacle. LEONTINE. Since you find so many objections to a wife, sir, how can you be so earnest iu recommendin(j one to me? CROAKER. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, that Miss Rich- land's fortune must not go out of the family ; one may find comfort in the money, whatever one does in the wife. LEONTINE. But, sir, though, in obedience to your desire, I am ready to marry her, it may be possible she has no inclination to me. CROAKER. I 11 tell you once for all how it stands. A good part of INliss Richland's large fortune consists in a claim upon go- vernment, which my good friend, Mr Lofty, assures me the treasury will allow. One half of this she is to forfeit, by her father s will, in case she refuses to marry you. So, if she rejects you, we seize half her fortune ; if she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine girl into the bargain. LEONTINE. But, sir, if you will but listen to reason — CROAKER. Come, then, produce your reasons. 1 tell you, I 'm fixed, determined ; so now produce your reasons. When I m 136 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. determined, I always listen to reason, because it can then do no harm. LEONTINE. You have alleged that a mutual choice was the first re- quisite in matrimonial happiness. CROAKER. Well, and you have both of you a mutual choice. She has her choice — to marry you, or lose half her fortune ; and you have your choice — to marry her, or pack out of doors without any fortune at all. LEONTINE. An only son, sir, mi{^ht expect more indulgence. CROAKER. An only father, sir, might expect more obedience : be- sides, has not your sister here, that never disobliged me in her life, as good a right as you ? He s a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would take all from you. But he shan't, I tell you he shan t, for you shall have your share. OLIVIA. Dear sir, I wish you'd be convinced, that I can never be happy in any addition to my fortune, which is taken from his. CROAKER. Well, well, it's a good child, so say no more; but come with me, and we shall see something that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I promise you ; old lluggins, the curry-comb maker, lying in state : I am told he makes a very handsome corpse, and becomes his coffin prodi- giously. He was an intimate friend of mine, and these are friendly things we ought to do for each other. [Exeunt. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 137 ACT II. SCENE— CROAKER'S HOUSE. MISS RICHLAND, GARNET. MISS RICHLAND. Olivia not his sister? Olivia not Leontine's sister? You amaze me ! GARNET. No more his sister than I am ; I had it all from his own servant : I can get any thing from that quarter. MISS RICHLAND. But how? Tell me again, Garnet. GARNET. Why, madam, as I told you before, instead of going to Lyons to bring home his sister, who has been there with her aunt these ten years, he never went farther than Paris : there he saw and fell in love with this young lady, by the by, of a prodigious family. MISS RICHLAND. And brought her home to my guardian as his daughter? GARNET. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he don't consent to their marriage, they talk of trying what a Scotch parson can do. 138 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. MISS RICHLAND. Well, I own they have deceived me — And so demurely as Olivia carried it too ! — \Vould you believe it, Garnet, I told her all my secrets ; and yet the sly cheat concealed all this from me ? GARNET. And, upon my word, madam, I don't much blame her : she was loath to trust one with her secrets that was so very bad at keepinfj her own. MISS RICHLAND. But, to add to their deceit, the young gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me serious proposals. My guar- dian and he are to be here presently, to open the affair in form. You know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him. GARNET. Yet, what can you do ? For being, as you are, in love with Mr Honeywood, madam — MISS RICHLAND. How ! idiot, what do you mean? In love with Mr Ho- neywood ! Is this to provoke me ? GARNET. That is, madam, in friendship with him ; I meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope to be married ; nothing more. Miss RICHLAND. Well, no more of this : As to my guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared to receive them : I 'm resolved to accept their proposal with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by compliance, and so throw llie refusal at last upon them. GARNET. Delicious ! and that will secure your whole fortune to THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 139 yourself Well, ^vllo could have thought so innocent u face could cover so much cuteness ! MISS RICHLAND, Why, girl, I only oppose my prudence to their cunning, and practise a lesson they have taught me against them- selves. GARNET. Then you Ve likely not long to want employment, for here they come, and in close conference. Enter CROAKER, LEONTINE. LEONTINE. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate upon the point of putting to the lady so important a question. CROAKER. Lord ! good sir, moderate your fears ; you Ve so plaguy shy, that one would think you had changed sexes. I tell you we must have the half or the Avhole. Come, let me see with what spirit you begin : Well, why don t you ? Eh ! what? Well then — I must, it seems — Miss Richland, my dear, I believe you guess at our business, an affair which my son here comes to open, that nearly concerns your happiness. MISS RICHLAND. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be pleased with any thing that comes recommended by you. CROAKER. How, boy, could you desire a finer opening? Why don't you begin, I say? [To leontine. LEONTINE. 'Tis true, madam, ray father, madam, has some inten- tions — hem — of explaining an affair — which — himself — can best explain, madam. 140 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. CROAKER. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from my son ; it's all a request of his own, madam. And I will permit him to make the best of it. LEONTINE. The whole affair is only this, madam ; my father has a proposal to make, which he insists none but himself shall deliver. CROAKER. My mind misgives me, the fellow will never be brought on [Aside.] In short, madam, you see before you one that loves you ; one whose whole happiness is all in you. MISS RICHLAND. I never had any doubts of your regard, sir ; and I hope you can have none of my duty. CROAKER. That s not the thing, my little sweeting ; my love ! No, no, another guess lover than I : there he stands, madam, his very looks declare the force of his passion — Call up a look, you dog! [Aside] — But then, had you seen him, as I have, weeping, speaking soliloquies and blank verse, some- times melancholy, and sometimes absent — MISS RICHLAND. I fear, sir, he's absent now ; or such a declaration would have come most properly from himself. CROAKER. Himself! madam, he would die before he could make such a confession ; and if he had not a channel for his pas- sion through me, it would ere now have drowned his un- derstanding. MISS RICHLAND. I must grant, sir, there are attractions in modest diffi- THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Hi tlcnce above the force of words. A silent address is the genuine eloquence of sincerity. CROAKEB. Madam, lie has forf^fot to speak any other languajje; si- lence is become his mother tonjjue. MISS RICHLAND. And it must be confessed, sir, it speaks very powerfully in his favour. And yet I shall be thought too forward in making such a confession ; shan 1 1, Mr Leon tine? LEONTINE, Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may disgust her. TU try. [Aside] Don't imagine from my silence, madam, that I want a due sense of the honour and happiness intended me. My fa- ther, madam, tells me, your humble servant is not totally indifferent to you. He admires you ; I adore you ; and when we come together, upon my soul I believe we shall be the happiest couple in all St James's. Miss RICHLAND. If I could flatter myself you thought as you speak, sir — LEONTINE. Doubt my sincerity, madam ? By your dear self I swear. Ask the brave if they desire glory? ask cowards if they covet safety CROAKER. Well, well, no more questions about it. LEONTINE. Ask the sick if they long for health? ask misers if they love money ? ask CROAKER. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense? Whats come over the boy? What signifies asking, when there s not a soul 142 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. lo fjive you an answer? If you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's consent to make you happy. MISS RICHLAND. Why indeed, sir, his uncommon ardour almost compels me — forces me to comply. And yet Tm afraid he'll des- pise a conquest gained with too much ease ; M^on't you, ]Mr Leontine ? LEOKTIXE. Confusion! [Aside] oh, hv no means, madam, bv no means. And yet, madam, you talked of force. There is nothing I would avoid so much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, madam, I will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to refuse. CROAKER. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at liberty. It's a match. You see she says nothing. Silence gives consent. LEONTINE. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, sir, the cruelty of constraining her inclinations. CROAKER. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't you know, block- head, that girls have always a roundabout way of saying yes before company? So get you both gone together into the next room, and hang him that interrupts the tender ex- planation. Get you gone, I say ; I'll not hear a word. LEONTINE. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist — CROAKER. Get off, you puppv, or I'Jl beg leave to insist upon knock- ing you down. Stupid whelp! But I don't wonder: the boy takes entirely after his mother. [Exeunt MISS RICHLAND and LEONTINE. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. U5 Enter MRS CROAKER. MRS CROAKER. Mr Croaker, I bring you something, my dear, that I be- hcve will make you smile. CROAKER. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear. MRS CROAKER. A letter; and, as I knew the hand, I ventured to open it. CROAKER. And how can you expect your breaking open my letters should give me pleasure? MRS CROAKER. Poo ! it's from your sister at Lyons, and contains good news ; read it. CROAKER. what a Frenchified cover is here ! That sister of mine has some good qualities, but I could never teach her to fold a letter. MRS CROAKER. Fold a fiddlestick. Read what it contains. CROAKER [reading]. u Dear Nick, (I An English gentleman, of large fortune, has for some time made private, though honourable proposals to your daughter Olivia. They love each other tenderly, and I find she has con- sented, without letting any of the family know, to crown his addresses. As such good offers don't come every day, your own good sense, his large fortune, and family considerations, will induce you to forgive her. « \ours ever, (I Rachael Croaker.') 144 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. My (laughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of large fortune ! This is good news, indeed. My heart never fore- told nie of this. And yet, how slily the little baggage has carried it since she came home ; not a word on \ to the old ones for the world. Yet I thought I saw something she Avanted to conceal. MRS CROAKER. Well, if they have concealed their amour, they shan t conceal their wedding ; that shall be public, I'm resolved. CROAKER. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the most foolish part of the ceremony. I can never get this woman to think of the more serious part of the nuptial engagement. MRS CROAKER. What, would you have me think of their funeral ? But come, tell me, my dear, don't you owe more to me than you care to confess? Would you have ever been known to Mr Lofty, who has undertaken Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury, but for me? Who was it first made him an ac- c|uaintance at Lady Shabbaroon's rout? Who got him to promise us his interest? Is not he a back-stairs favourite, one that can do what he pleases with those that do what they please? Is not he an acquaintance that all your groan- ing and lamentation could never have got us ? CROAKER. He is a man of importance, I grant you. And yet what amazes me is, that, while he is giving away places to all the world, he can't get one for himself. MRS CROAKER. That peihaps may be owing to his nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. i^s Enter French SERVANT. SERVANT. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty. He vil be vait upon your honours instrannnant. He be only {giving four fiv(; instruction, read two tree memorial, call upon von ambas- sadein\ He vil be vid you in one tree minutes. MRS CROAKER. You see now, my dear. What an extensive department ! Well, friend, let your master know, that we are extremely honoured by this honour. Was there any thing ever in a higher style of breeduig? All messages among the great are now done by express. CROAKER. To be sure, no man does little things with more solem- nity, or claims more respect, than he. But he's in the right on't. In our bad world, respect is given where respect is claimed. MRS CROAKER. Never mind the world, my dear; you were never in a pleasanter place in your life. Let us now^ think of receiving him with proper respect — [a loud rapping at the door,] — and there he is, by the thundering rap. CROAKER. Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon the heels of his own express as an indorsement upon the back of a bill. Well, rU leave you to receive him, whilst I go to chide my little Olivia for intending to steal a marriage without mine or her aunt's consent. I must seem to be angry, or she too may begin to despise my authority. [Exit. Enter LOFTY, speaking to his Servant. LOFTY. « And if the Venetian amhassador, or that teasing crea- VOL. II. lO 146 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ture the marquis, should calJ, I 'm not at home. Dam' me, I 11 be pack-horse to none of them . » My dear madam, I have just snatched a moment — « And if the expresses to his grace be ready, let them be sent off; they're of importance." — Madam, I ask a thousand pardons. MRS CROAKER. Sir, this honour LOFTY . « And, Dubardieu ! if the person calls about the commis- sion, let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cum- bercourt s stale request, it can keep cold : you understand me.w — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. MRS CROAKER. Sir, this honour LOFTY . « And, Dubardieu! if the man comes from the Cornish borough, you must do him; you must do him, I say.» — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. — « And if the Russian ambassador calls ; but he will scarce call to-day, I believe. » — And now, madam, I have just got time to express my happiness in having the honour of being permitted to pro- fess myself your most obedient humble servant. MRS CROAKER. Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine ; and yet, I 'm only robbing the public while I detain you. LOFTY. Sink the |mblic, madam, when the fair are to be attend- ed. Ah, could all my hours be so charmingly devoted ! Sincerely, dont you pity us poor creatures in affairs? Thus it is eternally; solicited for places here, teased for pensions there, and courted every where. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. \\7 MRS CROAKER. Excuse me, sir, "Toils of empires pleasures are," as Waller says. LOFTY. Waller, Wallci', is he ol the house? MRS CROAKER. The modern poet of that name, sir. LOFTY . Oh, a modern ! we men of business despise the moderns ; and as for the ancients, we have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty thiny enough for our wives and daugh- ters ; but not for us. Why now, here I stand that know nothing of books. I say, madam, I know nothing of books ; and yet, I believe, upon a land-carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jag-hire, I can talk my two hours without feeling the want of them. MRS CROAKER. The world is no stranger to Mr Lofty's eminence in every capacity. LOFTY. I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush. I 'm nothing, nothing, nothing in the world; a mere obscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the present ministers are pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to bespatter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder what they see in me to treat me so ! Measures, not men, have always been my mark ; and I vow, by all that s honourable, my resentment has never done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm — that is as mere men. MRS CROAKER. what importance, and yet what modesty ! ID. M8 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. LOFTY. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there, 1 own, Tm accessihU^ to praise : modesty is my foible : it was so the Duke of Hrentford used to say of me. « I love Jack Lofty, » he used to say : « no man has a finer knowledge of things ; quile a man of information ; and, when he speaks upon his legs, by the Lord he's prodigious, he scouts them; and yet all men have their faults; too much modesty is his,» says his grace. MRS CROAKER. And yet, I dare say, you don't want assurance when you come to solicit for your friends. LOFTY. O, there indeed Tm in bronze. Apropos! I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's case to a certain person- age; we must name no names. When I ask, I'm not to be put off, madam. No, no, 1 take my friend by the button. A fine girl, sir; great justice in her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. Business must be done, Mr Secretary. T say, ]VL- Secretary, her business must be done, sir. That's my way, madam . MRS CI! OARER. Bless me! you said all this to the secretary of state, did you? LOFTY. 1 did not say the se(;retarv, did I? Well, curse it, since you have found me out, I will not deny it. It was to the secretarv. MRS CROAKER. This was going to the founlain-hcad at once, not apply- ing to the understrappers, as Mr Honey wood would have had us. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ]/tQ LOFTY . Honeywood ! he ! he ! He was, indeed, a fine sohcitor. I suppose you have heard what has just happened to him? MRS CROAKER. Poor dear man ; no accident, I hope? LOFTY. Undone, madam, that's all. His creditors have taken him into custody. A prisoner in his own house. MRS CROAKER. A prisoner in his own house ! How? At this very time? I m cpiile unhappy for him. LOFTY, Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was immensely [jood-natujed. But then I could never find that he had any thin(j in him. MRS CROAKER. His manner, to be sure, was excessive harmless ; some indeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always concealed my opinion. LOFTY. It can t be concealed, madam ; the man was dull, dull as the last new comedy ! a poor impracticable creature ! I tried once or twice to know if he was fit for business ; but he had scarce talents to be groom-porter to an orange- barrow, MRS CROAKER. How differently does Miss Richland think of him ! For, I believe, with all his faults, she loves him. LOFTY. Loves him ! does she ? You should cure her of that by all means. Let me see; what if she were sent to him this instant, in his present doleful situation? My life for it, 150 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. that works her cure. Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join her in tlie next room? Miss Richland is a fine {^jirl, has a fine fortune, and must not be thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, I have a regard for Miss Rich- land ; and rather than she shoidd be thrown away, I should think it no indignity to marry her myself. [Eseum. Enter 0L1VL\ and LEONTIKE. LEONTINE. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every reason to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did every thing in my power to deserve it. Her indelicacy surprises me. OLIVIA. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so indelicate in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear I shall be the most guilty thing alive. LEONTINE. But you mistake, my dear. The same attention I used to advance my merit with you, I practised to lessen it with her. What more could I do ? OLIVIA. Let us now rather consider what is to be done. We have both dissembled too long. — I have always been ashamed — I am now quite weary of it. Sure I could never have undergone so much for any other but you. LEONTINE. And you shall find my gratitude equal to your kindest compliance. Though our friends should totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune. OLIVIA. Then why should we defer our scheme of humble hap- I IIK GOOD-NATURED MAN. 151 piiiess, when il is now in our power? I may be tlie fa- vourite oi your father, it is true ; but can it ever be thouglit, tliat his present kindness to a supposed child will continue to a known deceiver? LEONTINE. I have many reasons to believe it will. As his attach- ments are but few, they are lasting. His own marriage was a j)rivate one, as ours may be. Besides, I have sounded him already at a distance, and find all his answers exactly to our wish. Nay, by an expression or two that dropped from him, I am induced to think he knows of this affair. OLIVIA. Indeed ! Vmt that would be a happiness too great to be expected. LEONTINE. However it be, I'm certain you have power over him ; and I am persuaded, if you informed him of our situation, that he would be disjiosed to pardon it. OLIVIA. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from your last scheme with Miss Richland, which you find has succeeded most wretchedly. LEONTINE. And that's the best reason for trying another. OLIVIA. If it must be so, I submit. LEONTINE. As we could wish, he comes this way. Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. 1 11 just retire within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to share your danger, or confinu your victory. [Exii 152 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Enter CRO.VKER. CROAKER. Yes, I must forgive her; and yet not too easily, neither. It will be proper to keep up the decorums of resentment a little, if it be only to impress her with an idea of my authority. OLIVIA. How I tremble to approach him! — Might I presume, sir, — if I interrupt you — CROAKER, No, child, where I have an affection, it is not a little thing that can interrupt me. Affection gets over little things. OLIVIA. Sir, youVe too kind. Tm sensible how ill I deserve this partiality; yet. Heaven knows, there is nothing I would not do to gain it. CROAKER. And vou have but too well succeeded, vou little hussv, you. With those endearing ways of yours, on my con- science, J could be brought to forgive any thing, unless it were a very great offence indeed. OLIVIA. Rut mine is such an offence — When you know my guilt — Vcs, you shall know it, though I feel the greatest pain in the confession. CROAKER. Why, then, it it be so very great a pain, you may spare yourself the trouble ; for I know every syllable of the mat- ter before you begin. OLIVIA. Indeed! then I m undone. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 155 CROAKER. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, without Icttin^j me know it, did you? But Tm not worth heing consuhed, I suppose, when there s to he a marriage in my own family. No, I m to have no hand in the disposal of my own chil- dren. No, I 'm nohody. I 'm to be a mere article of family lumber; a piece of cracked china to be stuck up in a corner. OLIVIA. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your authority could induce us to conceal it from you. CROAKER. No, no, my consequence is no more ; Tm as little minded as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck up with a pipe in its mouth till there comes a thaw — It goes to my heart to vex her. [ Aside. OLIVIA. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and despaired of pardon, even while 1 presumed to ask it. But your seve- rity shall never abate my affection, as my punishment is but justice. CROAKER. And yet you should not despair neither, Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. OLIVIA. And do you permit me to hope, sir? Can I ever expect to be forgiven? But hope has too long deceived me. CROAKER. Why then, child, it shan't deceive you now, for I for- give you this very moment ; 1 forgive you all ! and now vou are indeed my daughter. OLIVIA. O transport ! this kindness overpowers me. 154 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. CROAKEIt. I was always against severity to our children. We have heen yoiinjj and {{iddy ourselves, and we can t expect boys and yirls to be old before their time. OLIVIA. What generosity! But can you forget the many false- hoods, the dissimulation CROAKER. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin you ; but where s the girl that won't dissemble for a husband ? My wife and I had never been married, if we had not dissembled a little beforehand. OLIVIA. It shall be my future care never to put such generosity to a second trial. And as for the partner of my offence and folly, from his native honour, and the just sense he has of his dutY, I can answer for him that Enter LEONTINE. LEONTINE. Permit him thus to answer for himself. [Kneeling] Thus, sir, let me speak my gratitude for this unmerited forgive- ness. Yes, sir, this even exceeds all your former tender- ness. I now can boast the most indulgent of fathers. The life he gave, compared to this, was but a trifling blessing. CROAKER. And, good sir, who sent for you, with that fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner? I don't know what we have to do with your gratitude upon this occasion. LEONTINE. How, sir ! Is it possible to be silent, when so much obliged? Would vou refuse me the pleasure of being grate- THE GOOD-NATUllED MAN. 155 flip of adding; my thanks to my Olivias? of sharinjj in tlie transpoits that you have thus occasioned ? CROAKER. Lord, Sir, we can he happy enou{>h without your comin;; in to make up the l)arty. \ don't know what's the matter with the hoy all this day; he has {jot into such a rhodomon- tade mannei- all this morninjj ! LEONTINE. lint, sir, I that have so large a part in the hen<;fit, is it not my duty to show my joy? is the heing admitted to your favour so slight an ohligation? is the happiness of marrying my Olivia so small a blessing ? CROAKER. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! marrying his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of his senses. His own sister ! LEONTINE. My sister ! OLIVIA. Sister ! How have I been mistaken ! LAside. LEONTINE, H Some cursed mistake in all this, I find. [Aside. CROAKER. what does the booby mean? or has he any meaning? Eh, what do you mean, you blockhead, you? LEONTINE. Mean, sir, — why, sir — only when my sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of marrying her, sir, that is, of giving her away, sir — I have made a point of it. CROAKER. O, is that all? Give her away. You have made a point of it. Then you had as good make a point of first giving away yourself, as Tm going to prepare the writings be- 156 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. tween you and Miss Kicliland this very minute. What a fuss is here about nothing; ! Why, what's the matter now? I thoufjht I had made you at least ^ happy as you could wish. OLIVIA. O ! yes, sir ; very happy. CROAKER. Do you foresee any thing, child? You look as if you did. I think if any thing was to be foreseen, I have as sharp a look-out as another ; and yet I foresee nothing. [ E\it. LEONTINE, OLIVIA. OLIVIA. What can it mean ? LEONTINE. He knows something, and yet for my life I can't tell what. OLIVIA. It can t be the connexion between us, I 'm pretty certain. # LEONTINE. whatever it be, my dearest, I 'm resolved to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our mortification. I'll haste and prepare for our journey to Scotland this very evening. My friend Honeywood has j^romised me his advice and assist- ance. I 11 go to him and repose our distresses on his friendly bosom ; and I know so much of his honest heart, that if he can't relieve our uneasinesses, he will at least share them. I Exeunt. THE GOOD-NATTinED MAN. 157 ACT til. SCENE— YOUNG HONEYWOOD'S HOUSE. BAILIFF, IIONEYWOOD, FOLLOWER. BAILIFF. I.ooKYE, sir, I have arrested as good men as you in my time : no disparagement of you neither : men that would go forty guineas on a game of crihbage. I challenge the town to show a man in more genteeler practice than my- self. HONEYWOOD. Without all question, IVIr . I forget your name, sir. BAILIFF. How can you forget what you never knew? he ! he ! he ! HONEYWOOD. May I beg leave to ask your name ? BAILIFF. Yes, you may. HONEYWOOD. Then, pray, sir, what is your name? BAILIFF. That I didn t promise to tell you. He ! he ! he ! A joke breaks no bones, as we say among us that practise the law. 158 TUK GOOD-NATURED MAN. HONEY WOOD. You may have reason for keeping it a secret, perhaps ? BAILIFF. The hiw does nothing without reason. Tm ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If you can show cause, as why, upon a special capus, that I should prove my name — But, come, Timothy Twitch is my name. And, now you know my name, what have you to say to that? HONEYWOOD. Nothing in the world, good Mr Twitch, but that I have a favour to ask, that's all. BAILIFF. Ay, favours are more easily asked than granted, as we say among us that practise the law. I have taken an oath against granting favours. Would you have me perjure myself? HONEYWOOD. But my request will come recommended in so strong a manner as, I believe, you'll have no scruple. [Pulling out his purse] The thing is only this : 1 believe I shall be able to discharge this trifle in two or three days at farthest; but as I would not have the affair known for the world, I have thoughts of keeping you, and your good friend here, about me, till the debt is discharged ; for which I shall be properly grateful. BAILIFF. Oh! that's another inaxum, and altogether within my oath. For certain, if an honest man is to get any thing by a thing, there's no reason why all things should not be done in civility. HONEYWOOD. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. [Gives lilm money. J IJE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 150 BAILIFF. Oh ! your honour ; I hope your honour takes nothin?^ amiss as I does, as 1 does nodiing but my duty in so doin^^. I 111 sure no man can say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentleman, ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentleman, I have taken money not to see liim foi' ten weeks together. HONEYWOOD. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr Twitch. BAILIFF. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. 1 love to see a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't know, but I think I have a tender heart myself. If all that I have lost by my heart was put together, it would make a — but no matter for that. HONEYWOOD. Dont account it lost, Mr Twitch. The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of the conscious happiness of having acted with humanity ourselves. BAILIFF. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better than gold. I love humanity. People may say, that we in our way have no humanity ; but I'll show you my humanity this moment. There's my follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four children, a guinea or two would be more to him than twice as much to another. Now, as I can't show him any humanity myself, I must beg leave you'll do it for me. HONEYWOOD. I assure you, Mr Twitch, yours is a most powerful re- commendation . [ Giving money to the follower. BAILIFF. Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you know what to do with your money. But, to business : we are to be with you 160 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. liere as your friends, I suppose. But set in case company comes. — Little Fiauigan here, to be sure, has a good face ; a very good face ; but then, he is a httle seedy, as we say among us that practise the law. Not well in clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes. HOXEYWOOD. Well, that shall be remedied without delay. Enter SERVANT. SERVANT. Sir, Miss Richland is below. HONEYWOOD. How unlucky ! Detain her a moment. We must im- prove my good friend little Mr Flanigan s appearance first. Here, let INIr Flanigan have a suit of my clothes — quick — the brown and silver — Do vou hear? SERVANT. That your honour gave away to the begging gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good as new. HONEYWOOD. The white and gold then. SERVANT. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, because it was good for nothing. HONEYWOOD. Well, the first that comes to hand then. The blue and gold tlien. I believe Mr Flanigan will look best in blue. [Exit FLANIGAN. BAILIFF. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in any thing. Ah, if your honour knew that bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perl^ctly in love with him. There's not a prettier scout in the four coimties after a shy-cock than THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 161 he: scents like a liound; sticks like a weasel. He was master of the ceremonies to the black queen of Morocco, when I took him to follow me. [Re-enter Fianican] IIoli, ccod, I think he looks so well, that I don't care if I have a suit from the same place for myself. HONEYWOOD. Well, well, I hear the lady cominjj. Dear Mr Twitch, I be(j you'll {jive your friend directions not to speak. As for yourself, I know you m ill say nothing without being directed. BAILIFF. Never you fear me ; 1 11 show the lady that I have some- thing to say for myself as well as another. One man has one way of talking, and another man has another, that's all the difference between them. Enter MISS RICHLAND and her Maid. MISS RICHLAND. You'll be surprised, sir, with this visit. But you knoAv I m yet to thank you for choosing my little library. HONEYWOOD. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary ; as it was I that was obhged by your commands. Chairs here. Two of my vei^ good friends, Mr Twitch and Mr Flanigan Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony. MISS RICHLAND. Who can these odd-looking men be ; I fear it is as I was informed. It must be so. [ Aside. BAILIFF [after a pause]. Pretty weather ; very pretty weather for the time of the year, madam. FOLLOWER. Very good circuit weather in the country. VOL. II. I I 162 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. HONEYWOOD. You officers are generally favourites among the ladies. INIy friends, madam, have heen upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The fair should in some measure recompense the toils of the brave ! MISS RICHLAND. Our officers do indeed deserve every favour. The gen- tlemen are in the marine service, I presume, sir? HONEYWOOD. Why, madam, they do — occasionally serve in the fleet, madam. A dangerous service ! MISS RICHLAND. I'm told so. And I owfn it has often surprised me, that while we have had so many instances of bravery there, we have had so few of wit at home to praise it. HONEYWOOD. I grant, madam, that our poets have not written as our soldiers have fought ; but they have done all they could , and Hawke or Amherst could do no more. MISS RICHLAND. I 'm quite displeased when I see a fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. HONEYWOOD. We should not be so severe against dull writers, madam. It is ten to one but the dullest writer exceeds the most rigid French critic who presumes to despise him. FOLLOWER. Damn the French, the parle vous, and all that belongs to them. MISS RICHLAND. Sir! HONEYWOOD. Ha, ha, ha ! honest Mr Flanigan. A true English officer, THE GOO D-N A run ED MAN. 105 madam; he's not contented with l)eating the French, i^ui he will scokl them too. MISS RICHLAND. Yet, Mr Honeywood, thi.s does not convince me but iliat severity in criticism is necessary. It was our first adoptinjj the severity of French taste, that has brought them in tuiii to taste us. BAILIFF. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they devour us. Give monseers but a taste, and 1 11 be damn\l but they come in for a belly full. MISS RICHLAND. Very extraordinary this ! FOLLOWER. But very true. What makes the bread rising? the parle vous that devour us. What makes the mutton fivepence a pound? the parle vous that eat it up. What makes the beer threepence-halfpenny a pot ? HONEYWOOD. Ah! the vulgar rogues; all will be out. [Aside.] Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my word, and cpiite to the; purpose. They draw a parallel, madam, between the mentcxl ttiste and that of our senses. We are injured as much by the French severity in the one, as by French ra- pacity in the other. That's their meaning. MISS RICHLAND. Though I don't see the force of the parallel, yet I 11 own, that we should sometimes pardon books, as we do our friends, that have now and then agreeable •absurdities to recommend them. BAILIFF. That's all my eye. The king only can pardon, as the law savs : for set in case I T. 164 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. HONEYWOOD. I m (juite of voiir opinion, sir. I see the whole drift ol your arynmont. Yes, certainly, our presuming to pardon any work, is arrogatinjj a power that belongs to another. If'all have power to condemn, what writer can be free? BAILIFF. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus can set him free at any time : for, set in case — HONEYWOOD. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. If, madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so careful of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to be equally careful of his dearer jxnt, his fame. FOLLOWER. Ay, but if so be a man's nabb'd, you know — HONEYWOOD. Mr Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, you could not im- prove the last observation. For my own part, I think it conclusive. BAILIFF. As for the matter of that, mayhap — HONEYWOOD. Nay, sir, give me leave in this instiince to be positive. For where is the necessity of c(nisuring works without {jenius, which must shortly sink of themselves? what is it, but aiming an unnecessary blow against a victim already under the hands of justice? BAILIFF. .lustice! O, by the elevens, if you talk about justice, I think I am at home there : for, in a course of law — HONEYWOOD. My dear Mr Twitch, I discern what you'd be at per- fectly ; and I believe the lady must be sensible of the art THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 1G5 Avith which it is introduced. I suppose you perceive the; meaning, madam, of liis course of law. MISS RICIILAM). I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive only that you answer one gentleman before lie has finished, and the other before he has well begun. BAILIFF. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will make the matter out. This here question is about severity, ami justice, and pardon, and the like of they. Now, to explain the thing — HONEY WOOD. O ! curse your explanations. [Aside. Enter SERVANT. SERVANT. Mr Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak w ith you upon earnest business. HONEYWOOD. That's lucky. [Aside.] Dear madam, you'll excuse me and my good friends here, for a few minutes. There are books, madam, to amuse you. Come gentlemen, you know I make no ceremony with such friends. After you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if I must. But I know your natural politeness. BAILIFF. Before and behind, you know. FOLLOWER. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and behind. [Exeunt HONEYWOOD, BAILIFF, and FOLLOWER. MISS RICHLAND. What can all this mean. Garnet? I(U) THE GOOD-NAT UK ED MAN. GAUJnET. Mean, inadani ! wliy, what should it mean, but what Mr Lotty sent you here to see? These people he calls officers, are officers sure enough ; sheriffs officers ; bailiffs, madam. MISS RICHLAND. Ay, it is certailily so. Well, though his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I own there's something very ridiculous in them, and a just punishment for his dis- simulation. GARNET. And so they are. But I wonder, madam, that the lawyer you just employed to pay his debts, and set him free, has not done it by this time. He ought at least to have been here before now. But lawyers are always more ready to get a man into troubles than out of them. Enter SIR WILLIAM HONEY WOOD. SIR WILLI AIM. For Miss Richland to undertake setting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. It has totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. Yet it gives me pleasure to find, that among a number of worthless friendships, he has made one acqui- sition of real value ; for there must be some softer passion on her side that prompts this generosity. Ha ! here before me: Til endeavour to sound her affections. — Madam, as I am the person that have had some demands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope you 11 excuse me, if, before I enlarged him, T wanted to see yourself. MISS RICHLAND. The precaution was very unnecessary, sir. I suppose your wants were only such as my agent had power to satisfy. SIR WILLIAM. I';iillv, mndnm. Rut I was also wdling you should be IHE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 167 liilly apprised of the character of the jjentlemau you iii- teiicletl to serve. MISS RICHLAND. It must come, sir, witli a very ill grace from you. To censme it after what you have done, would look like ma- lice ; and to speak favourably of a character you have op- pressed, would be impeaching ypur own. And sure, his tenderness, his humanity, his universal friendship, may atone for many faults. SIR WILLIAM. That friendship, madam, which is exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally useless. Our bounty, like a droj) of water, disappears when diffused too widely. They, who pretend most to this universal benevolence, are either de- ceivers, or dupes : men who desire to cover their private ill-nature, by a pretended regard for all; or men who, reasoning themselves into false feelings, are more earnest in pursuit of splendid, than of useful virtues. Miss RICHLAND. I am surprised, sir, to hear one, who has probably been a gainer by the folly of others, so severe in his censure of it, SIR WILLIAM. Whatever I may have gained by folly, madam, you see I am willing to prevent your losing by it. MISS RICHLAND. Your cares for me, sir, are unnecessary. I always sus- pect those services which are denied where they are want- ed, and offered, perhaps, in hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my directions have been given, and I insist upon their being complied with. SIR WILLIAM. Thou amiable woman ! I can no longer contain the ex- pressions of my gratitude, my pleasure. You see before 108 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. you one, Avho has been equally ciu^eful of his interest; one, who has for some tijue been a concealed spectiitor of his follies, and only punished in hopes to reclaim him — his uncle ! MISS RICHLAND. Sir William Hone v wood ! You amaze me. How shall I conceal my confusion? I fear, sir, you'll think I have been too forward in my services. I confess I — SIR WILLIAM. Don t make any apologies, madam. I only find myself unable to repay the obligation. And yet, I have been try- ing my interest of late to serve you. Having learnt, ma- dam, that you had some demands upon Government, I have, though unasked, been your solicitor there. MISS RICHLAND. Sir, Tm infinitely obliged to your intentions. But my guardian has employed another gentleman, who assures him of success. SIR WILLI.VM. Who, the important little man that visits here? Trust me, madam, he's quite contemptible among men in power, and utterly unable to serve you. Mr Lofty s promises are much better known to people of fashion, than his person, I assure you. MISS RICHLAND. How have we been deceived ! As sure as can be here he comes. SIR WILLIAM. Does he? Remember I'm to continue unknown. My return to England has not as yet been made public. With what impudence he enters ! THE GOOD-NATUIIED MAN. l(,9 Enter LOFTY. LOFTY. Let the chariot — let mv chariot drive off: I'll visit to his {^race's in a chair. Miss Richland here hefore me ! Punctual, as usual, to the calls of humanity. Tm very sorry, madaiu, thiujjs of this kind should happen, especially to a man I have shown every where, and carried amonjjst us as a par- ticular acquaintance. MLSS RICHLAND. I find, sir, you have the art of makinjj the misfortunes of others vour own. LOFTY. My dear madam, what can a private man like me do? One man can't do every thing ; and then, I do so much in this way every day : — Let me see ; something considerable might be done for him by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried the list. I 11 undertake to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower house, at my own peril. SIR WILLIAM. And, after all, it's more than probable, sir, he might re- ject the offer of such powerful patronage. LOFTY. Then, madam, what can we do ? You know I never make promises. In truth, I once or twice tried to do some- thing with him in the way of business ; but, as I often told his uncle, Sir \Villiam Honey wood, the man was utterly impracticable. SIR^ILLIAM. His uncle ! then that gentleman, I suppose, is a particular friend of yours. LOFTY. Meaning me, sir? — Yes, madam, as I often said, my dear Sir William, you are sensible I would do any thing, as far 170 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. as my poor interest (joes, to serve your family: Jjut wliat can be done? there s no procuring first-rate places for ninth- rate abilities. MISS RICHLAND. I have heard of Sir William Honey wood ; he's abroad in employment : he confided in your judgment, I suppose? LOFTY. Why, yes, madam, I believe Sir William had some rea- son to confide in my judgment; one little reason, perhaps. MISS RICHLAND. Pray, sir, what was it? ♦ LOFTY. Why, madam — but let it go no farther — it was I pro- cured him his place. SIR WILLIAM. Did you, sir? LOFTY. Either you or I, sir. MISS RICHLAND. This, Mr Lofty, was very kind indeed. LOFTY. I did love him, to be sure ; he had some amusing quali- ties ; no man was fitter to be a toast-master to a club, or had a better head. MISS RICHLAND. A better head ? LOFTY. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure he was as dull as a choice spirit : but, hang it, he was grateful, very grateful ; and gra- titude hides a multitude of faults. SIR WILLIAM. He miglil have reason, perhaps. His place is pretty con- siderable, I'm told. THE GOOU-NATURED MAN. 171 LOFTY. A trifle, a mere trifle among iis men of business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fiU up a greater. SIR WILLIAM. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? I'm tokl he's much about my size and figure, sir. LOFTY. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; but then ho wanted a something — a consequence of form — a kind of a — T believe the lady perceives my meaning. MISS RICHLAIND. O, perfectly ; you courtiers can do any thing, 1 see. LOFTY. My dear madam, all this is but a mere exchange ; we do greater things for one another every day. Why, as thus, now : let me suppose you the first lord of the treasury ; you have an employment in you that I want ; I have a place in me that you want ; do me here, do you there : in- terest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it's over. SIR WILLIAM. A thought strikes me. [Aside.] Now you mention Sir Wil- liam Honeywood, madam, and as he seems, sir, an ac- quaintance of yours, you 11 be glad to hear he is arrived from Italy ; I had it from a friend who knows him as well as he does me, and you may depend on my information. LOFTY. The devil he is ! If I had known that, we should not have been quite so well acquainted, [Aside. SIR WILLIAM. He is certainly returned; and as this gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of signal service to us, by intro- 172 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. (hieing mo lo him ; tlicro are som(3 papers relative to your allairs that require dispatch, and his inspection. MISS RICHLAND. This (jentleman, Mr Lofty, is a person employed in my atlairs : 1 know you'll serve us. LOFTY. My dear madam, I live hut to serve you. Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think proper to com- mand it. SIR WILLIAM. That would be quite unnecessary. LOFTY. Well, we must introduce you then. Call upon me — let me see — ay, in two days. SIR WILLIAM. Now, or the opportunity will be lost for ever. LOFTY. W^ell, if it must be now, now let it be. But damn it, that's unfortunate ; my Lord Grig's cursed Pensacola bu- siness comes on this very hour, and I 'm engaged to at- tend — another time — SIR WILLIAM. A short letter to Sir William will do. LOFTY. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a very bad way of going to work ; face to face, that s my way. SIR WILLIAM. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. LOFTY. Zounds! sir, do you pretend to direct me? direct me in the business of office? Do you know me, sir? who am I? THE f;()r)I)-.\ATUKKI) man. 177) MISS lilCULAND. Dear Mrl^oftv, tliis rctjuest is not so much his as mine ; i( my commands — hut you despise my power. LOFTY. Delicate creature! your commands couhl even control a debate at midnijjlit : to a poAver so constitutional, f am all obedience and tranquillity. He shall have a letter: where is my secretary? Duhardieu ! And yet, I protest I don't like this way of doinff business. I think if I spoke first to Sir William — But you will have it so. (KExit wiih MISS RICHLuVND. SIR WILLIAM [aloue]. Ha, ha, ha ! — This too is one of my nephew's hopeful associates. O vanity, thou constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt, serve but to sink us ! Thy false colour- ings, like those employed to heighten beauty, only seem to mend that bloom which they contribute to destroy. I 'm not displeased at this interview : exposing this fellow's impudence to the contempt it deserves, mav be of use to my design ; at least, if he can reflect, it will be of use to himself. Enter JARVIS. SIR WILLIAM. How now, Jarvis, where 's your master, my nephew? JARVIS. At his wit's ends, I believe : he's scarce gotten out of one scrape, but he's running his head into another. SIR WILLIAM. How so ? JARVIS. The house has but just been cleared of the baililTs, and 174 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. now he's again engaging tooth and nail in assisting old Croaker s son to patch up a clandestine match with the young lady that passes in the house for his sister. SIR WILLI A]M. Ever busy to serve others. JARVIS. Ay, any body but himself. The young couple, it seems, are just setting out for Scotland ; and he supplies them with money for the journey. SIR WILLIAM. Money ! how is he able to supply others, who has scarce any for himself? JARVIS. Why, there it is : he has no money, that s true ; but then, as he never said No to any request in his life, he has given them a bill, drawn by a friend of his upon a mer- chant in the city, which I am to get changed ; for you must know that I am to go with them to Scotland myself. SIR WILLIAM. How? JARVIS. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to take a dif- ferent road from his mistress, as he is to call upon an uncle of his that lives out of the way, in order to prepare a place for their reception when they return ; so they have borrow- ed me from my master, as the properest person to attend the young lady down. SIR WILLIAM. To the land of matrimony ! A pleasant journey, Jarvis. JARVIS. Ay, but Tm only to have all the fatigues on't. SIR WILLIAM. Well, it may be shorter, and less fatiguing, than you THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ITf iina{>ine. I know but too much of the younjj lady's family and connexions, whom I have seen abroad. I have also (Hscovered that Miss Richland is not indifferent to my thou(jhtless nephew ; and will endeavour, thougli I fear in vain, to estiblish that connexion. But, come, the letter I wait for must be almost finished ; Til let you further into my intentions in the next room. [Exeimt. 17G THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ACT IV. SCENE— CROAKER'S HOUSE. LOFTY. — Well, sure the devirs in me of late, for running my head into such defiles, as nothing but a genius like my own could draw me from. I was formerly contented to husband out my places and pensions with some degree of frugality; but, curse it, of late I have given away the whole Court Register in less time than they could print the title-page : yet, hang it, why scruple a lie or two to come at a fine girl, when I every day tell a thousand for nothing. Ha ! Honeyw^ood here before me. Could Miss Richland have set him at liberty ? Enter HONEYWOOD. Mr Honey wood, Tm glad to see you abroad again. I find my concurrence was not necessary in your unfortu- nate affairs. I had put things in a train to do your bu- siness ; but it is not for me to say what I intended doing. HONEY WOOD. It was unfortunate indeed, sir. But what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you seem to be acquainted with my misfortune , I myself continue still a stranger to my benefactor. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 177 LOFTY. How ! not know the friend that served you ? HONEYWOOD. Can't guess at the person. LOFTY. Inquire. HONEYWOOD. I have ; but all I can learn is, that he chooses to remain concealed, and that all inquiry must be fruitless. LOFTY. Must be fruitless ! HONEYWOOD. Absolutely fruitless. LOFTY. Sure of that ? HONEYWOOD. Very sure. LOFTY. Then I'll be damn'd if you shall ever know it from me. HONEYWOOD. How, sir? LOFTY. I suppose now, Mr Honeywood, you think my rent-roll very considerable, and that I have vast sums of money to throw away ; I know you do. The world, to be sure, says .such things of me. HONEYWOOD. The world, by what I learn, is no stranger to your ge- nerosity. But where does this tend ? LOFTY. To nothing; nothing in the world. The town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as me the subject of conversation, has asserted, that I never yet patronised a man of merit. VOL. II. 12 17cS THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. IIONEYVVOOD. I have lieard instances to the contrary, even from your- self. LOFTY. Yes, Honeywood; and there are instances to the con- trary, that you shall never hear from myself. HONEYWOOD. Ha ! dear sir, permit me to ask you but one question. LOFTY. Sir, ask me no questions ; I say, sir, ask me no ques- tions ; ril be damn d if I answer them. HONEYWOOD. I will ask no further. My friend ! my benefactor ! it is, it must be here, that I am indebted for freedom, for honour. Yes, thou worthiest of men, from the beginning I suspected it, but was afraid to return thanks ; which, if undeserved, might seem reproaches. LOFTY. I protest I do not understand all this, Mr Honeywood : you treat me very cavalierly. I do assure you, sir — Blood, sir, can't a man be peimitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings, without all this parade ? HONEYWOOD. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action that adds to your honour. Your looks, your air, your manner, all con- fess it. LOFTY. Confess it, sir! torture itself, sir, sliall never bring me to confess it. Mr Honeywood, I have admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don t let us fall out; make me happy, and let this be buried in oblivion. You know I hate osten- tation; you know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always loved to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg THE GOOD-NATUKEU MAN. 179 this may make no kind of distance between us. Come, come, you and I must be more familiar — Indeed we must. HONEYWOOD. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such friendship ? Is there any way? — Thou best of men, can I ever return the oblij^a- tion ? LOFTY. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle ! But I see your heart is labouring to be grateful. You shall be grateliil. It woidd be cruel to disa|)point you. HONEYVVOOD. How ! teach me the manner. Is there any way ? LOFTY. From this moment you're mine. Yes, my friend, you shall know it — Im in love. HONEYWOOD. And can I assist you? LOFTY. Nobody so well. HONEYWOOD. In what manner ? I in all impatience. LOFTY. You shall make love for me. HONEYWOOO. And to whom shall I speak in your favour? LOFTY. To a lady with whom you have great interest, I assure you : Miss Richland. HONEYWOOD. Miss Richland ! LOFTY. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter. 12. 180 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. HONEY WOOD. Heavens! was ever any thing more unfortunate? It is too much to be entUned. LOFTY. rnfortunatc, indeed ! And yet 1 can endure it, till you have opened the affair to her for me. Between ourselves, t think she likes me. Tm not apt to boast, but I think she does. HONEYWOOD. Indeed ! But, do you know the person you apply to? LOFTY. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine : that's enough. To you, therefore, I commit the success of my passion. I '11 say no more, let friendship do the rest. I have only to add, that if at any time my little interest can be of service — but, hang it, 1 11 make no promises — you know my interest is yours at any time. No apologies, my friend. Til not be answered ; it shall be so. [Exit. HONEYWOOD. Open, generous, unsuspecting man ! He little thinks that I love her too ; and with such an ardent passion ! — But then it w as ever but a vain and hopeless one ; my torment, my persecution! What shall I do? Love, friendship; a hopeless passion, a deserving friend ! Love, that has been my tormentor ; a friend, that has, perhaps, distressed him- self to serve me. It shall be so. Yes, I will discard the fondhng hope from my bosom, and exert all my influence ill liis favour. And yet to see her in the possession of an- other! — Insupportable! But then to betray a generous, trusting friend! — Worse, worse ! Yes, I'm resolved. Let me but be the instrument of their hapj)iness, and dien quit a countrv, where I must for ever despair of finding my OAVn. tl«ii. THE GOOD- NAT I] RED MAN. 181 Enter OLIVIA, ami GAUNET, who carries a milliner's box. OLIVIA. Dear me, I wisli this journey were over. No nevv.s ol Jarvis yet? I believe the ohl peevish creature delays purely to vex me. GARNET. why, to he sure, madam, I did hear him say, a little snuhbinjj before marriage would teach you to bear it the better afterwards. OLIVIA. To be gone a full hour, though he had only to get a bill changed in the city ! How provoking ! GARNET. I 11 lay my life, Mr Leontine, that had twice as much to do, is setting off by this time from his inn ; and here you are left behind. OLIVIA. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing. Garnet? GARNET. Not a stick, madam — all's here. Yet I wish you could take the white and silver to be married in. It's the worst luck in the world, in any thing but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs, of our town, that was married in red ; and, as sure as eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she had a miff before morning. OLIVIA. No matter. I 'm all impatience till we are out of the house. GARNET. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the w^edding ring! — The sweet little thing — I don t think it would go on my 18-2 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. little fin{jc'r. And Avhat if I put in a gentleman's night-cap, in case ot" necessity, madam? — But here's Jarvis. Enter JARVIS. OLIVIA. O Jarvis, are you come at last? We have been ready this half hour. Now let's be going. Let us fly! JARVIS. Ay, to Jericho ; for we shall have no going to Scotland this bout, I fancy. OLIVIA. How! what's the matter? JARVIS. Money, money, is the matter, madam. We have got no money. What the plague do you send me of your fool's errand for? iNIy master's bill upon the city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; INIis Garnet may pin up her hair with it. OLIVIA. Undone ! How could Honey wood serve us so ? W^hat shall we do ? Can't we go without it? JARVIS. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scotland Mdthout money ! Lord, how some people understand geography ! W^e might as well set sail for Patagonia upon a cork-jacket. OLIVIA. Such a disappointment ! What a base insincere man w^as * your master, to serve us in this manner ! Is this his good- nature ? JARVIS. Nay, don't tidk ill of my master, madam. I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but myself. GARNET. Bless us! now I think out, madam, you need not be under an V uneasiness : I saw Mr Leontine receive forty gui- >-T THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 18." neas fiom his father just l)efore ho set out, and he can't yet have left the inn. A short letter will reach him there. OLIVIA. Well remembered. Garnet; 111 write immediately. How\s this ! lUcss me, my hand trembles so, I can t wiite a word. Do you write, Garnet ; and, upon second thouj^ht, it will be better from you. GARNET. Truly, madam, I write and indite but poorly. I never was cute at my learning. l>ut I'll do what I can to please you. Let me see. All out of my own head, I suppose ! OLIVIA. Whatever you please. GARNET [Writing]. Muster Croaker — Twenty (guineas, madam? OLIVIA. Ay, twenty will do. GARNET. At the bar of the Talbot till called for. Expedition — Will be blown up — All of a flame — Quick dispatch — Cupid, the little god of love. — I conclude it, madam, with Cupid : I love to see a love-letter end like poetiy. OLIVIA. Well, well, what you please, any thing. But how shall we send it? I can trust none of the servants of this family. GARNET. Odso, madam, Mr Honeywood's butler is in the next room : he's a dear, sweet man ; he'll do any thing for me. JARVIS. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a-day. OLIVIA. No matter. Fly, Garnet; any body we can trust will 184 THE GOOD-NATUKED MAN. do. [Fxit Garuet] Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothing more to interrupt us ; you may take up the things, and carry them on to the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis? JARVIS. Soft and lair, young lady. You that are going to he married, think things can never he done too fast ; but we, that are old, and know M'hat we are about, must elope me- thodically, madam . OLIVIA. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be done over again JARVIS. My life for it, you would do them ten times over. OLIVIA. Why will you talk so? If you knew how unhappy they make me JARVIS. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once just as unhappy when I was going to be married myself. 1 11 tell you a story about that OLIVIA. A story! when Tin all impatience to be away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature ! JARVIS. W^ell, madam, if we must march, why we will march, that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we have still forgot one thing ; we should never travel without — a case of good razors, and a box of shavinjj, powder. But no matter, I bebeve we shall be pretty well shaved by the way. [Going. Enter GARNET. GARNET. Undone, iiiuloue, madam. Ah, ^Ir .Tarvis, vou said THE GOOD-INATURED MAN. 185 right enou{;h. As sure as death, Mr Honey wood's rogue of a drunken hutler dropped the letter before he went ten yards from the door. There's ohl Croaker has just pieked it up, and is this moment reading it to himself in the hall. OLIVIA. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. GARNET. No, madam ; don t be uneasy, he can make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure he looks as if he was bioke loose from Bedlam about it, but he can't find what it means for all that. O lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors ! OLIVIA. Then let us leave the house this instant, for fear he should ask further questions. In the mean time. Garnet, do you write and send off just such another. [Exeunt. Enter CROAKER. CROAKER. Death and destruction ! Are all the horrors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at me? Am I only to be singled out for gunpowder-plots, combustibles and confla- gration? Here it is — An incendiary letter dropped at my door. « To Muster Croaker, these with speed." Ay, ay, plain enough the direction : all in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp as the devil. « With speed." O, confound your speed. But let me read it once more. [Reads. j « Muster Croaker, as sone as yowe see this, leve twenty guineas at the bar of the Talboot tell called for, or yowe and yower experetion will be all blown up.» Ah, but too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. Blown up ! murderous dog ! All blown up ! Heavens ! what have I and my poor family done, to be all blown up? [Reads.] « Our pockets are low, and monev we must have." Ay, 186 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. there's the reason; they'll blow iis up, because they have got low pockets. [Ueads.] « It is but a short time you have to consider ; for if this takes wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame. » Inhuman monsters! blow us up, and then burn us ! The earthcpiake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. [Reads.] « Make quick dispatch, and so no more at present. But may Cupid, the little god of love, go with you wherever you go.» The little god of love! Cupid, the little god of love go with me ! — Go you to the devil, you and your little Cupid together. I'm so frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, blazing brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder ! We shall be all burnt in our beds ; we shall be all burnt in our beds. Enter Miss RICHLAND. Miss RICHLAND. Lord, sir, what's the matter? CROAKER. Murder's the matter. We shall be all blown up in our beds before morning. MISS RICHLAND. I hope not, sir. CROAKER. ^Vhat signifies what you hope, madam, when I have a certificate of it here in my hand ? Will nothing alarm my family? Sleeping and eating, sleeping and eating is the only work from morning till night in my house. My in- sensible crew could sleep though rocked by an earthquake, and fry beef-steaks at a volcano. MISS RICHLAND. liut, sir, you have alarmed them so often already ; we THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 187 have notliinjif but cartlupiaki's, famines, playucs, and mad dogs, from year s end to year s end. You remember, sir, it is not above a month ago, you assured us of a conspiracy among the bakers to poison us in our bread ; and so kept the whole family a week upon potatoes. CROAKKR. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the enemy without? Here, John, Nicodcmus, search the house. Ijook into the cellars, to see if there be any com- bustibles below ; and above, in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the window^s. Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn out in the yard, to play upon the house in case of necessity. [Exit. MISS RICHLAND [Alone]. What can he mean by all this? Yet why should I in- quire, when he alarms us in this manner almost every day. But Honeywood has desired an interview with me in private. What can he mean? or rather, what means this palpitation at his approach? It is the first time he ever showed any thing in his conduct that seemed pai^ticular. Sure he cannot mean to but he's here. Enter HONEYWOOD. HONEYWOOD. I presumed to solicit this interview, madam, before I left town, to be permitted MISS RICHLAND. Indeed ! Leaving town, sir? HONEYWOOD. Yes, madam ; perhaps the kingdom. I have presumed, I say, to desire the favour of this interview, — in order to disclose something which our long friendship prompts. And yet my fears 188 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. MISS RICHLAND. His fears ! \Vliat are his fears to mine ! [Aside] We have indeed heen lonjj acquainted, sir ; very long. If I remem- ber, our first meeting was at the French ambassador's. — Do you recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon my complexion there? HONEYWOOD. Perfectly, madam : I presumed to reprove you for paint- ing ; but your warmer blushes soon convinced the com- pany, that the colouring was all from nature. MISS RICHLAND. And yet you only meant it in your good-natured way, to make me pay a compliment to myself. In the same manner you danced that night with the most awkward woman in company, because you saw nobody else would take her out. HONEYWOOD. Yes ; and was rew^arded the next night, by dancing with the finest w oman in company, whom every body wished to take out. MISS RICHLAND. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I fear your judgment has since corrected the errors of a first impression. We generally show to most advantage at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, that put all their best goods to be seen at the windows. HONEYWOOD. Tlie first impression, madam, did indeed deceive me. I expected to find a woman with all tlie faults of conscious flattered beauty : I expected to find her vain and insolent. But every day has since taught me, that it is possible to possess sense without pride, and beauty without affectation. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 180 MISS RICHLAND. This, sir, is a style very unusual with Mr Honey wood ; and I should be glad to know why he thus attempts to in- crease that vanity, which his own lessons have taught me to despise. HONEYWOOD. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our long friendship, I presumed I might have some right to offer, without of- fence, what you may refuse, without offending. MISS RICHLAND. Sir ! I beg you VI reflect : though, I fear, I shall scarce have any power to refuse a request of yours, yet you may be precipitate : consider, sir. HONEYWOOD. I own my rashness ; but as I plead the cause of friend-' ship, of one who loves — Don t be alarmed, madam — who loves you witli the most ardent passion, whose whole hap- piness is placed in you MISS RICHLAND. 1 fear, sir, I shall never find whom you mean, by this description of him. HONEYWOOD. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points him out; though he should be too humble himself to urge his pretensions, or you too modest to understand them. MISS RICHLAND. Well ; it would be affectation any longer to pretend ignorance ; and I will own, sir, I have long been preju- diced in his favour. It was but natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he seemed himself ignorant of its value. HONEYWOOD. I see she alwavs loved him. [Aside] I find, madam, vou re 190 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. already sensible of his worth, his passion. How happy is my friend, to be the favourite of one with such sense to dis- tinjpiish merit, and such beauty to reward it. MISS RICHLAND. Your friend, sir ! What friend? HONEYW^OOD. My best friend— my friend Mr Lofty, madam. MISS RICHLAND. He, sir ! HONEYWOOD. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what your warmest wishes might have formed him ; and to his other qualities he adds that of the most passionate regard for you. MISS RICHLAND. Amazement ! — No more of this, I beg you, sir. HONEYWOOD. I see your confusion, madam, and know how to inter- pret it. And, since I so plainly read the language of your lieart, shall 1 make my friend happy, by communicating your sentiments ? MISS RICHLAND. By no means. HONEYWOOD. Excuse me, I must ; I know you desire it. MISS RICHLAND. Ml- Honeywood, let me tell you, that you wrong my sen- timents and yourself. When I first applied to your friend- ship, I expected advice and assistance ; but now, sir, I see that it is in vain to expect happiness from him who has been so bad an economist of his own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship who ceases to be a friend to himself. [Exit. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 1<)1 HONEYWOOD. How is this ! she has confessed she loved him, and yet she seemed to part in displeasure. Can I have done any thing to reproach myself with? No; [ believe not: yet after all, these things should not be done by a third person : I should have spared her confusion. My friendship carried me a little too far. Enter CROAKER, with the letter in his hand, and MRS CROAKER. MRS CROAKER. Ha! ha! ha! And so, my dear, it's your supreme wish that I should be quite wretched upon this occasion ? ha ! ha ! CROAKER [Mimicking]. Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it's your supreme plea- sure to give me no better consolation ? MRS CROAKER. Positively, my dear ; what is this incendiary stuff and trumpery to me ? our house may travel through the air like the house of Loretto, for aught I care, if I am to be miser- able in it. CROAKER. Would to Heaven it were converted into a house of cor- rection for your benefit. Have we not every thing to alarm us ? Perhaps this very moment the tragedy is beginning. MRS CROAKER. Then let us reserve our distress till the rising of the cur- tain, or give them the money they want, and have done with '.hem. CROAKER. Give them my money 1 — And pray, what right have they to my money ? MRS CROAKER. And prav, what right then have you to my good- humour? 192 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. CROAKER. And so your good-humour advises me to part with my money? ^Vhy then, to tell your good-humour a piece of my mind, I'd sooner part with my wife. Here's Mr Ho- neywood, see what he'll say to it. My^dear Honey wood, look at this incendiary letter dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror ; and yet lovey here can read it — can read it, and laugh. MRS CROAKER. Yes, and so Avill Mr Honeywood. CROAKER. If he does, I 11 suffer to be hanged the next minute in the rogue's place, that's all, MRS CROAKER. Speak, INIr Honeywood ; is there any thing more foolish than my husband's fright upon this occasion? HONEYWOOD. It Mould not become me to decide, madam; but doubt- less, the greatness of his terrors now will but invite them to renew their villany another time. MRS CROAKER. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. CROAKER. How, sir ! do you maintain that I should lie down under such an injury, and show, neither by my tears nor com- plaints, that I have something of the spirit of a man in me ? HONEYWOOD. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make the loudest com- j)laints, if you desire redress. The surest way to have redress, is to be earnest in the pursuit of it. CROAKER. Ay, whose opinion is he of now? THF. OOOD-NATUTIED MAN. ][)7y MRS CROAKKR. Ijiit don t you think lliat lan^liing oil our fears is the hest way? IIONEYWOOD. What is the best, madam, few can say ; but I 11 maintain it to be a very wise way. CROAKER. But we're talking]; of the best. Surely the best way is to face the enemy in the field, and not wait till he plunders us in our very bed-chamber. HONEYWOOD. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's a very wise way too. MRS CROAKER. But can any thing be more absurd, than to double our distresses by our apprehensions, and put it in the power of every low fellow, that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling, to torment us ? HONEYWOOD. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. CROAKER. How! would it not be more absurd to despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake? HONEYWOOD. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. CROAKER. Then you are of my opinion? HONEYWOOD. Entirely. i\IRS CROAKER. And you reject mine? HONEYWOOD. Heavens forbid, madam ! No sure, no reasoning can be VOL. IF. I 3 19:5 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. more just than yours. We ouj^ht certainly to despise ma- lice if we cannot oppose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repose as the highwayman s pistol. MRS GROAKEH. O! then vou think I m quite right^ HONEYWOOD. Perfectly right. CROAKER. A plague of plagues, we can t be both right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be off. MRS CROAK EK. Certainly, in two opposite opinions, if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can t be perfectly right. HONEYWOOD. And why may not both be right, madam? Mr Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, and you in waiting the event with good-humour? Prav, let me see the letter again. I have it. This letter requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of the Talbot Inn. If it be indeed an incendiarv letter, what if you and I, sir, go there ; and, when the writer comes to be paid for his expected booty, seize him? CROAKER. My dear friend, it's the very thing; the very thing. While I walk by the door, vou shall plant yourself in am- bush near the bar; burst out upon the miscreant like a masked l>attery ; extort a confession at once, and so hang him up by surprise. HONEYWOOD. Yes, but I would Jiot choose to exercise too much se- verity. It is my maxim, sir, that crimes generally punish themselves. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 195 CROAKER. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I suppose? [Ironically. HONEYWOOD. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. CROAKER. Well, well, leave that to my own benevolence. HONEYWOOD. Well, I do; but remember, that universal benevolence is the first law of nature. [Exeunt HONEYWOOD and MRS CROAKER. CROAKER. Yes ; and my universal benevolence w ill hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a hydra. i3. 19G THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ACT V. SCENE— AN INN. Enter OLIVIA, JARVIS. OLIVIA. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. Now, if the post-chaise were ready — JARVIS. The horses are just finishing their oats; and, as they are not going to be married, they choose to take their own time. OLIVIA. You are for ever giving wrong motives to my impa- tience. JARVIS. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must take their own time; besides, you don't consider we have got no answer from our fellow-traveller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr Leontine, we have only one way left us. OLIVIA. What way? JARVIS. The way home again. OLIVIA. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, and nothing sliali induce me to break it. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 197 JAR VIS. Ay; resolutions are well kept, when they jump wiili inclination. However, Til go hasten things without. And I'll call, too, at the bar, to see if any thing should be left for us there. Don't be in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall go the faster, 1 promise you. [k^u jar vis. Enter LANDLADY. LANDLADY. What! Solomon, why don't you move? Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. — Will nobody answer? To the Dolphin ; quick. The Angel has been outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship call, madam ? OLIVIA. No, madam. LANDLADY. I find as you re for Scotland , madam , — But tiiat's no business of mine ; married, or not married, I ask no ques- tions. To be sure we had a sweet little couple set olffrom this two days ago for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew froth from a full pot. And the young lady so bash- ful, it was near half an hour before we could get her to. finish a pint of raspberry between us. OLIVIA. But this gentleman and I are not going to be married, I assure you. LANDLADY. May-be not. That's no business of mine; for certain, Scotch marriages seldom turn out. There was, of my own knowledge. Miss Macfag, that married her father's foot- man — Alack-a-day, she and her husband soon parted, and now keep separate cellars in Hedge-lane. 198 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. OLIVIA. A very pretty picture of what lies before me ! [Aside. Enter LEONTINE. LEONTINE. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you were out of danger, was too great to be resisted. I could not help coming to see you set out, though it exposes us to a discovery. OLIVIA. May every thing you do prove as fortunate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cruelly disappointed. Mr Honey wood's bill upon the city has, it seems, been pro- tested, and we have been utterly at a loss how to proceed. LEOXTINE. How ! an offer of his own too. Sure, he could not mean to deceive us ? OLIVIA. Depend upon his sincerity ; he only mistook the desire for the power of serving us. But let us think no more of it. I believe the post-chaise is ready by this. LANDLADY. Not quite yet ; and, begging your ladyship's pardon, I (ion t think your ladyship quite ready for the post-chaise. The north road is a cold place, madam. I have a drop in the house of as pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a thimble-full to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure, the last couple we had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, I sent them both away as good-natured — Up w^ent the blinds, round went the wheels, and drive away post-boy was the w ord. Enter CROAKER. CROAKER. Well, while my friend Honey wood is upon the post of THE GOOD-NATUIIED MAN. 199 (lan^jor at the bar, it must be my business to have an eye about me here. 1 think I know an incendiary's look ; for wherever the devil makes a purchase, he never fails to set his mark. Ha! who have we here ? My son and daugh- ter ! \Vhat can they be doing here ? LANDLADY. I tell you, madam, it wUl do you good ; I thiak I know by this time what's good for the north road. It s a raw night, madam. — Sir — LEONTINE. Not a drop more, good madam. I should now take it as a greater favour, if you hasten the horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself. LANDLADY. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon ! are you all dead there? Wha, Solomon, I say ! [Exit, bawling. OLIVIA. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun in fear, should end in repentance. — Every moment we stay increases our danger, and adds to my apprehensions. LEONTINE. There's no danger, trust me, my dear; there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with honour, and kept my father, as he promised, in employment till we are out of danger, nothing can interrupt our journey. OLIVIA. I have no doubt of Mr Honeywood s sincerity, and even his desires to serve us. My fears are from your father s suspicions. A mind so disposed to be alarmed without a cause, will be but too ready when there's a reason. LEONTINE. why let him when we are out of his power. But believe me, Olivia, you have no great reason to dread his resent- 200 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. inent. His repining temper, as it does no manner of injury to himself, so will it never do harm to others. He only frets to keep himself employed, and scolds for his private amusement. OLIVIA. I don't knoAV that ; hut, I 'm sure, on some occasions it makes him look most shockingly. CROAKER [discovering himself]. How does he look now ? — How does he look now? OLIVIA. Ah ! LEONTINE. Undone. CROAKER. How do I look now? Sir, I am your very humhle ser- vant. Madam, I -am yours. What, you are going off, are you? Then, first, if you please, take a word or two from me with you before you go. Tell me first where you are going ; and when you have told me that, perhaps I shall know as little as I did before. LEONTINE. If that be so, our answer might but increase your dis- pleasure, without adding to your information. CROAKER. I want no information from you, puppy : and you loo, good madam, what answer have you got? Eh ! [a cry without, Stop him] I think I heard a noise. My friend Honeywood without — has he seized the incendiary? Ah, no, for now I hear no more on't. LEONTINE. Honeywood without ! Then, sir, it was Mr Honeywood that directed you hither. rilR GOOD-NATURED MAN. 201 CROAKER. No, sir, it was Mr Honeywood conducted lue liitlier. LEONTINE. Is it possible? ■ • CROAKER. Possible ! Why he's in the house now, sir • more anxious about me than my own son, sii\ LEONTINE. Then, sir, he's a villain. CROAKER. How, sirrah! a villain, because he takes most care of your father? Til not bear it. I tell you Til not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the family, and TU have him treated as such. LEONTINE. I shall study to repay his friendship as it deserves. CROAKER. Ah, ro{;ue, if you knew how earnestly he entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means to detect them, you would love him as I do. [A cry without, Stop him] Fire and fury ! they have seized the incendiary : they have the vil- lain, the incendiary in view. Stop him! stop an incen- diary! a murderer! stop him! [£"•' OLIVIA. O, my terrors ! What can this tumult mean? LEONTINE. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr Honeywood's sin- cerity. But we shall have satisfaction : he shall give me instant satisfaction. OLIVIA. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value my esteem or my happiness. Whatever be our fate, let us not add guilt to our misfortunes — Consider that our innocence Avill 202 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. sliortly bo all that we have left us. You must for^jive him. LEONTINE. Forgive him ! Has he uot in every instance betrayed us? Forced to borrow money from him, which appears a mere * trick to delay us ; promised to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, and here brought him to the very scene of our escape ? OLIVIA. Don t be precipitate. We may yet be mistaken. Enter POSTBOY, dragging in JARVIS ; HONEYWOOD entering soon after. POSTBOY. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. Here is the in- cendiary dog. I in entitled to the reward ; I 11 take my oath I saw him ask for the money at the bar, and then run for it. HONEYWOOD. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. [Discovering his mistake.] Death! wliat's here? Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia ! What can all this mean ? JARVIS. Why, 1 11 tell you what it means : that I was an old fool, and that you are my master — that's all. HONEYWOOD. Confusion ! LEONTINE. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word with me. After such baseness, I wonder how you can venture to see the man you have injured? HONEYWOOD. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honour — LEONTINE. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not continue to aggra- THE GOOD-JNATURED MAN. 205 vate baseness by bypocrisy. J know you, sir, \ know you. IIONEYWOOD. Why wont you bear me? By all tbat's just, I know not — LEONTINE. Hear you, sir, to wbat purpose? I now see tbroujjb all your low arts; your ever complyiufj witb every opinion; your never refusing any request: your friendsbip's as common as a prostitute's favours, and as fallacious ; all tbese, sir, have long been contemptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. HONEYWOOD. Ha ! contemptible to the world ! that reaches me. [Aside. LEONTINE. All the seeming sincerity of your professions, I now find, were only allurements to betray ; and all your seem- ing regret for their consequences, only calculated to cover the cowardice of your heart. Draw, villain ! Enter CROAREU, out of breath. CROAKER. Where is the villain? Where is the incendiary? [Seizing the Postboy.] Hold him fast, the dog: he has the gallows in his face. Come, you dog, confess ; confess all, and hang yourself. POSTBOY. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle me for ? CROAKER [beating him]. Dog, do you resist? do you resist? POSTBOY. Zounds! master, Vm not he; there's the man that we 204 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. lhoii{]lit was tlie rogue, and turns out to be one of the comjDauy. CROAKER. How! HONEYWOOD. Mr Croaker, we have all been under a strange mistake here ; I find there is nobody guilty ; it was all an error ; entirely an error of our own. CROAKER. And I say, sir, that you 're in an error ; for there 's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned Jesuitical, pestilential plot, and I must have proof of it. HONEYWOOD. Do but hear me. CROAKER. What, you intend to bring em off, I suppose? Til hear nothing. HONEYWOOD. Madam, you seem at least calm enough to hear reason. OLIVIA. Excuse me. HONEYWOOD. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to you. JARVIS. What signifies explanations when the thing is done? HONEYWOOD. Will nobody hear me? Was there ever such a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice ! [To ihe Postboy] My good friend, I believe, you'll be surprised when I assure you — POSTBOY. Sure me nothing — I'm sure of nothing but a good beating. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 205 CROAKER. Come then you, madam, if you ever hope for any favour or for{jiveness, tell me smcerely all you know of this affair. OLIVIA. Unhappily, sir, I 'm but too mucli the cause of your sus- picions : You see before you, sir, one that with false pre- tences has stepped into your family to betray it; not your dau{;hter — CROAKER. Not my daughter? OLIVIA. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver — who — support me, I cannot — HONEYWOOD. Help, she's going; give her air. CROAKER. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the air ; I would not hurt a hair of her head, whosever daughter she may be — not so bad as that neither. Exeunt all but CROAKER. CROAKER. Yes, yes, all's out; I now see the whole affair: my son is either married, or going to be so, to this lady, whom he imposed upon me as his sister. Ay, certainly so ; and yet I don't find it afflicts me so much as one might think. There's the advantage of fretting away our misfortunes beforehand, we never feel them when they come. Enter MISS RICHLAND and SIR WILLIAM. SIR WILLIAM. But how do you know, madam, that my nephew in- tends setting off from this place? 206 THE GOOD-NATLRED MAN. MISS RICHLAND. iNIy maid assured me he was come to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to leave the kingdom suggested the rest. But what do I see ! my guardian here before us ! Who, my dear sir, could have expected meet- ing you here? to what accident do we owe this pleasure? CROAKER. To a fool, I believe. Miss RICHLAND. But to what purpose did you come ? CROAKER. To play the fool. MISS RICHLAND. But with whom? CROAKER. With greater fools than myself. MISS RICHLAND. Explain. CROAKER. Why, Mr Honeywood brought me here, to do nothing, now I am here ; and my son is going to be married to I don't know who, that is here : so now you are as wise as I am. MISS RICHLAND. Married! to whom, sir? CROAKER. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her to be; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter she is, I know no more than the man in the moon. SIR WILLIAM. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and, though a stranger, yet you shall find nie a friend to your family. It will be enough, at present, to assure you, that both in point of THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 207 hirth and fortune the younj; liuly is at least your son's equal, liein^ lelt by her father, Sir James Woodville — CROAKER. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the west? SIR WILLIAM. Being left by him, I say, to the care of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to secure her fortune to him- self, she was sent to France, under pretence of education ; and there every art was tried to fix her for life in a con- vent, contrary to her inclinations. Of this I was informed upon my arrival at Paris ; and, as I had been once her fa- ther s friend, I did all in my power to frustrate her guar- dian's base intentions. I had even meditated to rescue her from his authority, when your son stepped in with more pleasing violence, gave her liberty, and you a daughter. CROAKER. But I intend to have a daughter of my own choosing, sir. A young ladv, sir, whose fortune, by my interest with those who have interest, will be double what my son has a right to expect. Do you know Mr Lofty, sir ? SIR WILLIAM. Yes, sir; and know that you are deceived in him. But step this Avav, and 111 convince you. [CROAKER and SIR WILLIAM seem to confer. 1=:nter HONEYVVOOD. TIONEYWOOD. Obstinate man, still to persist in his outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now begin to grow contemptible even to myself. How have I sunk by too great an assi- duity to please ! How have I over-taxed all my abilities, lest the approbation of a single fool should escape me ! But all is now over; I have survived my reputation, my for- 208 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. tune , my iriendships, and nothinjj remains henceforward for me but solitude and repentance. MISS RICHLAND. Is it true, Mr Honeywood, that you are setting off, without tiiking leave of your friends? The report is, that you are quitting England : Can it be? HONEYWOOD. Yes, madam ; and though I am so unhappy as to have fallen under your displeasure, yet, thank Heaven ! I leave you to happiness ; to one who loves you, and deserves your love ; to one who has power to procure you affluence, and generosity to improve your enjoyment of it. MISS RICHLAND. And are you sure, sir, that the gentleman you mean is what you describe him ? HONEYWOOD. I have the best assurances of it — his serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest happiness, and that is in your power to confer. As for me, weak and wavering as I have been, obliged by all, and incapable of serving any, what happiness can I find but in solitude ? what hope, but in being forgotten ? MISS RICHLAND. A thousand ! to live among friends that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be permitted to oblige you. HONEYWOOD. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. Inferiority among strangers is easy ; but among those that once were equals, insupportable. Nay, to show you how far my resolution can go, I can now speak with calmness of my former lollies, my vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess, that, among the number of my other pre- sumptions, I had the insolence to think of loving you. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 209 Yes, madam, while I was pleading the passion of another, my heart was tortured with its own. But it is over ; it was unworthy our friendship, and let it be forgotten. MISS RICHLAND. You amaze me ! HONEYWOOD. But you'll forgive it, I know you will ; since the con- fession should not have come from me even now, hut to convince you of the sincerity of my intention of — never mentioning it more. [Goin^. Miss RICHLAND. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha ! he here — Enter LOFTY. LOFTY. Is the coast clear? None but friends? I have followed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence ; but it goes no farther, tilings are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a certain board ; your affair at the trea- sury will be done in less than — a thousand years. Mum ! MISS RICHLAND. Sooner, sir, I should hope. LOFTY. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper hands, that know where to push and where to parry ; that know how the land lies — eh, Honeywood? MISS RICHLAND. It has fallen into yours. LOFTY. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is done. It is done, I say — that's all. I have just had as- surances from Lord Neverout, that the claim has been examined, and found admissible. Quietus is the word, madam. VOL. II. I 4 210 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. HONEYWOOD. But how? his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten days. LOFTT. Indeed ! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must have been most damnably mistaken. I had it of him. MISS RICHLAND. He ! why Sir Gilbert and his family have been in the country this month. LOFTY. This month ! it must certainly be so — Sir Gilbert's letter did come to me from Newmarket, so that he must have met his lordship there ; and so it came about. I have his letter about me; TU read it to you. [Taking out a large bundle.] That's from Paoli of Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. — Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King of Poland? — Honest Pon [Searching] O, sir, what are you here too? I 11 tell you what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir ^Villiam Honevwood, you may return it. The thing will do without him. SIR WILLIAM. Sir, I have delivered it; and must inform you, it was re- ceived with the most mortifying contempt. CROAKER. Contempt ! Mr Lofty, what can that mean ? LOFTY. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You'll find it co;ne to something presently. SIR WILLIAM. Yes, sir; I believe you'll be amazed, if after waiting some time in the antechamber, after being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing servants, I was at last THE G OOD- N AT U H K OMAN. 211 assured, that Sir William Honeywood knew no such per- son, and I must certainly have been imposed upon. LOFTY. Good! let me die; very good. Ha! ha! ha! CROAKER. Now, for my life, I can't find out half the goodness of it. LOFTY. You can't. Ha ! ha ! CROAKER. No, for the soul of me ! I think it was as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to another. LOFTY. And so you cant find out the force of the message? Why, I was in the house at that very time. Ha ! ha ! It was I that sent that very answer to my own letter. Ha ! ha ! CROAKER. Indeed ! How ? Why ? LOFTY. In one word, things between Sir W^illiam and me must be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, T side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery. CROAKER. And so it does, indeed ; and all my suspicions are over. LOFTY. Your suspicions ! What, then, you have been suspect- ing, you have been suspecting, have you? ^Ir Croaker, you and T were friends ; we are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's over; I say, it's over. CROAKER. As I hope for your favour I did not mean to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discomposed. 14. 212 THE GOOD-iNATUKED MAN. LOFTY. Zounds ! sir, but I am discomposed, and will be discom- posed. To be treated thus ! Who am I? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the St James's? have I been chaired at Wildman s, and a speaker at Mer- chant-Tailor's Hall? have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the print-shops ; and talk to me of suspects? CROAKER. My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but ask- ing pardon? LOFTY. Sii-, I will not be pacified — Suspects! Who am I? To be used thus ! Have I paid court to men in favour to serve my friends ; the lords of the treasury. Sir William Honey- wood, and the rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects? W^ho am I, I say, who am I? SIR WILLIAM. Since, sir, you are so pressing for an answer, I'll tell you who you are : — A gentleman, as well acquainted with politics as with men in power; as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with modesty ; with lords of the trea- sury as with truth; and with all, as you are with Sir W"il- liam Honey wood. I am Sir William Honey wood. [Discovering his ensigns of the Bath. CnOARER. Sir ^Villii^^l Honeywood ! HONLYWOOD. Astonishment! my uncle ! [Aside. LOFTY. So then, my confounded genius has been all this time only leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the window. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 213 CIIOAKEH. What, Mr Importance, and are these your works? Sus- pect you! You, who have been dreaded l)y the ins and outs ; you, who have had your hand to addresses, and your head stuck up in print-shops, if you were served right, you should have your head stuck up in a pillory. LOFTY. Ay, stick it w here you will ; for, by the lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks at present. SIR WILLIAM. Well, Mr Croaker, I hope you now see how incapable this gentleman is of serving you, and how little Miss llich- land has to expect from his influence. CROAKER. Ay, sir, too well I see itj and I cant but say I have had some boding of it these ten days. So Tm resolved, since my son has placed his affections on a lady of mode- rate fortune, to be satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard of another ]Mr Lofty in helping him to a better. SIR WILLIAM. I approve your resolution ; and here they come to receive a confirmation of your pardon and consent. Enter MRS CROAKER, JARVIS, LEONTINE, aud OLIVIA. MRS CROAKER. Where's my husband? Come, come, lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here has been to tell me the whole affair; and I say, you must forgive them. Our own was a stolen match, you know, my dear ; and we never had any reason to repent of it. CROAKER. I wish we could both say so. However, this gentleman, Sir William Honeywood, has been beforehand with you iu 214 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. obtaining; their pardon. So, if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, 1 tliink we can tack them together without crossing] the Tweed for it. [Joining their hands. LEONTINE. How blest and unexpected ! What, w hat can we say to such goodness? But our future obedience shall be the best reply. And as for this gentleman, to whom we owe — SIR WILLIAM. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. [Turning to honeywood.] Yes, sir, you are surprised to see me ; and I own that a desire of correcting your follies led me hither. I saw with indigna- tion the errors of a mind that only sought applause from others ; that easiness of disposition which, though inclined to the right, had not courage to condemn the wrong. I saw with regret those splendid errors, that still took name from some neighbouring duty ; your charity, that was but injus- tice ; your benevolence, that was but weakness ; and your friendsliip, but credulity. I saw with regret great talents and extensive learning only employed to add sprightliness to error, and increase your perplexities. I saw your mind with a thousand natuial charms ; but the greatness of its beauty served only to heighten my })ity for its prostitution. HONEYWOOD. Cease to upbraid me, sir : I have for some time but too strongly fi'lt the justice of your reproaches. But there is one way still left me. Yes, sir, I have determined this very hour to quit for ever a place where I have made myself the volunt;uy slave of all, and to seek among strangers that fortitude which may give strength to the mind, and mar- shal all its dissipated virtues. Yet ere I depart, permit me to solicit favoui- for this gentleman ; who, notwithstanding THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 215 what has happened, has laid me under the most signal obli- gations. INlr Lolty — LOFTY. Mr Iloneywood, I 'm resolved upon a reformation as well as you. I now begin to find that the man who first in- vented the art of speaking truth, was a much cunninger fellow than I thought him. And to prove that I design to speak truth for the future, I must now assure you, that you owe your iate enlargement to another; as, upon my soul, [ had no hand in the matter. So now, if any of the com- pany has a mind for preferment, he may take my place ; I'm determined to resign. [Exit. HONEY WOOD. How have I been deceived ! SIR WILLIAM. No, sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer friend, ibr that favour — to Miss Richland. Woidd she complete our joy, and make the man she has honoured by her friend- ship happy in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest as the welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me. MISS RICHLAND. After what is past it would be but affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which I find was more than friendship. And if my entreaties can- not alter his resolution to quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not power to detain him. [Giving her hand. HONEYWOOD. Heavens ! how can I have deserved all this ? How ex- press my happiness, my gratitude? A moment like this overpays an age of apprehension. CROAKER. Well, now I see content in every face ; but Heaven send we be all better this day three months ! 216 THE GOOD-NATUHED MAN. SIR WILLIAM. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect yourself. He who seeks only for applause from without, has all his happiness in another's keeping. HONEY WOOD. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors ; my va- nity, in attempting to please all by fearing to offend any; my meanness, in approving folly lest fools should disap- prove. Henceforth, therefore, it shall be my study to re- serve my pity for real distress ; my friendship for true merit ; and my love for her, who first taught me what it is to be happy. EPILOGUE.' SPOKEN BY MRS BULKLEY. As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure ; Thus, on the stage, our play-wrighjs still depend For epilogues and prologues on some friend. Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, And make full many a bitter pill go down. Conscious of this, our bard has gone about. And teased each rhyming friend to help him out. An epilogue, things can t go on without it ; It could not fail, would you but set about it. Young man, cries one (a bard laid up in clover), Alas ! young man, my writing days are over ; Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I ; Your brother doctor there, perhaps, may try. What, I ! dear sir, the doctor interposes : What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ! No, no, I Ve other contests to maintain ; To-night I head our troops at W^arwick-lane. ' The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What is here offered, owes all its success to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it. 218 EPILOGUE. Go ask your manager — Who, me ! Your pardon ; Tliose things are not our forte at Co vent-Garden. Our author s friends, thus placed at happy distance, Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. As some imhappy wight at some new play, At the pit door stands elbowing away, While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug ; His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; But not a soul will budge to give him place. Since then, unhelp'd our bard must now conform « To 'bide the pelting of this pitUess storm,)) Blame where you must, be candid where you can, And be each critic the Good-Natured Man. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER-, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. COMEDY: AS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN. FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR MDCCLXXII. DEDICATION. TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. Dear Sir, By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to comphmeut you as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of man- kind also to inform them, that the greatest w^it may be found in a character without impairing the most unaffected piety. 1 have, particularly, reason to thank you for your par- tiality to this performance. The undertaking a Comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous; and IMr Colman, who saw this piece in its various sta.'jes, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public ; and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful. I am, Dear Sir, Your most sincere Friend and Admirer, (3liver Goldsmith. PROLOGUE. I)Y DAVID GARRIGK, ESQ. Enter MR WOODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief to his eye$. Excuse me, sirs, I pray, — I can't yet speak, — T m crying now — and have been all the week. « Tis not alone this mourning suit, » good masters : « I \'e that within » — for which there are no plasters ! Pray, would you know the reason why Tm crying? The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying ! And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; For, as a j)layer, 1 can't srpieeze out one drop : I am undone, that's all — shall lose my bread — I d ratlier, but that's nothing — lose my head. When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, SfiUTER and I shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed! Poor iNed and 1 are dead to all intents ; We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments ! Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, We now and then take down a hearty cup. EPILOGUE. 227) What sliail we do? — If Comedy forsake us, They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us. Ikit why can't I be moral? — Let me try — My heart thus pressing — fix' d my face and eye — With a sententious look that nothing means, (Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes) Thus I begin — « All is not gold that glitters ; Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. When ign Vance enters, folly is at hand : Learning is better far than house and land. Let not your virtue trip ; who trips may stumble, And virtue is not virtue if she tumble. » I give it up — morals won't do for me ; To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. One hope remains — hearing the maid was ill, A Doctor comes this night to show his skill. To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion. He, in Five Draughts prepared, presents a potion : A kind of magic charm — for be assured. If you will swallow it, the maid is cured : But desperate the Doctor, and her case is, If you reject the dose, and make wry faces ! This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, No pois'nous drugs are mix'd in what he gives. Should he succeed, you 11 give him his degree ; If not, within he will receive no fee ! The college, you, must his pretensions back, Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack. DRAMATIS PERSONiE. MEN. SIR CHARLES >L\RLOW Mr Gardner. YOUKG :\L\RLOW (his Son) Mr Lewis. HARDCASTLE Mr Shdter. HASTINGS Mr Dubellamy. TONY LUMPKIN Mr Quick. DIGGORY . Mr Saunders. WOMEN. MRS HARDCASTLE Mrs Green. MISS IL\RDCASTLE Mrs Bclkley. MISS NEVILLE Mrs Kniveton. MAID Miss Willems. LANDLORD, SERVANTS, etc. etc. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. ACT I. SCENE— A CHAMBER IN AN OLD-FASHIONED HOUSE. Enter MRS HARDCASTLE and MR HARDCASTLE. MRS HARDCASTLE. I VOW, Mr Hardcastle, youVe very particular. Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little? There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mi'S Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter, HARDCASTLE, Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them the whole year, I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket, VOL. II, 1 5 226 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. MRS HARDCASTLE. Ay, your times were fine times indeed ; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an okl rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, biM that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripple- gate, the lame dancing-master ; and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of jSIarlbo- rough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery. HARDCASTLE. And I love it. I love every thing that's old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines; and, I be- lieve, Dorothy, [taking her hand] you'll owu I liavc been pretty fond of an old wife. MRS HARDCASTLE. Lord, Mr Hardcastle, you're for ever at your Dorothys and your old wives. You may be a Darby, but I 11 be no Joan, I promise you. I'm not so old as you d make me, by more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of that. HARDCASTLE. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty makes just fifty and seven. MRS HARDCASTLE. It's false, Mr Hardcastle; I was but twenty when I was brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr Lumpkin, my first husband; and lie's not come to years of discretion yet. HARDCASTLE. Nor over will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely, MRS HARDCASTLE. No mattei'. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My SUE STOOPS TO COXC^UER. 227 son is not to live by his learnin{>. F don't think u hoy uants much learninjj to spend fifteen inindred a-Year. HARDCASTLE. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition of tricks and mischief. MRS HARDCASTLE. Humour, my dear; nothing but humour. Come, Mr Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour. HARDCASTLE. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the footman's shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popped my bald head in Mrs Friz- zle's face. MRS HARDCASTLE. And am I to blame? The poor boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him ? HARDCASTLE. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle. No, no ; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to. MRS HARDCASTLE. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we shan'^have him long among us. Any body that looks in his face may see he's consumptive. HARDCASTLE. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. MRS HARDCASTLE. He coughs sometimes. HARDCASTLE. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. if). 228 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. MRS IIARDCASTLE. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. HARDCASTLE. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking trumpet — [tony hallooing behind the scenes. ] — O, there he goes — a very consumptive figure, truly. Enter TONY, crossing the stage. MRS HARDCASTLE. Tony, where are you going, my charmer? Won't you give papa and I a little of your company, lovey ? TONY. I'm in haste, mother; I cannot stay. MRS HARDCASTLE. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear ; you look most shockingly. TONY. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's some fun going forward. HARDCASTLE. Ay ; the alehouse, the old place ; I thought so. MRS HARDCASTLE. A low, paltry set of fellows. TONY. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins the excise- man. Jack Slang the horse- doctor, little Aminjdab that grinds the music box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. MRS HARDCASTLE. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at least. TONY. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind ; hut I can't abiue to disappoint myself. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 229 MRS HARDCASTLE [detainins liini] You shan't go. TONY. I will, I tell you. MRS HARDCASTLE. I say you shan't. TONY. We'll see which is strongest, you or I. [Exit, haitiing licr out. HARDCASTLE [aione]. Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense and discretion out of doors ? There s my pretty darling Kate ! the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. By living a year or two in town, she's as fond of gauze and French frippery as the best of them. Euter MISS HARDCASTLE. HARDCASTLE. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! dressed out as usual, my Kate. Goodness ! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age, that the indigent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain. MISS HARDCASTLE. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner; and in the evening I put on my housewife's dress to please you. HARDCASTLE. Well, remember I insist on the terms of our agree- ment; and, by the by, 1 believe I shall have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. 230 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. MISS HARDCASTLE. I protest, sir, I don't comprehend your meaning. HAKDGASTLE. Then to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young gentleman I have chosen to be your husband from town this very day. I have his father s letter, in which he informs me his son is set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly after. MISS HARDCASTLE. Indeed ! I Avish I had known something of this before. Bless me, how shall I behave? It's a thousand to one 1 shan't like him ; our meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing of business, that I shall find no room for friend- ship or esteem. HARDCASTLE. Depend upon it, child, I never will control your choice ; but Mr Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old friend. Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment in the service of his country. I am told he's a man of an excel- lent understanding. MISS HARDCASTLE. Is he? HARDCASTLE. Very generous. MISS HARDCASTLE. I believe I shall like him. HARDCASTLE. Young and brave. MISS HARDCASTLE. I'm sure I shall like him. SHE STOOPS TO CONQHEl?. 251 HARDCASTLH. And very handsome. MISS HARDCASTLE. My dear ])apa, say no more, [kissing his hami] lie 's mine ; I II have him. HARDCASTLE. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most hashliil and reserved young fellows in all the world. MISS HARDCASTLE. Eh! you have frozen me to death again. That word reserved has undone all the rest of his accomplislnuents. A reserved lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious hushand. HARDCASTLE. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a hreast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature in his character that first struck me. MISS HARDCASTLE. He must have more striking features lo catch me, I promise you. However, if he he so young, so handsome, and so every thing as you mention, I believe hell do still. I think ril have him. HARDCASTLE. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It's more than an even wager he may not have you. Miss HARDCASTLE. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so? Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indifference, I 11 only break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer. HARDCASTLE. Bravely resolved ! In the mean time I 11 go prepare the 252 SHE STOOPS TO COINQUEK. servants for his reception : as we seldom see company, they want as much training as a company of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit. xMISS HARDCASTLE [alone]. Lud, this news of papa's puts me all in a flutter. Young, hand.some ; these he put last ; but I put them foremost. Sensible, good-natured; I like all that. But then reserved and sheepish, that's much against him. Yet cfin't he be cured of his timidity, by being taught to be proud of his wife ? Yes ; and can't I — But I vow I m disposing of the husband before I have secured the lover. Enter MISS NE\1LLE. MISS HARDCASTLE. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, Con- stance, how do I look this evening? Is there any thing whimsical about me ? Is it one of my well-looking days, child? am I in face to-day? MISS NEVILLE. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look again — bless me ! — sure no accident has happened among the canary birds or the gold fishes. Has your brother or the cat been med- dling? or has the last novel been too moving? Miss HARDCASTLE. No ; nothing of all this. I have been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I have been threatened with a lover. MISS NEVILLE. And his name — MISS HARDCASTLE. Is Marlow. MISS NEVILLE. Indeed ! SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 235 MISS HARDCASTLE. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. MISS NEVILLE. As I Uve, the most intimate friend of Mr Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him when we lived in town. MISS HARDCASTLE. Never. MISS NEVILLE. He's a very singular character, I assure you. Among women of reputation and virtue he is the modestest man alive ; but his acquaintance give him a very different cha- racter among creatures of another stamp : you understand me. MISS HARDCASTLE. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able to ma- nage him. What shall I do? Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to occurrences for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear ? has my mother been court- ing you for my brother Tony as usual ? MISS NEVILLE. 1 have just come from one of our agreeable tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting off her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection. MISS HARDCASTLE. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of it, I 'm not surprised to see her unwilhng to let it go out of the family. MISS NEVILLE. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But, at any rate, if my dear 234 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hastings be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. However, 1 let her supjDose that I am in love with her son ; and she never once dreams that my af- fections are fixed upon another. MISS HARDCASTLE. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so. Miss NEVILLE. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and Tm sure would wish to see me married to any body but himself. 15ut my aunt's bell rings lor our afternoon s walk round the improvements. A I Ions! Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. Miss HARDCASTLE. « Would it were bed-time, and all were well. » [Exeunt. SCENE— AN ALEHOUSE ROOM. Several shabby Fellows with punch and tobacco. TONY at the liead of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mallet in his hand. OMNES. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo ! FIR.ST FELLOW. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The Squire is going to knock himself down for a song. OMNES. Ay, a song, a song ! TONY. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this alehouse, the Three Pigeons. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 235 SONG. Let schoolmasters puzzle their bi-ain, With {jrammar, and nonsense, and learning, Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives genus a better discerning. Let them bra(j of their heathenish {jods, Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, Their quis, and their quaes, and their quods, They're all but a parcel of pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. When methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful, I '11 wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinful. 15ut when you come down with your pence. For a slice of their scurvy religion, I '11 leave it to all men of sense, But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Then come put the jorum about. And let us be merry and clever, Our hearts and our liquors are stout, Here 's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. Let some cry up woodcock or hare. Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons; But of all the gay birds in the air. Here 's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. OMNES. Bravo! bravo! 256 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. FIRST FELLOW. The 'Squire has got spunk in liim. SECOND FELLOW. I loves to hear him sing, hekeays he never gives us no- thing that's low. THIRD FELLOW. damn any thing that's low, I cannot hear it. FOURTH FELLOW. The genteel thing is the genteel thing at anv time : if so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly. THIRD FELLOW. 1 like the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What, though I am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of tunes ; « Water Parted, » or « The minuet in Ariadne. » SECOND FELLOW. What a pity it is the Squire is not come to his own. It would be well for all the publicans within ten miles round of him. TONY. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. Td then show what it was to keep choice of company. SECOND FELLOW. O he takes after his own father for that. To be sure old 'Squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole county. TONY. Ecod, and when Tm of age, I'll be no bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 237 {jray mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, Avhat's the matter? Enter LANDLORD. LANDLORD. There be t\\^ gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They have lost tneir way upo' the forest ; and they are talk- ing something about ]VIr Hardcastle. TONY. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that's coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners ? LANDLORD. I believe they may. They look woundily like French- men. TONY. Then desire them to step this way, and 111 set them right in a twinkling. [Exit Landlord] Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and 111 be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt Mob. TONY [alone]. Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and hound this half-year. Now if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But then I'm afraid — afraid of what? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a-year, and let him frighten me out of that if he can. Enter LANDLORD, conducting MARLOW and HASTINGS. MARLOW. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it ! W^e were told it was but forty miles across the country, anil Ave have come above threescore. 238 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEil. HASTINGS. And all, Marlow, Irom that unaccountable reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more frequendy on the way. MARLOW. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet, and often stand the chance of an unmannerlv answer. HASTINGS. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer. TONY. No offence, gentlemen. But Tm told you have been in- quiring for one Mr Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are in? HASTINGS. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you for informa- tion. TONY. Nor the way you came ? HASTINGS. No, sir; but if you can inform us TONY. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first diing I have to inform you is, that — you have lost your way. MARLOW. We wanted no ghost to tell us diat. TONY. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place from whence you came? SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEI',. 239 MARLOW. That's not necessary toward directing us where we are to go. TONY. No offence; but question for question is all fair, you know. — Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcasde a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, and a pretty sou? HASTINGS. We have not seen the gentleman ; but he has the family you mention. TONY. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, troUoping, talkative maypole — the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that every body is fond of? MARLOW. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful ; the son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother s apron-string. TONY. He-he-hem ! — Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won t reach Mr Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. HASTINGS. Unfortunate ! TONY. It's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mi- Hardcastle's ! [ Winking upon the Landlord. ] ]Mr Hardcastlc's, of Quagmirc Marsli, you understand me. LANDLORD. Master Hardcastle's ! Lock-a-daisy, my masters, you're 240 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. come a deadly deal wrong! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash- Lane. MARLOW. Cross down Squash-Lane LANDLORD. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came to four roads. MARLOW. Come to where four roads meet ! TONY. Ay, but you must be sure to take only one of them. MARLOW. O, sir, you're facetious. TONY. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways, till you come upon Crack-skull Common : there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward till you come to Farmer Murrain s barn. Coming to the farmer s barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old mill. MARLOW. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out the longitude ! HASTINGS. What's to be done, Marlow? MARLOW. This house promises but a poor reception ; though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. LANDLORD. Alack, master, we have but one spare bed in the whole house. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 211 TONY. And to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodgers already. [After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted. ] I have hit it. Don't you think, Stingo, our landlady could accom- modate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with — three chairs and a bolster ? HASTINGS. I hate sleeping by the fire-sid(^. MARLOW. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. TONY. You do, do you? — then, let me see — what if you go on a mile farther, to the Buck's Head ; the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole county ? HASTINGS. O ho ! so we ha\'e escaped an adventure for this night, however. LANDLORD [ apart to Tony ]. Sure, you ben t sending them to your father's as an inn, be you? TONY. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. [To them. ] You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a large old house by the road side. You'll see a pair of large horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. HASTINGS. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss the Avay? TONY. No, no : but I tell you, though, the landlord is rich, and going to leave off business ; so he wants to be thought a VOL. II. I 6 2i2 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. gentleman, saving your presence, he! he! he! Hell he for giving you his company ; and, ecod, if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace. LANDLORD. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole country. %ARLOW. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say? TONY. No, no; straight forward. I'll just step myself, and show you a piece of the way. [To ihe Landlord] Mum ! LANDLORD. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant damn'd mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEU. 245 ACT II. SCENE— AN OI.D-FASIIIONED HOUSE. Enter HARDCASTLE, followed by three or four awkward Scrvanis. HARDCASTLE. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to good company, without ever stirring from home. OMNES. Ay, ay. HARDCASTLE. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. OMNES. No, no. HARDCASTLE. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at tlic side-table ; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the j)lough, aie to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with your hands in your j)ockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead you. 244 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. See how Diggory carries his hands. They re a httle too stiff, indoed, hut that's no great matter. Diccor.Y. Ay, mind how 1 iiokl tliem. I learned to hold my hands this way, whou 1 was upon drill for the militia. And so heing upon drill HARDCASTLE. Yon must not he so talkative, Diggory. You must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking ; yon must see us drink, and not think of drinking ; you must see us eat, and not think of eating. DIGGORY. By the laws, your worship, that's parfectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees veating going forward, ecod he's always wishing for a mouthful himself. HARUCASTLE. Blockhead! Is not a belly-full in the kitchen as good as a belly-full in the parlour ? Stay your stomach with that reflection. DIGGORY. Ecod, I thank your worship. Til make a shift to stay my •Stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry. MARDCASTLE. Diggory, you are too talkative. — Then, if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if yon made part of the company. DIGGORY. Then ecod your worship must not tell the story of ould Grouse; in the gun-room : I cant help laughing at that — he! he! he! — for the soul of me. We have laughed at ih:it these twenty years — ha! ha! ha! sm-: STOOPS to conquei{. 245 HAllDCASTLE. 11a ! ha ! lia I The story is a good one. Weil, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that — hut still rememhcr to he attentive. Suppose one of the company should rail for a glass of wine, how will you hehave? A glass of wine, sir, if you please — [toDiggory] — eh, why don t you move? DIGGORY. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the catahles and drinkahlcs brought upo' the tiible, and then I m as bauld as a lion. HARDCASTLE. What, will nobody move? FIRST SERVANT. I 'm not to leave this place. SECOND SERVANT. Tm sure it's no place of mine. THIRD SERVANT. Nor mine, for sartain. DIGGORY. Wauns, and Tm sure it canna be mine. HARDCASTLE. ^ You numskulls ! and so while, like your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. O vou dunces ! I find I must begin all over again Out don t I hear a coach drive into the yard? To your posts, you blockheads. TU go in the mean time and give my old friend's son a hearty reception at the gate. [V.\a HARDCASTLE. DIGGORY. By the elevens, luy place is gone quite out of my head. ROGER. I know that my place is to be every where. 246 SHE STOOPS TO GO^QUEM. FIRST SEllVANT. Where the devil is mine? SECOND SERVANT. My place is to be nowhere at all ; and so 1 ze go about my business. [Exeunt Servanis, running about as if frighted, different ways. Enter SERVANT with candles, showing in MARLOW and HASTINGS. SERVANT. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! This way. HASTINGS. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room and a good fire. Upon my Avord, a very well-looking house ; antique but creditable. MARLOW. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good house-keeping, it at last comes to levy contrdiutions as an inn. HASTINGS. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly. MARLOW. Travellers, George, must pay in all places ; the only dif- ference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries, in bad inns you are fleeced and starved. HASTINGS. You have lived very much among them. In truth, I have been often surprised, that you who have seen so much of the world, widi your natural good sense, and your many SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEU. 247 opportunities, could never yet acquire a requisite share oi" assurance. MARLOW, The Englishman's malady. But tell me, Georjje, whore could I have learned that assurance you talk ol? INIy life has been chiefly spent in a colle{],e or an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach men confidence. I don't knovv^ that I was ever familiarly ac- quainted with a single modest woman, except my mother — But among females of another class, you know HASTINGS. Ay, among them you are impudent enough of all con- science. MARLOW. They are of us, you know. HASTINGS. But in the company of women of reputation 1 never saw such an idiot, such a trembler ; you look for all the Avorld as if you wanted an opportunity of stealing out of the room. MARLOW. Why, man, that's because I do want to steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I don't know how, a single glance from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. An impudent fellow may counter- feit modesty, but I 11 be hanged if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence. HASTINGS. If you could but say half the fine things to them that I have heard you lavish upon the bar- maid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker :\IARL()W. why, George, I can't say fine things to them ; they freeze, 248 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. they petrily me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning; mountiiin, or some such bajjatelle ; but to me, a modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is the most tremen- dous object of the whole creation. HASTINGS. Ha I ha 1 ha ! At this rate, man, how can you ever expect to marrv ? MARLOW. Never; unless, as amony kings and princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an eastern bridegroom, one were to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and at last to blunt out the broad staring question of. Madam, will you marry me? No, no, that's a strain much above me, I assure you. HASTINGS, ^ P^ty you- Ijut how do you intend behaving to the lady you are come down to visit at the request of your father? MARLOW. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow very low ; answer yes or no to all her demands — But for the rest, I don't think I shall venture to h)ok in her face till I see my fathers again. HASTINGS. Tm surprised that one who is so warm a friend can be so cool a lover. MARLOW. To be explicit, n»y dear Hastings, my chief inducement down was to be instrumental in forwarding your happi- ness, not my own. Miss Neville loves you, the Ikmily don't know you ; as my friend ycu are sure of a reception, and let lionoui- do the rest. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEH. 249 HASTINGS. My dear INIarlow ! lint 1 11 suppress the emotion. \Vcre I a wretch, meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you should be the last man in the world I would apply to foj- assistance. But Miss Neville's person is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her deceased father s consent, and her own inclination . MARLOW. Happy man ! You have talents and art to captivate any woman. I 'm doom'd to adore the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. This stammer in my ad- dress, and this a\\ kward unprepossessing visage of mine, can never permit me to soar above the reach of a milliner's prentice, or one of the duchesses of Drury-lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt us. Enter HARDCASTLE. HARDCASTLE. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr Marlow ? Sir, you are heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of. MARLOW [aside]. He has got our names from the servants already. — [To HAUDCASTLE.] We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. — [To HASTINGS] I havc been thinking, George, of chang- ing our travelling dresses in the morning. I am groAvn confoundedly ashamed of mine. HARDCASTLE. I beg, Mr Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house. HASTINGS. I fancy, Charles, vou're right : the first blow is hall the 250 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Ixitlle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold. HARDCASTLE. Mr Marlow — IVIr Hastings — gentlemen — pray he under no restraint in this house. This is Liherty-hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please here. MARLOW. Yet, George, if w'e open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to re- serve the embroidery to secure a retreat. HARDCASTLE. Your talking of a retreat, IVlr Marlow , puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when we went to besiege De- nain. He first summoned the garrison MARLOW\ Don t you think the ventre (Tor waistcoat will do with the plain brown ? HARDCASTLE. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men HASTINGS. I think not : brown and yellow mix but very poorly. HARDCASTLE. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men MARLOW. The girls like finery. HARDCASTLE. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him — You must have heard of SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 251 George Brooks — I'll pawn my dukcclom, says ho, but 1 take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So MARLOW. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch in the mean time ; it would help us to carry on the siege with vigour. HARDCASTLE. Punch, sir! [Aside.] This is the most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. MARLOW. Yes, sir, piuich. A glass of warm punch, after our jour- ney, will be comfortable. This is Liberty-hall, you kno\^^ HARDCASTLE. Here 's a cup, sir. AURLOW [aside]. So this fellow, in his Liberty-hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. HARDCASTLE [taking the cup]. I hope youUl find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you 11 own the ingre- dients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. [Driuks. ^URLOW [aside]. A very impudent fellow this ! but he s a character, and I'll humour him a little. Sir, my service to you. [Drinks. HASTINGS [aside]. I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and for- gets that he\s an innkeeper before he has learned to be a gentleman. MARLOW. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I .sup- pose vou have a good deal of business in this part of the 252 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEK. country. Warm work, now and then, at elections, 1 sup- pose. IIARDCASTLE. No, sir, I liave lony given that work over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there is no business « for us that sell ale. » HASTINGS. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find. IIARDCASTLE. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted my- self about the mistakes of government, like other people ; but finding myself every day grow more angry, and the government growing no better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about Hyder Allv, or Ally Cawn, than about xVlly Croaker. Sir, my service to you. HASTINGS. So that with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with receiving your friends ^vithin, and amusing them witii- out, you lead a good pleasant bustling life of it. HARDCASTLE. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the differences of the paiish are adjusted in this very parlour. MARLOW [after drinkirij;]. And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in \Vestiniuster-hall. IIARDCASTLE. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. MARLOW [aside]. Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an innkeeper s philosophy. HASTINGS. So then, like an experienced general, you attack them SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 253 on every C[iiarter. If von find their reason manageable, you attack it with your philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher. [Drinks. IIARDCASTLE. Good, very good, thank yon ; ha ! ha ! ha ! Your gene- ralship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. MARLOW. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe it's almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper? IIARDCASTLE. For supper, sir! [Aside] Was ever such a request to a man in his own house ! MARLOW. Yes, sir, supper, sir ; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you. HARDCASTLE [aside]. Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. [To him] Why really, sir, as for supper, I can t well tell. My Doro- thy and the cook-maid settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them. MARLOW. You do, do you ? HARDCASTLE. Entirely. By the by, I believe they are in actual con- sultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen. MARLOW. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy-council. It's a wav I have got. When I travel 1 always choose to 254 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offence I hope, sir? HARDCASTLE. O no, sir, none in the least; yet I don't know how ; our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we send for her, she might scold us all out of the house, HASTINGS. Let's see your list of the larder then. I ask it as a fa- vour. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare. ^L\RLOW [to HARDCASTLE, who looks at them with surprise]. Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too. HARDCASTLE. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper : I believe it's drawn out. — Your manner, Mr Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it. HASTINGS [aside]. All upon the high rope ! His uncle a colonel ! we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the bill of fare. MARLOW [perusing]. What's here ? For the first course ; for the second course ; for the dessert. The devil, sir, do you think we have brought down the whole joiner's company, or the corpora- tion of licdford, to eat up such a supper? Two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do. HASTINGS. But let's hear it. MARLOW [reading]. For the first course at the top, a pig, and prune sauce. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUET?. 255 HASTINGS, Damn your pi(j, I say. MARLOW. And damn your prune sauce, say t. IIAIIDGASTLE. And yet, gendemen, to men that are hungry, pig with prune sauce is very good eating. MARLOW. At the bottom a calFs tongue and brains. HASTINGS. Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir, I don't like them. MARLOW. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves. HARDCASTLE [aside]. Their impudence confounds me. [To them.] Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there any thing else you wish to retrench or alter, gen- tlemen? MARLOW. Item. A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a Flo- rentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff — taff — taffety cream. HASTINGS. Confound your made dishes ; I shall be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador s table. I 'm for plain eating. HARDCASTLE. I 'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like, but if there be any thing you have a particular fancy to MARLOW. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that 256 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and properly taken care of. HARDCASTLE. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step. MARLOW. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you must excuse me, I alwavs look to these things myself. HARDCASTLE. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head. MARLOW. You see I'm resolved on it. [{Aside.] A very troublesome fellow this, as I ever met with. HARDCASTLE. Well, sir, I 'm resolved at least to attend you. [Aside.] This may be modern modesty, but I never saw any thing look so like old-fashioned impudence. [Exeunt MARLOW and HARDCASTLE. HASTINGS [alone]. So I find this fellow's civilities begin to grow trouble- some. But who can be angry at those assiduities which are meant to please him? — Ha! what do I see? Miss Neville, by all that's happy! Enter MISS NEVILLE. MLSS MEVILLE. INIy dear Hastings ! To what unexpected good fortune, to what accident, am I to ascribe this happy meeting? HASTINGS. Rather let me ask the same question, as I could never have hoped to meet my dearest Constance at an inn. SUE STOOPS TO CONQUEll. 957 MISS NEVILLE. All inn! sure you mistake: my aunt, my guardian, lives here. Wliat could induce you to think this house an inn? HASTINGS. My friend, Mr Marlow, with whom I came down, and I, have been sent here as to an inn, Ite^sure you. A young fellow, whom we accidentally met at a house hard by, directed us hither. MISS NEVILLE. Certainly it must be one of my hopeful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often ; ha ! ha ! ha ! HASTINGS. He whom your aunt intends for you? he of whon^I have such just apprehensions? Miss NEVILLE. You have nothing to fear from him, 1 assure you. You d adore him if you knew how heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and actually begins to think she has made a con(juest. HASTINGS. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, my Constance, I have just seized this happy opportunity of my friend's visit here to get admittance into the family. The horses that carried us down are now fatigued with their journey, but they'll soon be refreshed ; and then, if my dearest girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, where even among slaves the laws of marriage ai'e respected. MISS NEVILLE. I have often told you, that though ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune behind with reluctance. The greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India VOL. II. I 7 258 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. director, and chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some time persuading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I 'm very near succeeding. The instant they are put into my possession, you shall find me ready to make them and myself yours. HASTINGS. Perish the bauble|JH Your person is all I desire. In the mean time, my friend Marlow must not be let into his mistake. I know the strange reserve of his temper is such, that if abruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit the house before our plan was ripe for execution. MISS NEVILLE, But how shall we keep him in the deception? Miss H^rdcastle is just returned from walking \ what if we still continue to deceive him? This, this way [ They confer. Enter MARLOW. MARLOW. The assiduities of these good people tease me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me alone, and so he claps not only himself but his old- fasliioned wife on my back. They talk of coming to sup with us too ; and then, I suppose, we are to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the family. — What have we got here? HASTINGS. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate you ! — The most fortunate accident! — Who do you think is just alighted ? MARLOW. Cannot guess. HASTINGS. Our mistresses, boy. Miss Ilardcastle and Miss Neville. HUE STOOPS TO GOiNQUEU. 259 Give me leave to introduce Miss Constance Neville to your acquaintance. Happenin(j to dine in the ncighbourliood, they called on their return to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just stepped into the next room, and will be back in an instant. Wasn't it lucky? eh ! MARLOW [aside]. I have been mortified enough of all conscience, and liere comes something to complete my embarrassment. HASTINGS. Well, but wasn't it the most fortunate thing in the world ? xMARLOW. Oh ! yes. Very fortunate — a most joyful encounter — But our dresses, George, you know are in disorder — What if we should postpone the happiness till to-morrow ? — To- morrow at her own house — It will be every bit as conve- nient — and rather more respectful — To-morrow let it be. [Offering to go. MISS NEVILLE. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will displease her. The disorder of your dress will show the ardour of your impatience. Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will permit you to see her. MARLOW. O ! the devil ! how shall I support it ? — Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You are to assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly ridiculous. Yet, hang it! ril take courage. Hem! HASTINGS. Pshaw, man! it's but the first plunge, and all's over. She's but a woman, you know. MARLOW. And of all women, she that I dread most to encounter. •7- 260 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; Eater MISS HARDCASTLE, as returned from walking. HASTINGS [introducing them]. Miss llardcastle. Mr Marlow. Tm proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem each other. mSS HARDCASTLE [aside]. Now for meeting my modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his own manner. [After a pause, in which he appears very uneasy and disconcerted. ] I 'm glad of yOUr Safe arrival, sir. — I in told you had some accidents by the way. MARLOW. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but should be sorry — madam — or rather glad of any accidents — that are so agreeably concluded. Hem! HASTINGS [to him]. You never spoke better in your whole life. Keep it up, and ril insure you the victory. MISS HARDCASTLE. I m afraid you flatter, sir. You, that have seen so much of the finest company, can find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the country. MARLOW [gathering courage]. I have lived, indeed, in the world, madam; but I have kept very little company. I have been but an observer upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it. MISS NEVILLE. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last. HASTINGS [to him]. Cicero never spoke better. Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for ever. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 201 MARLOW [lo him]. Hem! stand by me then, and when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set me up ayain, MISS HARDCASTLE. An observer, hke you, upon hfe were, I fear, disagree- ably employed, since you must have had much more to censure than to approve. MARLOW. Pardon me, madam. I was always m illiny to be amused. The folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. HASTINGS [to him]. Bravo, bravo. Never spoke so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr Marlow are going to be very good company. I believe our being here will but embarrass the interview. MARLOW. Not in the least, Mr Hastings. We like your company of all things. [To him. ] Zounds! George, sure you won't go ? how can you leave us ? HASTINGS. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we '11 retire to the next room. [To him.] You don't consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt. Miss HARDCASTLE [after a pause]. Hut you have not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir: the ladi(;s, I should hope, have employed some part of your addresses. MARLOW [relapsing into timidity]. Pardon me, madam, I — 1 — I — as yet have studied — only — to — deserve them. 262 SHE STOOPS TO CONQL EU. MISS HAHDCASTLE. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain them. MARLOW. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse only with the more grave and sensible part of the sex. — But I 'm afraid I grow tiresome. MISS HARDCASTLE. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing I like so much as grave conversation myself; I could hear it for ever. Indeed I have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever admire those light airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. MARLOW. It's a disease of the mind, madam. In the variety of tastes there must be some who, wanting a re- 1 ish for um — a — um . MISS HARDCASTLE. I understand you, sir. There must be some who, want- ing a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what they are incapable of tasting. MARLOW. My meaning, madam, but mfinitely better expressed. And I can t help observing a MISS HAUDCASTLE [aside]. Who could ever suppose this fellow impudent upon such occasions! [To iiim j You were going to observe, sir MARLOW. I was observing, madam — I protest, madam, I forget what I was going to observe. MISS HARDCASTLE [asklej. I vow and so do I. [t., him. i Von were observing, sir, SHE STOOI'S TO CONQUEIJ. 263 that in tliis age of hypocrisy — som(!thing about hypocrisy, sir. MARLOW. Yes, inadam. In this age of hypocrisy there are few who upon strict inquiry do not — a — a — a — MISS HARDCASTLE. I understand you perfectly, sir. MARLOW [aside]. Egad! and that's more than I do myself MISS HARDCASTLE. You mean that in this hypocritical age there are few that do not condemn in public what they practise in ])ri- vate, and think they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it. MARLOW. True, madam ; those who have most virtue in their mouths, have least of it in their bosoms. But Fm sure I tire you, madam. MISS HARDCASTLE. Not in the least, sir; there's something so agreeable and spirited in your manner, such life and force — pray, sir, go on. MARLOW. Yes, madam. I was saying that there aie some occasions — when a total want of courage, madam, destroys all the and ptits us upon a — a — a — MISS HARDCASTLE. I agree with you entirely ; a want of courage upon some occasions assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. MARLOW. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam — But I see 264 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world. MISS HARDCASTLE. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. MARLOW. Yes, madam, I was But she beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honour to attend you? MISS HARDCASTLE. Well then, I 11 follow. MARLOW [aside]. This pietty smooth dialogue has done for me. [Exit. MISS HARDCASTLE [ alone ]. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there ever such a sober, sentimental interview? I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, is pretty well too. He has good sense, but then so buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could teach him a little confidence it would be doing somebody that I know of a piece of service. But who is that somebody? — That, faith, is a question I can scarce answer. [Exit. Enter TONY and MISS NEVILLE, followed by MRS HARDCASTLE and HASTINGS. TONY. What do you follow me for. Cousin Con? I wonder youVe not ashamed to be so very engaging. MISS NEVILLE. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one 's own relations, and not be to blame. TONY. Ay, but 1 know what sort of a relation you want to make SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 265 hk; tliou(>li ; but it won't do. I t(;ll you Cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you '11 keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship. [ Slic follows, coquettln}^ liim to the back scene. MRS HARDCASTLE. Well! I vow, Mr Hastings, you arc very entertaining. There is nothing in the world I love to talk of so much as London, and the lashions, though I was never there myself. HASTINGS. Never there ! You amaze me ! From your air and man- ner, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St James's, or Tower Wharf. MRS HARDCASTLE. O! sir, you're only pleased to say so. We country per- sons can have no manner at all. I'm in love with the town, and that serves to raise me above some of our neighbouring rustics ; but who can have a manner, that has never seen the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places where the nobility chiefly resort? All I can do is^to enjoy London at second-hand. I take care to know evecy tete-a-Ute from the Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked-Lane. Pray how do you like this head, Mr Hastings? HASTINGS. Extremely elegant and (/e^o^e'e, upon my word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, i suppose? MRS HAl'.DCASTLE. i protest, I dressed it myself from a print in the Ladies Memorandum-book for the last year. HASTINGS. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box at the play-house would draw as many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a city ball. 266 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. MRS HARDCASTLE. I VOW, since inoculation began, there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman ; so one must dress a little parti- cular, or one may escape in the crowd. HASTINGS. Rut diat can never be your case, madam, in any dress. [ Bowing. MRS HARDCASTLE. Yet, what signifies my dressing when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as Mr Hardcastle : all I can say M^ill never argue down a single button fiom his clothes. I have often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with poM der. HASTINGS. You are right, madam ; for, as among the ladies there are none ugly, so among the men there are none old. MRS HARDCASTLE. * But what do you think his answer was ? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said I only wanted him to throw off his wig to convert it into a tete for my own wearing. HASTINGS. I ntolcrajjle ! At your age you may wear what you please, and it must become you. MRS HARDCASTLE. Pray, Mr Hastings, what do you take to be the most fashionable age about town? HASTINGS. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; but I m told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. MRS HARDCASTLE. Seiiously. Then I shall be too young for the fashion. SHE ST001»S TO CONQUER. 267 HASTINGS. No lady begins now to put on jewels till she's past forty. For instance, miss there, in a polite circle, would be con- sidered as a child, as a mere maker of samplers. MRS HARDCASTLE. And yet Mrs Niece thinks herself as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels as the oldest of us all. HASTINGS. Your niece, is she? And that young gentleman, a bro- ther of yours, I should presiune? MRS HARDCASTLE. My son, sir. They are contracted to each other. Ob- serve their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a-day, as if they were man and wife already. [To them.] Well, Tony, child, what soft things are you saying to your cousin Constance this evening? TONY. I have been saying no soft things ; but that it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! iVe not a place in the house now that's left to myself, but the stable. MRS HARDCASTLE. Never mind him, Con, my dear, he's in another story behind your back. MISS NEVILLE. There's something generous in my cousins manner. He falls out before faces to be forgiven in private. TONY. That's a damned confounded — crack. MRS HARDCASTLE. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you think they're like each other about the mouth, Mr Hastings? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. They're of a size too. Ikick to back, my pretties, that Mr Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. 268 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. TONY. You had as good not make me, I tell you. [Measuring. MISS NEVILLE. lud ! he has almost cracked my head. MRS IIAP.DCASTLE. O, the monster ! For shame, Tony. You a man, and behave so ! TONY. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod! I'll not be made a fool of no longer. MRS HARDCASTLE. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I m to get for the pains I have taken in your education ? I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon ! Did not I v^ork that waistcoat to make you genteel ? Did not I prescribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt was operating? TONY. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you have been dosing me ever since I was born. I have gone through every re- ceipt in the Complete Housewife ten times over ; and you have thoughts of coursing me through Quincey next spring. But, ecod ! I tell you, I 11 not be made a fool of no longer. MRS HARDCASTLE. Wasn't it all for your good, viper? Wasn t it all for your good ? TONY. 1 wish you d let me and my good alone, then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits. If I'm to have any good, M^t it come of itself; not to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so. MRS HARDCASTLE. That's false; 1 never see you when you're in spirits. SHE STOOPS TO CONQIIEU. 269 No, Tony, you tlion go to the aleliousc or kennel. Tm never to be delighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! TONY. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the two. MRS HARDCASTLE. Was ever the like? But I see he wants to break my heart; I see he does. HASTINGS. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the young gentleman a httle. I 'm certain I can persuade him to his duty. MRS HARDCASTLE. Well, I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. You see, Mr Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation : was ever poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutifid boy ? [Exeunt MRS HARDCASTLE and MISS NEVILLE. HASTINGS, TOY. TONY [singing]. « There was a young man riding by, and fain would have his will. Rang do didlo dee.» Dont mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over a book for an hour together ; and they said they liked the book the better the more it made them cry. HASTINGS. Then you re no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty young gentleman? TONY. That's as I find um. 270 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. HASTINGS. Not to her of your mothers choosing, I dare answer? And yet she appears to me a pretty well-tempered girl. TONY. That's hecause you don t know her so well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her; and there's not a more hitter cantackerous toad in all Christendom. HASTINGS [aside]. Pretty encouragement this for a lover ! TONY. I have seen her since the height of that. She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt the first day s breaking. HA.STINGS. To me she appears sensible and silent. TONY. Ay, before company. But when she's with her play- mate, she's as loud as a hog in a gate. HASTINGS, But there is a meek modesty about her that charms me. TONY. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you 're flung in a ditch. HASTINGS. Well, but you must allow her a little beauty. — Yes, you must allow her some beauty. TONY. Band-box ! She's all a made-up thing, mum. Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod, she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd make two of she. SHE STOOPS TO C0NQUE1{. 271 HASTINGS. Well, what say you to a friend that would lake this bitter bargain off your hands ? TONY. Anon. HASTINGS. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsy? TONY. Ay; but where is there such a friend, for who would take her? HASTINGS. I am he. If you but assist me, I 11 engage to whip her off to France, and you shall never hear more of her. TONY. Assist you ! Ecod I will, to the last drop of my blood. I 11 clap a pair of horses to your chaise that shall trundle you off in a twinkling, and may-be get you a part of her fortin beside in jewels that you little dream of HASTINGS. My dear Squire, this looks like a lad of spirit. TONY. Come along, then, and you shall see more of my spirit before you have done with me. [Singing. We are the boys That fears no noise ' Where the thunderinff cannons roar. [Exeunl. 272 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEH. ACT III. Enter HARDCASTLE, alone. HARDGASTLE. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean by recom- mending his son as the modestest young man in town? To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of the easy chair by the fire-side already. He took off his boots in the parlour, and desired me to see them taken care of. I 'm desirous to know how his impudence affects my daughter. — She will certainly be shocked at it. Enter MISS HARDCASTLE, plainly dressed. HARDCASTLE. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress, as I bid vou ; and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion. MISS HARDCASTLE. 1 find such a pleasure, sir, in obeying your commands, that I take care to observe them without ever debating their propriety. HARDCASTLE, And yet, Rate, I sometimes give you some cause, par- ticularly when I recommended my modest gentleman lo you as a lover to-day. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 273 MISS HARDCASTLE. You taught me to expect somethinjj extraordinary, and 1 find the original exceeds tlie description. IFARDGASTLE. I was never so surprised in my hfe ! He has ([uite confounded all my faculties ! MISS HARDCASTLE. I never saw any thing like it : and a man of the world too! HARDCASTLE. Ay, he learned it all abroad — what a fool was I, to think a young man could learn modesty by travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a masquerade. Miss HARDCASTLE. It seems all natural to him. HARDCASTLE. A good deal assisted by bad company and a French dancin g-master. Miss HARDCASTLE. Sure you mistake, papa! A French dancing-master could never have taught him that timid look — that awk- ward address — that bashful manner — HARDCASTLE. whose look ? whose manner, child ? MISS HARDCASTLE. Mr Marlow's : his mauvaise honte, his timidity, struck me at the first sight. HARDCASTLE. Then your first sight deceived you ; for I think him one of the most brazen first sights that ever astonished my senses. MISS HARDCASTLE. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw any one so modest. VOL. II. J 8 274 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. HARDCASTLE. And can you be serious ? I never saw sucli a bouncing, swaggering puppy since I was born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to bim. MISS HARDCASTLE. Surprising ! He met me witb a respectful bow, a stam- mering voice, and a look fixed on the ground. HARDCASTLE. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a fami- liarity that made my blood freeze again. Miss HARDCASTLE. He treated me with diffidence and respect; censured the manners of the age ; admired the prudence of girls that never laughed ; tired me with apologies for being tire- some ; then left the room with a bow, and « Madam, I would not for the world detain you.» HARDCASTLE. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before ; asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer: interrupted my best remarks with some silly pun ; and when I was in my best story of the Duke of Marlboiough and Prince Eugene, he asked if 1 had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of punch ! MISS HARDCASTLE. One of US must certainly be mistaken. HARDCASTLE. If he be what he has shown himself, 1 m determined he shall never have my consent. Miss HARDCASTLE. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall never have mine. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 275 HARDCASTLE. In one thing then we are agreed — to reject him. MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes : but upon conditions. For if you should find him less impudent, and I more presuming ; if you find him more respectful, and I more importunate — I don t know — the fellow is well enough for a man — Certainly we don't meet many such at a horse-race in the country. HARDCASTLE. If we should find him so But that s impossible. The first appearance has done my business. 1 m seldom deceived in that. MISS HARDCASTLE. And yet there may be many good qualities under that first appearance. HARDCASTLE. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her, a smooth face stands for good sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue. MISS HARDCASTLE. I hope, sir, a conversation begun with a compliment to my good sense, won t end with a sneer at my under- standing? HARDCASTLE. Pardon me, Kate. But if young ^Ir Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradictions, he may please us both, perhaps. MISS HARDCASTLE, And as one of us must be mistaken, what if we go to make further discoveries? HARDCASTLE. Agreed. But depend on \ I 'm in the right. i8. 276 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. MISS HARDCASTLE. And depend on t I \n not much in the wrong. [Kxeum. Enter TONY, running in wiih a caskei. TONY. Ecod ! I have (jot them. Here they are. My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. O ! my genus, is that you ? Enter HASTING.S. HASTINGS My dear friend, how have you managed with your mother? I hope you have amused her with pretending love for your cousin, and that you are willing to be recon- ciled at last? Our horses will be refreshed in a short lime, and we shall soon be ready to set off. TONY. And here s something to bear your charges by the way [giving the casket] — your Sweetheart's jewels. Keep them; and hang those, I say, that would rob you of one of them. HASTINGS. lUit how have you procured them from your mother? TONY. Ask me no c[uestions, and F 11 tell you no fibs. I pro- cured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every drawer in mother s bureau, how could I go to the alehouse so often as I do? An honest man may rob him- self of his own at any time. HASTINGS. Thousands do it every day. But to be plain with you, Miss Neville is endeavouring to procure them from her SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 277 aunt tliis very instant. If she succeeds, it will be the luosi delicate way at least of obtaining them. TONY. Well, keep them, till you know how it will be. Jiut I know how it will be well enough, she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in her head. HASTINGS. But I dread the effects of her resentment, when she finds she has lost them. TONY. Never you mind her resentment, leave me to manage that. I don't value her resentment the bounce of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are. Morrice ! Prance ! [Exit Hastings. TONY, MRS HARDCASTLE, and MISS NEVILLE. MRS HARDCASTLE, Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as you want jewels ! It will be time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when your beauty begins to want repairs. MISS NEVILLE. But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly im- prove it at tAventy, madam. MRS HARDCASTLE. Yours, ray dear, can admit of none. That natural blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don't you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my Lady Kill-daylight, and IVIrs Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites back. MISS NEVILLE. But who knows, madam, but somebody that shall i^e nameless would like me best with all my little finery about me? 278 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. MRS HARDCASTLE. Consult your (jiass, my dear, and then see if with such a pair of eyes you want any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear? does your cousin Con want any jewels in your eyes to set off her beauty? TONY. That s as thereafter may be. MISS NEVILLE. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me. MRS HARDCASTLE. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and table cut things. They would make you look like the court of King Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, I believe, I cant readily come at them. They may be missing, for aught I know to the contrary. TONY [apan to MRS HARDCASTLE]. Then why don't you tell her so at once, as she's so longing for them? Tell her they 're lost. It's the only way to quiet her. Say they 're lost, and call me to bear witness. MRS HARDCASTLE [apart to TONY], You know, ray dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I say they re gone, you '11 bear me witness, will you? He ! he ! he ! TONY. Never fear me. Ecod ! I '11 say I saw them taken out with my own eyes. MISS NEVILLE. I desire them but for a day, madam. Just to be per- mitted to show them as relics, and then they may be locked up again. MRS HARDCASTLE. To be plain Avith you, my dear Constance, if I could find SHK STOOPS TO CONQUEU. 279 them you should have them. They're missin{], T assure you. Lost, for aught I kuow ; hut we must have patience, wherever they are. MISS NEVILLE. I 11 not believe it ! this is but a shallow pretence to deny me. I know they are too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for the loss — MRS HARDCASTLE. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my son knows they are miss- ing, and not to be found. TONY. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and not to be found ; I 11 take my oath on t. MRS HARDCASTLE. You must learn resignation, my dear; for though we lose our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am. MISS NEVILLE. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes of others. MRS HARDCASTLE. Now I wonder a girl of your good sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them ; and in the mean time you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels be found. MISS NEVILLE. I detest garnets. MRS HARDCASTLE. The most becoming things in the world to set off a clear complexion. You have often seen how well they look upon me : you shall have them. [ K^^it 280 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. MISS NEVILLE. I dislike them of all things. You shan't stir. — Was ever any thing so provoking, to mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her trumpery. TONY. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your spark, he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. MISS NEVILLE. My dear cousin ! TONY. Vanish. She s here, and has missed them already. [Exit MISS NEVILLE. ] Zounds ! liow shc fidgets and spits about like a Catherine wheel. Enter MRS HARDCASTLE. MRS HARDCASTLE. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! we are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. TONY. What's the matter, what's the matter, mamma? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good family? MRS HARDCASTLE. We are robbed. My bureau has been broken open, the jewels taken out, and I 'm undone. TONY. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the laws, I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha! ha ! ha! SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEH. 281 MRS HARDCASTLE. Why, boy, I 'm ruined in earnest. My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away. TONY. Stick to that: ha ! ha ! ha ! stick to that. I '11 bear wit- ness, you know ; call me to bear witness. MRS HARDCASTLE. I tell you, Tony, by all that's precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever. TONY. Sure I know they are gone, and I 'm to say so. MRS HARDCASTLE. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They re gone, I say. TONY. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh, ha! ha ! I know who took them well enough, ha ! ha ! ha ! MRS HARDCASTLE. Was there ever such a blockhead, that cant tell the difference between jest and earnest? I tell you I'm not in jest, booby. TONY. That's right, that's right: you must be in a bitter pas- sion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. I 11 bear witness that they are gone. MRS HARDCASTLE. Was there ever such a cross-grained brute, that won't hear me? Can you bear witness that you're no better than a fool? Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves on the other ? TONY. I can bear witness to that. MRS HARDCASTLE. Bear witness again, you blockhead you, and I U turn 28-2 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will become of her ! Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress ? TONY. I can bear witness to that. MRS HARDCASTLE. Do you insult me, monster? 1 11 teach you to vex your mother, I M^ill. TONY. I can bear witness to that. [He runs off, she follows him. Enter MISS HARDCASTLE and MAID. MISS HARDCASTLE. What an unaccountable creature is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as an inn, ha! ha! I dont wonder at his impudence. MAID. But what is more, madam, the young gentleman, as you passed by in your present dress, asked me if you were the bar-maid. He mistook you for the bar-maid, madam. MISS HARDCASTLE. Did he? Then as I live I'm resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me. Pimple, how do you like my present dress ? Don't you think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux Stratagem ? MAID. [t's the dress, madam, that every lady wears in the country, but when she visits or receives company. MISS HARDCASTLE. And are you sure he does not remember my face or person? MAID. Certain of it. SHI': STOOPS TO CONQUER. 285 MISS HARDCASTLE, I VOW I tlioii.<;ht SO ; lor though we spoke for some tinu! t0{Tether, yet his fears were such that he never once k)ok('(l up (luring the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet woidd have kept him from seeing me. MAID. But what do you hope from keeping him in his mistake? MISS HARDCASTLE. In the fust place, I shall be seen, and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then I shall perhaps make an acquaintance, and that's no small victory gained over one who never addresses any but the wildest of our sex. But my chief aim is to take my gen- tleman off his guard, and like an invisible champion of romance, examine the gianfs force before I offer to combat. MAID. But are you sure you can act your part, and disguise your voice so that he may mistake that, as he has already mistaken your person? MISS HARDCASTLE. Never fear me. I th-ink I have got the true bar cant — Did vour honour call? — Attend the Lion there. — Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. — The Lamb has been outrageous this half hour. MAID. It will do, madam. But he's here. [Exit maid. Enter MARLOW. MARLOW. What a bawling in every part of the house. T have scarce a moment's repose. If I go to the best room, there 284 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. I find my host and his story ; il" I fly to the (jallerv, there we have my hostess with her courtesy down to the ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, and now for recollection . [Walks and muses. MISS HARDCASTLE. Did you call, sir? Did your honour call? MARLOW [musing]. As for Miss Hardcastle, she s too grave and sentimental for me. MISS HARDCASTLE. Did your honour call ? [She still places herself before him, he turning away. MARLOW. No, child. [Musing.] Besides, from the glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. Miss HARDCASTLE. 1 'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. MARLOW. No, no. [Musing] I have pleased my fathei-, however, by coming down, and I 11 to-mono av please myself by returning. [Taking out his tablets, and perusing. MISS HARDCASTLE. Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir? MARLOW. I tell you no. Miss HARDCASTLE. I should be glad to know, sir. We have such a parcel of servants ! MARLOW. No, no, I tell you. [Looks full in her face] Ycs, cliild, I think I did call. I wanted — I wanted — I vow, child, you are vastiv handsome. SHE 8T00PS TO CONQUEJi. 285 MISS HARDCASTLE. () la, sir, yon II make one ashamed. MARLOW. Never saw a more sprightly malicious eye. Yes, yes, inv dear, I did call. Have vou got any of your — a — what d ye call it in the house? MISS HARDCASTLE. No, sir; we have been out of that these ten days. MARLOW. One may call in this house, I find, to very httle purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips ; perhaps I might be disappointed in that too. Miss HARDCASTLE. Nectar ! nectar ! That s a liquor there s no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. We keep no French wines here, sir. MARLOW. Of true English growth, I assure you. Miss HARDCASTLE. Then its odd 1 should not know it» We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here tliese eighteen years. MARLOW. Eighteen years ! Why one would think, child, you kept the bar before you was born. How old are you? MISS HARDCASTLE. O ! sir, I must not tell my age. They say women and music should never be dated. MARLOW. To guess at this distance you can't be much above fortv. [Approaching] Yet nearer I don't think so mucli. 286 SHIl stoops TO CONQUER. [Approaching] By coiiiiiig close to some women, they look younger still ; but when we come very close indeed — [ Attempiing to kiss her. MISS HARDCASTLE. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you M anted to knoM'^ ones age as they do horses, by mark of mouth. MARLOW. T protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be acquainted? MISS HARDCASTLE. And who wants to be acquainted with you ? I want no such acquaintance, not I. I 'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here awhile ago, in this ohstropalous manner. I 11 warrant me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and talked for all the world as if you were before a Justice of Peace. MARLOW [aside]. Egad, she has hit it, sure enough! [To her] In awe of her, child ? Ha ! Im ! ha ! A mere awkward squinting tiling ; no, no. I find you don't know me. I laughed and rallied her a little; but I was unwilling to be too severe. Xo, I could not be too severe, curse me ! MISS HARDCASTLE. O then, sir, you are a favourite, I find, among the ladies? MARLOW. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet, hang me, I don t see what they find in me to follow. At the ladies' c\u\) iti town I'm called their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, cliild, is not my real name, but one 1 'm known by. My SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEJl. 287 name is Solomons — Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your ser- vice. [Offering to salute her. MISS HARDCASTLE. Hold, sir^ you are introducing me to your club, not to yourself. And you re so great a favourite there, you say? MARLOW. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs Mantrap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. MISS HARDCASTLE. Then it is a very merry place, I suppose ? MARLOW. Yes, as merry as cards, supper, wine, and old women can make us. MISS HARDCASTLE. And their agreeable Rattle, ha ! ha ! ha ! MARLOW [aside]. Egad ! I don t quite like this chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child? Miss HARDCASTLE. I can't but laugh to think what time they all have for minding their work or their family. MARLOW [aside]. All's well; she don't laugh at me. [To her] Do you ever work, child? MISS HARDCASTLE. Ay, sure. There s not a screen or a quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness to that. MARLOW. Odso ! then you must show me your embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself a little. If you 288 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. want a judge of your work, vou must apply to me. [Seizing her hand. MISS HARDC.ASTLE. Ay, but the colours do not look well bv candle-light. You shall see all iu the morning. [Struggling. MARLOW. And why not now, my angel ? Such beautv fires beyond the power of resistance. — Pshaw ! the father here? My old luck : I never nicked seven that I did not throw- ames ace three times following. [ExitMARLOW. Enter HARDCASTLE, who stands in surprise. HARDCASTLE. So, madam. So I find this is your modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept his eves fixed on the ground, and onlv adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to deceive vour father so? MISS HARDCASTLE. Never trust me, dear papa, but he's still the modest man I first took him for ; vou 11 be convinced of it as well as I. HARDCASTLE. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is in- fectious I Didn't I see him seize your hand? Didn't I see him haul you about hke a milk-maid? And now you talk of Ills respect and his modesty, forsooth ! MI.S.S HARDCASTLE. But if I shortly convince vou of his modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass off w ith time, and the virtues that will improve with age, I hope vou 11 forgive him. HARDCASTLE. The girl would actually make one run mad ! I tell vou SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 289 I 11 not be convinced. I am convinced. He has scarce been three hours in the house, and he has already en- croached on all my prerojjatives. You may like his impu- dence, and call it modesty; but my son-in-law, madam, must have very different ([ualifications. MISS HAJtDCASTLE. Sir, I ask but this night to convince you. IIARDCASTLE. You shall not have half the time, for 1 have thoughts of turniuji him out this very hour. MISS IIARDCASTLE. Give me that hour then, and I hope to satisfy vou. IIARDCASTLE. Well, an hour let it be then. But I '11 have no trifling with vour father. All fair and open, do vou mind me. MISS HARDCASTLE. I hope, sir, you have ever found that I considered your commands as my pride ; for vour kindness is such, that my dutv as vet has been inclination. [Exeunt. VOL. H. 19 290 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. ACT IV. Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE. HASTINGS. You surprise me : Sir Charles Mario w expected here this ni{>ht! Where have you had your information? MISS NEVILLE. You mav depend upon it. I just saw his letter to Mr Hardcastle, in which he tells him he intends setting out a lew hours after his son . HASTINGS. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he arrives. He knows me ; and, should he find me here, M ould discover my name, and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the family. Miss NEVILLE. The jewels, I hope, are safe? HASTINGS. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Mailow, who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the mean time I \\ go to prepare matters for our elopement. I have had the S([uire's pro- mise of a fresh pair of horses ; and if I shoidd not see him again, will wiite him further directions. [Exit. Miss NEVILLE. Well! success attend vou. In the mean time I'll go SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 291 amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a violent passion for my cousin. [Exit. Enter MARLOW, followed by a Servant. MARLOW. I wonder what Hastings could mean hy sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to keep for him, when he knows the oiily place I have is the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have you deposited the casket with the landlady, as I ordered you? Have you j)ut it into her own hands ? SEi^.fWr. Yes, your honour. MARLOW. She said she 'd keep it safe, did she ? SERVANT. Yes, she said she VI keep it safe enough ; she asked me how I came hy it? and she said she had a great mind to make me give an account of myself. [Exit Servant. MARLOW. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They re safe, however. What an un- accountable set of beings have we got amongst ! This little bar-maid though runs in my head most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all the rest of the family. She s mine, she must be mine, or I in greatly mistaken. Enter HASTINGS. HASTINGS. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in spirits too ! ^9- 292 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. MARLOW. Give me joy, George ! Crown me, shadow me with laurels ! Well, George, after all, we modest fellows don t want for success among the women. HASTINGS. Some women, you mean. But what success has your honour s modesty been crowned with now, that it groAvs so insolent upon us ? MARLOW. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely, little thmg, that runs about the house with a hunch of keys to its girdle ? HASTINGS. Well, and what then? MARLOW. She's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad ! she would not let me kiss them though. HASTINGS. But are you so sure, so very sure of her? MARLOW. W^hy, man, she talked of showing me her work above stairs, and I am to approve the pattern. HASTINGS. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob a woman of lier honour? MARLOW. Pshaw! pshaw! We all know tin; honour of the bar- maid of an inn. I don't intend to rob iicj-, take my word foi' it; liiere's nothing in this house I shan't honestly pay for. HASTINGS. I believe the girl has virtue. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 295 MARLOW. And if she lias, I should be the last man in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. HASTINGS. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you lo lock up? It's in safety? MARLOW. Yes, yes. It's safe enough. I have taken care of it. But how could you think the seat of a post-coach at an inn- door a place of safety? Ah! numskull! I have taken better precautions for you than you did for yourself I have HASTINGS. What? MARLOW. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you. HASTINGS. To the landlady ! MARLOW. The landlady. HASTINGS. You did? MARLOW. I did. she's to be answerable for its forthcoming, you know. HASTINGS. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a witness. MARLOW. Wasn't I right? I believe you 11 allow that I acted pru- dently upon this occasion. HASTINGS [aside]. He must not see my uneasiness. 294 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. MARLOW. You seem a little disconcerted though, methinks. Sure nodiiny has happened? HASTINGS. No, nodiing. Never was in better spirits in all my life. And so you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge. MARLOW. Rather too readily. For she not only kept the casket, but, through her great precaution, was going to keep the messenger too. Ha ! ha ! ha ! HASTINGS. He! he! he! They're safe, however. MARLOW. As a guinea in a miser s purse. HASTINGS [aside]. So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and we must set off without it. [To him. ] Well, Charles, I '11 leave you to your meditations on the pretty bar-maid, and, he ! he ! he ! may you be as successful for yourself as you have been forme! [Exit. :marlow. Thank ye, George : I ask no more. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Filter HARDCASTLE. HAKDCASTLE. I no longer know my own house. It's turned all topsy- turvy. His servants have got drunk alreadv- I'll bear it no longer; and yet, from my respect for his fadier, Til be calm. [To him.] Mr Marlow, your servant. I'm yoin- very humble servant. [Bowing low. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEH. 295 MARLOW. Sir, your humble servant. [Aside] Wlials to be the wonder now ? HARDCASTLE. 1 bebeve, sir, you must be sensible, sir, that no man alive ou{;ht to be more welcome than your fathers son, sir. I hope you think so? MARLOW. I do from my soul, sir. I don't want much entreaty. I generally make my fathers son welcome wherever he goes. HARDCASTLE. 1 believe you do, from my soul, sir. But though I say nothing to your own conduct, that of your servants is in- sufferable. Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad example in this house, I assure you. MARLOW. I protest, my very good sir, that is no fault of mine. If they don't drink as they ought, they are to jjlame. 1 ordered them not to spare the cellar. I did, I assure you. [To the side-scene.] Here, let oiic of my servants come up. [To him.] IVIy positive directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they should make up for my deficiencies below. HARDCASTLE. Then they had your orders for what they do ! I 'm satisfied ! MARLOW. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of themselves. Enter SERVANT, drunk. MARLOW. You, Jeremy! Come forward, sirrah! What were my 296 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. orders? Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you thou[;ht fit, for the good of the house? IIARUCASTLE [aside]. I hc{^iii to lose my patience. JEREMY. Please your honour, liherts' and Fleet-street for ever! Though I'm hut a servant, I'm as good as another man. I 11 drink for no man hefore supper, sir, damme ! Good licpior will sit upon a good supper, hut a good supper will not sit upon — [ hickiipinc ] — upou my conscieuce, sir. MARLOW. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he can possihly he. I don't know m hat you d have more, unless you'd have the poor devil soused in a beer-barrel. HARDCASTLE. Zounds! he 11 drive me distracted, if I contain myself any longer. Mr Marlow. Sir; I have submitted to your insolence for more than fovu' hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I 'm now resolved to be master here, sir, and I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave my house directly. MAltLO\Y. Leave your house! Sure you jest, my good friend! What? when I'm doing what I can to please you. HARDCASTLE. I tell you, sir, you don't please me ; so I desire you '11 leave mv house. -MARLOW. Sure you cannot he serious ? at this time o' night, and such a night? You only mean to banter me. HARDCASTLE. I tell you, sir, I'm serious! and now that my passions SHE STOOPS TO C0NQUE15. 297 arc roused, I say this house is miue, sir; this house is mine, and I command you to leave it directly. MAIILOW. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A [)uddle in a storm. I shan't stir a step, I assure you. [in a serious tone. ] This your house, fellow ! It's my house. This is my house. Mine, while I choose to stay. What rifjht have you to bid me leave this house, sir? I never met with such im})udcnce, curse me ; never in my whole life before. H.4RDCASTLE. Nor I, confound me if ever I did. To come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to insult the family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, "This house is mine, sir.» By all that's impudent it makes me laugh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Pray, Sir, [bantering] as you take the house, what think you of taking the rest of the furniture? There's a pair of silver candle- sticks, and there's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of brazen-nosed bellows ; perhaps you may take a fancy to them. MARLOW. Bring me your bill, sir; bring me your bill, and let's make no more words about it. HARDCASTLE. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of the Rake's Progress for your ovm apartment? MARLOW. Bring me your bill, I say; and I'll leave you and your infernal house directly. HARDCASTLE. Then there s a mahogany table that you may see your own face in. 298 SHE STOOPS TO CON QU Eli. MARLOW. My bill, I say. HAIinCASTLK. 1 hud I"or{;ot the groat chair loi- your own particular slmnbers, after a hearty meal. MARLOW. Zountls ! hriiig ine my hill, I say, aritl let s hear no more OMt. HARDCASTLE. \oung man, yonnjj man, from your father s letter to me, I was taught to ex|)ect a well-bred modest man as a visitor here, but now 1 find him no better than a coxcomb and a bully ; but he will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it. [Exit. MARLOW. How's this ! Sure I have not mistaken the house. Every thing looks like an inn ; the servants cry coming ; the at- tendance is awkward ; the bar-maid too to attend us. But she's here, and will further inform me. Whither so fast, child? A word with you. Enter MLSS HARDCASTLE. MLSS HARDCASTLE. Let it be short, then. I m in a hurry. [Aside] 1 be- lieve lie begins to find out his mistake, liut it's too soon quite to undeceive him. MARLOW. Pray, child, answer me one question. What are you, and what may your business in this house be? MISS HARDCASTLE. A relation of the family, sir. MARLOW. What, a poor relation? SHE STOOPS TO CONQUKU. 299 MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir; a poor relation, appointed to keep tlie keys, and to see that the guests want notliing in my power to give thein. MARLOW. That is, you act as bar-maid of this inn. MISS HARDCASTLE. Inn ! O ki what brought that in your head ? One of the best faniihes in the county keep an inn — Ha ! ha ! ha ! old Mr Hardcastle's house an inn ! MARLOW. Mr Hardcastle's house. Is this Mr Hardcastle's house, child? MISS HARDCASTLE. Ay, sure. Whose else should it be? MARLOW. So then, all's out, and I have been damnably imposed on. O, confound my stupid head, I shall be laughed at over the whole toAvn . I shall be stuck up in caricatura in all the print-shops. The DuUissimo-Maccaroni. To mis- take this house of all others for an inn, and my fathers old friend for an innkeeper ! What a swaggering puppy must he take me for. What a silly puppy do I find my- self. There, again, may I be hang'd, my dear, but I mis- took you for the bar-maid. MISS HARDCASTLE. Dear me! dear me! I'm sure there's nothing in my behaviour to put me upon a level with one of that stamp. MARLOW. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in for a list of blunders, and could not help making you a subscriber. My stupidity saw every thing the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your simplicity for 500 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. alluremeiit. Rut it's over — This house I no more show my face in. MISS HARDCASTLF. I hope, sir, I have done nothing to disoblige you. I 'm sure I should be sorry to affront any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so many civil things to me. I'm sure I should be sorry [pretending to cry] if he left the family upon my account. I'm sure I should be sorry, people said any thing amiss, since I have no fortune but my character. MARLOW [aside]. By Heaven ! she w^eeps. This is the first mark of ten- derness I ever had from a modest woman, and it touches me. [To her] Excuse me, my lovely girl; you are the only part of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, and education, makes an honourable connexion impossible ; and I can never harbour a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted in my honour, of bringing ruin upon one, whose only fault was being too lovely. MISS HARDCASTLE [aside]. Generous man! I now begin to admire him. [To him] But I am sure my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's ; and though I 'm poor, that s no great misfortune to a con- tented mind ; and, until this moment, I never thouglit that it was bad to want fortune. MARLOW. And why now, my prettv simplicity? MISS HARDCASTLE. Because it puts me at a distance from one that, if I had a thousand pounds, 1 would give it all to. MARLOW [aside]. This simplicity l)ewitches me, so that if I stay, I 'm un- SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 301 (lone. I must make one bold effort, and leave her. [To iici . j Voiu' parliality in my favour, my dear, touches me most sensibly ; and were I to live lor myself alone, 1 could easily fix my choice. But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too much to the authority of a father; so that — I can scarcely^speak it — it affects me. Fare^^ ell, [Esit. MISS HARDCASTLE. 1 never knew half his merit till now. He shall not go, if I have power or art to detain hhn. I 11 still preserve the character in which I stooped to conquer, but will un- deceive my papa, who, perhaps, may laugh him ovit of his resolution. [Exit. Kilter TONY, MISS NEVILLE. TONY. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I have done my duty. She has got the jewels again, that's a sure thing ; but she believes it was all a mistake of the servants. MISS NEVILLE. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't forsake us in this distress ? If she in the least suspects that I am going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or sent to my aunt Pedigree's, which is ten times worse. TONY. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned bad things. But what can I do? I have got you a pair of horses that will fly like Whistle-jacket; and I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you nicely before her face. Here she comes, we must court a bit or two more, for fear she shoidd suspect us. [They retire, aad seem lo fondle. \ 302 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Enter MRS HARDCASTLE. ' MRS HARDCASTLE. Well, I was greatly fluttered to be sure. But my son tells me it was all a mistake of the servants. I shan t be easy, however, till they are fairly married, and then let her keep her own fortune. But what do 1 see? fondling together, as I'm alive. I never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah! have I caught you, my pretty doves? What ! billing, exchanging stolen glances and broken murmurs? Ah! TONY. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little now and then to be sure. But there s no love lost between us. MRS HARDCASTLE. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only to make it burn brighter. MISS NEVILLE. Cousin Tony promises to give us more of his company at home. Indeed, he shan t leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it? TONY, O! it's a pretty creature. No, Id sooner leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so becoming. MISS NEVILLE. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help admiring that natural humour, that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless, [patting his cheek] all! it 's a bold faCC. MRS HARDCASTLE. Prettv innocence ! TONY. f'lii sure T always loved cousin Con's hazel eyes, and SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEP. 305 lier pretty long fingers, that she twists this way and that over the haspicolis, like a parcel oi bobbins. MRS HARDCASTLE. Ay, he would charm the bird from the tree. I was never so happv before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours incontinently. You shall have them. Isn t he a sweet boy, my dear ? You shall be married to- morrow, and we'll put off the rest of his education, like Dr Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity. Enter DIGGORY DIGGORY, Where s the Squire ? I have got a letter for vour worship. TONY. Give it to mv mamma. She reads all mv letters first. * DIGGORY. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands. TONY. Who does it come from? DIGGORY. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter itself. TONY. I could wish to know though. [Turning the letter and gazing on it. MISS NEVILLE [aside]. Undone! undone! A letter to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruined for ever. I 11 keep her employed a little if I can. [To Mrs HARDCASTLE] But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin's smart answer just now to Mr Marlow. We so laughed — 304 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Yon must know, madam — This way a little, for he must not hear us. [They confer. TONY [still gazing]. A damned cramp piece of penmanship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read your print hand very well. But here there are such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce tell the head from the tail. « To Anthony Lumpkin, esquire." It's very odd, I can fead the out- side of my letters, where my oavu name is, well enough. But when I come to open it, it's all buzz. That's hard, very hard ; for the inside of the letter is always the cream of the correspondence. MRS IIARDCASTLE. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very well. And so my son was too hard for the philosopher. MISS NEVILLE. Yes, madam; but you must hear the rest, madam. A little more this way,- or he may hear us. You 11 hear how he puzzled him again. MRS IIARDCASTLE. He seems'strangely puzzled now himself, methinks. TONY [still gazing]. A damned up and down hand, as if it was disguised in liquor. [Reading. ] Dear sir, — Ay, that's that. Then there's an M, and a T, and an S, but whether the next be an izzard, or an R, confound me, I cannot tell. MRS IIARDCASTLE. What \s that, my dear ? Can I give you any assistance ? MISS NEVILLE. Pray, aiuit, let ine read it. INobody reads a cramp hand better than I. fTwitcliiii.;iii(ietter frominm ] ])o you kuow who it is from? SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEH. oOii TONY. Can t tell, except from Dick Ginger, the feeder. MISS NEVILLE. Ay, so it is. frietcndingtoread. ] Dcur ' S(|uire, hoping that you're in health, as I am at this present. The gentlemen of the Shake-hag chih has cut the gentlemen of the Goose- green quite out of feather. The odds um odd battle — um — long fighting — um — here, here, it's all ahout cocks and fighting; it's of no consequence, here, put it up, put it up. [Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him. TONY. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the consequence in the world. I would not lose the rest of it for a guinea. Here, mother, do you make it out. Of no consequence ! [Giving MRS HARDCASTLE the letter. MRS HARDCASTLE. How's this ! [Wciuh. ] «■ Dear Squire, I 'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a post-chaise and pair at the bottom of the garden, but I find my horses yet unable to perform the jomney. I expect you'll assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised. Dispatch is necessary, as the hag (ay, the hag) your mother will otherwise suspect us. Yours, Hastings." Grant me patience: I shall run dis- tracted ! My rag(? chokes me. MISS NEVILLE. I hope, madam, you'll suspend your resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or sinistei- design, that belongs to another. MRS HARDCxVSTLE [courlesying very low]. Fine spoken madam, you are most miraculously polite and engaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and circumspection, madam. [Changing her tone.] And you, you great ill fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep VOL. II. -TO 506 SHE STOOPS TO CO^QLEU. your mouth shut : Averc you, too, joined against me? But 1 11 defeat all your plots iu a mouu'ut. As for you, madam, since you have {jot a pair of fresh horses ready, it would he cruel to disappoint them. So, if you please, instead of running; away with your spark, prepare, this very moment, to iim off with me. Your old aunt I*edigree will keep you secure, I 11 warrant me. You too, sir, may mount your horse, and {piard us upon the way. Here, Thomas, Roger, Diggory! 1 11 show you, that I wish vou hetter than you do vourselves. [Exit. MISS NEVILLE. So now i m completely ruined. TONY. Ay, that s a sure thing. MISS NEVILLE. \Vliat better could be expected from being connected with such a stupid fool, — and after all the nods and signs I made him? TONY. By the laws, miss, it was your own cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did your business. You were so nice and so busy with your Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought you could never be making; believe. F.ntei HASTINGS. HASTINGS. So, sir, [ find by my servant, tliat you have shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, young gen- tleman? TONY. Here's another. Ask miss there, who betraved you? JLCod, it was her doiuj;, not mine. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 507 Km.r MAISLOW MARLOW. So I have been finely nsed here among you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill-manners, desjiised, insulted, laughed at. TONY. Here's another. We shall have old Bedlam broke loose jaresently. MISS NEVILLE. And there, sir, is the gentleman to whom we all owe every obligation. MARLOW. What can I say to him? a mere boy, an idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection. HASTINGS. A poor contemptible booby, that would but disgrace correction. MISS NEVILLE. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make himselF merry with all our embarrassments. HASTINGS. An insensible cub. MARLOW. Replete with tricks and mischief. TONY. Baw ! dam'me, but I [\ fight you both, one after the odicr with baskets. MARLOW. As for him, he's below resentment. But your conduct, INlr Hastings, requires an explanation : you knew of my mistakes, yet would not undeceive me. 20. 308 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. HASTINGS. Tortured as I am with my own disappointments, is this a time for explanations? It is not friendly, Mr Marlow. MARLOW. But, sir MISS NEVILLE. Mr Marlow, we never kept on voiu' mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. Enter SERVANT. SERVANT. My mistress desires you'll get ready immediately, ma- dam. The horses are putting to. Your hat and things are ill I he next room. We are to go thirty miles before morning. [Exit SERVANT. MISS NEVILLE. Well, well : Til come presently. MARLOW [to HASTINGS]. Was It well done, sir, to assist in rendering me ridicu- lous? To hang me out for the scorn of all my acquaint- ance? Depend upon it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. HASTINGS. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon that subject, to deliver what I intrusted to yourself, to the care of another, sir? Miss NEVILLE. Mr Hastings. Mr Marlow. Why will you increase mv distress by this groundless dispute? T implore, I entreat you Enter SERVANT. SERVANT. Voiii cloak, madam. My mistress is impatient. [Exit SERVANT. sin; STOUMS to coiNquku. -,ou MISS NEVILLE. I come, i'lay be pacified. If t leave you thus, I si ml I (lie with apj)rehcn,sion. Enter SERVANT SERVANT. Your tan, muff, and gloves, madam. The horses are waiting. MISS NEVILLE. O, Mr Mai low, if you knew what a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, I am sure it would convert your resentment into pity. MARLOW. Tm so distracted M'ith a variety of passions, that I don't know what I do. Forgive me, madam. George, forgive me. You know my hasty temper, and should not exaspe- rate it. HASTINGS. The torture of my situation is my only excuse. Miss NEVILLE. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that esteem for me that I think, that I am sure you have, your constancy for three years will but increase the happiness of our future connexion. If MRS HARDCASTLE [within]. Miss Neville. Constance, why Constance, I say. MISS NEVILLE. I'm coming. Well, constancy, remember, constancy is the word. t'^"'' HASTINGS. My heart ! how can I support this ? To be so near hajv piness, and such happiness ! 510 SHE STOOPS TO GONQUEll. MAULOW [10 TONY]. You see now, yoiinjj gentleman, the effects of your folly. What niifjht be amusement to you, is here disappoint- ment, and even distress. TONY [from a reverie]. Ecod, I have hit it: it's here. Your hands. Yours and yours, my poor Sulky. — My boots there, ho! — Meet me two hours hence at the bottom of the garden ; and if yoii don't find Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow than you thought for, I 11 give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! [Exeunt. SIIF, STOOrS TO CONQI'i:!!. 511 ACT V. Kiacr HASTINGS and StKVANl'. HASTINGS. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you say? SERVANT. Yes, your honour. They went off in a post-coach, and the young Squire went on horseback. They Ve thirty miles off by this time. HASTINGS. Then all my hopes are over. SERVANT. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He and the old gentleman of the house have been laughing at INlr Marlow's mistake this half hour. They are coming this way. HASTINGS. Then I must not be seen. So now to my fruitless ap- pointment at the bottom of the garden. This is about the time. Enter SIR CHARLES and HARDCASTLE. HARDCASTLE. Ha! ha! ha! The peremptory tone in which he sent forth his sublime commands! 512 811E STOOPS TO COINQUEK. SIR CHARLES. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated all vour advances. HARDCASTLE. And yet he might have seen something in me above a common innkeeper, too. SIR CHARLES, Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an uncommon inn- keeper ; ha ! ha ! ha ! HARDCASTLE. \Vcll, I'm in too good spirits to think of any thing but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our families will make our personal friendships hereditary, and though mv daughter s fortune is but small SIR CHARLES. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to me? My son is ])ossessed of more than a competence already, and can Avant nothing but a good and virtuous girl to share his happiness, and increase it. If they like each other, as you say they do HARDCASTLE. If, man ! I tell you they do like each other. My daughter as good as told me so. SIR CHARLES. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know. HARDCASTLE. [ saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner my- self; and here he comes to put you out of your ifs, I wai- raut him. • Enter MAR LOW. MARLOW. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for my strange SHE 8T()OI»S TO COiNQlJKH. 515 coiuliKl. I can scarce reflect 011 my insolence wiihoiii confusion . lIAitUCASTLE. Tut, boy, a tiille. You take it too gravely. An liour 01 two's laughing with my daughter will set all to lights again. She 11 never like you the worse for it. MARLOW. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. HARDCASTLE. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr Marlow ; if I am not deceived, you have something more than approbation thereabouts. You take me ? MARLOW. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. HARDCASTLE. Come, boy, Tm an old fellow, and know what's what as well as you that are younger. I know what has passed between you ; but mum. MARLOW. Sure, sir, nothing has passed between us but the most profound respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on hers. You don t think, sir, that my impudence has been passed upon all the rest of the family ? HARDCASTLE. Impudence ! No, I don t say that — not quite impudence — though girls like to be played with, and rumpled a little too, sometimes. But she has told no tales, I assure you. MARLOW. I never gave her the slightest cause. HARDCASTLE. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough. But this is over-acting, voung gentleman. You may be open. Your fatii(>r and i will like you the better lor it. 5L1 SHE STOOPS TO GONQUEH. MAKLOW. Mav I ilie, sir, if I ever HARDCASTLE. I tell you, she don't dislike you ; and as I in sure vou like her MARLOW. Dear sir — I protest, sir — HARDCASTLE. I see no reason why you should not he joined as fast as the parson can tie you. MARLOW. l)Ut hear me, sir HARDCASTLE. \our father approves the match, 1 admire it; everv moment's delay will be doing mischief, so MARLOW. But why won t you hear me? By all that 's just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one interview, and that was formal, modest, and uninteresting. HARDCASTLE [aside]. This fellow s formal modest impudence is beyond bear- ing. SIR CHARLES. And you never grasped her hand, or made any protes- tations ? MARLOW. As Heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to your commands ; I saw the lady without emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope you 11 exact no further proofs of my duty, nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so manv mortifications. [Exit. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEH. 515 .SIR CHARLES. 1 111 astonislietl at the air of sincerity with which lie parted. HARDCASTLE. And Fm astonished at the dehherate intrepidity of his assurance. SIR CHARLES. I dare pledge my Hfe and honour upon his truth. HARDCASTLE. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my hap- piness upon her veracity. Enter MISS HARDCASTLE. HARDCASTLE. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely and without reserve : has Mr Marlow made you any profes- sions of love and affection ? MISS HARDCASTLE. The question is very abrupt, sir ! But since you require unreserved sincerity, I think he has. HARDCASTLE [to SIR CHARLES]. You see. SIR CHARLES. And pray, madam, have you and my son had more than one interview ? Miss HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir, several. HARDCASTLE [to SIR CHARLES]. You see. SIR CHARLES. lUif did h(! profess any attachment .' .llf) SHE ST0()1»8 TO CONQUER. MISS HARDCASTLE. A lasting one. SIR CHARLES. Did he talk of love? MISS HARDCASTLE. Much, sir. SIR CHARLES. Amazing ! And all this formally? MISS HARDCASTLE. Formally. HARDCASTLE. NoAV, mv friend, I hope you are satisfied. SIR CHARLES. And how did he behave, madam? MISS HARDCASTLE. As most professed admirers do : said some civil things of my face ; talked much of his w^ant of merit, and the great- ness of mine ; mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with pretended rapture. SIR CHARLES. Now I 'm perfectly convinced indeed. I know his con- versation among women to be modest and submissive: this forward canting ranting manner by no means de- scribes him ; and, 1 am confident, he never sat for the picture. MISS HARDCASTLE. Then, what, sir, if I should convince you to your face of my sincerity? if you and my papa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his passion to me in person. SIR CHARLES. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all mv liaj)pin(*ss in him must have an end. [Exit. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEI5. 517 MISS HARDCASTLF.. And if vou don t find him what I describe — I Icar my liap])iness must never have a beginning. [Exeum. o SCENE CHANGES TO THE BACK OF THE GARDEN Knier HASTINGS. HASTINGS. What an idiot am I, to wait here for a fellow who pro- bably takes a deli^jht in mortifving me. He never intended to be punctual, and I'll wait no longer. What do I see: It is he ! and perhaps Avith news of my CiOnstance. Enter TONY, booted ami spattered. HASTINGS. My honest Squire ! I now find you a man of your word. This looks like friendship. TONY. Ay, Tm your friend, and the best friend you have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding by night, by the by, is cursedly tiresome. It has shook me worse than the basket of a stage-coach . HASTINGS. But how? where did you leave your fellow-travellers? Are they in safety ? Are they housed ? TONY. Five and twenty miles in two hours and a half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it : Rabbit me, but I'd rather ride forty miles after a fox than ten with such varment. 318 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. HASTINGS. Well, but where have voii left the ladies? I die with im- patience. TONY. Left them ! Why where shoidd 1 leave them hut where I found them. HASTINGS. This is a riddle. TONY. Riddle me this then. What's that goes round the house, and round the house, and never touches the house? HASTINGS. I'm still astrav. •J TONY. Why, that s it, mon. I have led them astray. By jingo, there's not a pond or a slough within five miles of the place but they can tell the taste of. HASTINGS. Ha! ha! ha! 1 understand : you took them in a round, while they supposed themselves going forward, and so YOU have at last brought them home again. TONY. You shall hear. I first took them down Feathcr-Bed- Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. — I then lattled them crack over the stones of Up-and-down Hill. — I then introduced them to the gibbet on Heavy-Tree Heath ; and from that, with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden. IIA.STINGS. But no accident, I hope? TONY. No, no, only mother is confoundedly frightened. She iliiiiks herself fortv miles off. She's sick of the journey; SlIK STOOPS TO CONQUER. 519 and the cattle can scarce crawl. So il your <)^^n li()i.s(!.s l»e reatly, you may whip off with consin, and Til be bound diat no soul here can bxidge a foot to follow you. HASTINGS. My dear friend, how can I be grateful? TONY. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble Squire. Just now, it w^as all idiot, cub, and run me through the guts. Damn your way of figliting, I say. After we take a knock in this part of the country, w^e kiss and be friends. But if you had run me through the guts, then I should be dead, and you might go kiss the hangman. HASTINGS. The rebuke is just. But I nuist hasten to relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young one. TONY. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish! [Exit Hastings.] She's got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. Enter MRS HARDCASTLE. MRS HARDCASTLE. Oil, Tony, Im killed! Shook! Battered to death. T shall never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the quickset hedge, has done my business. TONY. Alack, mamma, it Avas all your own fault. You would lie for running awav bv night, without knowing one inch of the wav. MRS HARDCASTLE. 1 wish we were at home again. I never met so many 520 SHE STOOPS TOCONQUEIL accidents in so sliort a jouniey. Drenched in the mnd, overturned in a ditch, stuck last in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way. Whereahouts do you iliink we are, Tony? TONY. By my guess we should come upon Crackskull Com- mon, about forty miles from home. MRS HARDCASTLE. O lud ! O lud ! The most notorious spot in all the coun- try. We only want a robbery to make a complete night on't. TONY. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find us. Don t be afraid. — Is that a man that's gallop- ing behind us ? No ; it's only a tree. — -Don't be afraid. MRS HARDCASTLE. The fright will certainly kill me. TONY. Do you see any thing like a black hat moving behind the thicket? MRS HARDCASTLE. Oh, death ! TONY. No ; it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma ; don't be afraid. MRS HARDCASTLE. As I m alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards us. Ah ! [ m sure on't. If he perceives us we are undone. TONY [aside]. I'atlier-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come to take one of his night walks. [To liti.| Ah! it's a highwayman with pistols as long as my arm. A damn'd ill-looking fellow. SHE 8 rOOPS TO CONQUER. 521 MRS IIAHUCASTLE. Good Heaven defend us ! He approaches. TONY. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, 1 '11 cough, and cry hem. When 1 cough, be sure to keep close. [MRS HARDCASTLE hides behind a tree in the back scene. Enter HARDCASTLE. HARDCASTLE. I m mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you? I did not expect you so soon back. xVre your mother and her charge in safetv? TONY, Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem. MRS HARDCASTLE [from behind]. Ah, death ! I find there's danger. HARDCASTLE. Forty miles in three bours; sure that's too much, my youngster. TONY. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as they say. Hem. MRS HARDCASTLE [from behind]. Sure he'll do the dear boy no harm. HARDCASTLE. But I heard a voice here ; I should be glad to kffow from whence it came. TONY. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was saying that forty miles in four hours was very good going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have got a sort of cold by l^eing out in the air. We II go in, if you please. Hem. VOL. II. 2 I 522 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. IIARDCASTLE. r»ut if voii talked to Yourself you did not answer your- self. Tm certain I heard two voices, and am resolved [raisiny his voice] tO find the Other OUt. MRS HARDCASTLE [from behind]. Oh ! he 's coming to find me out. Oh ! TONY. what need you go, sir, if I tell you? Hem. Til lay do^^Tl mv life for the truth — hem — I 11 tell you all, sir. [Detaining him. HARDCASTLE. I tell you I will not he detained. I insist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I 11 helieve you. MRS HARDCASTLE [running fonvard from behind]. lud ! he 11 murder my poor boy, my darling ! Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my money, my life, but spare that young gentleman; spare my cliild, if you have any mercy. HARDCASTLE. jNIv wife, as Tm a Christian. From whence can she come? or what does she mean? MRS HARDCASTLE [kneehng]. Take compassion on us, good Mr Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will never bring you to justice ; indeed we won t, good ^Ir Highwayman. • HARDCASTLE. 1 believe the woman's out of her senses. What, Doro- thy, don t you know me ? MRS HARDCASTLE. Mr Hardcastle, as Tm alive! My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here. SHE STOOI»S TO CONQUER. r,27, in this frijjhtfiil place, so far from home? What has l)mii<;lit you to follow us? HARDCASTLE. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits? So far from homo, when von are Avithin forty yards of your own door ! [To him. ] Tliis is one of your old tricks, you grace- less rogue you. [To her. ] Don't you know the gate and the mulberry-tree; and don't you remember the horse-pond, my dear? MRS HARDCASTLE. Yes, I shall remember the horse-pond as long as I live ; I have caught my death in it. [To tonv] And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all this ? I 11 teach you to abuse your mother, I will. TONY. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on \. MRS HARDCASTLE. Ill spoil you, I will. [Follows him off the stage. Exit. HARDCASTLE. There's morality, however, in his reply. [Exit. Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE. HASTINGS. My dear Constance, why will you deliberate thus? If we delay a moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall soon be out of the reach of her malignity. Miss NEVILLE. I find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger. Two or three years' patience will at last crown us with happiness. 21. 324 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. HASTINGS. Such a leclious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us fly, my charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very moment. Perish fortune ! Love and content wiU increase what mc possess beyond a monarch s revenue. Let me prevail . -MISS NEVILLE. No, Mr Hastings, no. Prudence once more comes to my rehef and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of passion, fortune may be despised, but it ever produces a lasting} repentance. I'm resolved to apply to Mr Hard- castle's compassion and justice for redress. HASTINGS. But thonjjh he had the will, he has not the power to relieve you. Miss NEVILLE. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to rely. HASTINGS. I have no hopes. But since you persist, I must reluc- tantly obey you. [Exeunt. SCENE CHANGES. Enter SIR CHARLES MARLOW and MISS HARDCASTLE. SIR CHARLES. What a situation am I in! If what you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all others, I most wished for a dau{jhter. MISS HARDCASTLE. I am pioud of your approbation ; and to show I merit it, SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 525 if you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his o\|>l|^it declaration. lUit he comes. SIR CHARLES. rU to your father, and keep him to the appointment. [ I'Ait SIR CHARLES. Enter MARLOW. MARLOW. Thou{jh prepared for settinjj out, I come once more to tiike leave; nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel in the separation. MISS HARDCASTLE [in lier own natural manner]. I believe these sufferings cannot be very great, sir, which you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the little value of what you now think proper to regret. MARLOW [aside]. This girl every moment improves upon me. [To her. j It must not be, madam. I have already trifled too long Avith my heart. My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of education and fortune, the anger of a j)ai-ent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight; and nothing can restore me to myself but this painful effort of resolution. MISS HARDCASTLE. Then go, sir: l\\ urge nothing more to detain you. Though my family be as good as hers you came down to visit, and my education, I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages without equal affluence? I must remain contented with the slight approbation of imputed merit ; 1 must have only the mockery of your addresses, Avhile all your serious aims are fixed on fortune. 526 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Enter HARDCASTLE and Slli CHARLES MARLOW, from behind. SIR CHARLES. Here, behind this screen. HARDCASTLE. Ay, ay; make no noise. Til engage my Kate covers him with confusion at last. MARLOW. By Heavens ! madam, fortune was ever my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who could see that without emotion? But every moment that I converse with you, steals in some new grace, heigh- tens the picture, and gives it stronger expression. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined sim- plicity. ^Vhat seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and conscious virtue. SIR CHARLES. ^Vhat can it mean? He amazes me ! HARDCASTLE. I told you how it would be. Hush ! MARLOW. I am now determined to stay, madam, and I have too good an opinion of my father s discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. MISS HARDCASTLE. No, Mr Marlow, I will not, cannot detain vou. Do you think I could suffer a connexion in which there is the small- est room for rejjcntance ? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion to load you with confusion? Do you diink I could ever relish that happi- ness which was acquired by lessening yours ? MARLOW. By all that's good, I can have no haj^piness but what's SUE STOOPS TO COiNQLEU. 327 in your power to {jrant me! Nor shall I ever feel repent- ance but in not havin{» seen your merits before. I will stay even contrary to your wishes ; and tliou{j;h you should pei- sist to shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct. MISS HARDCASTLE. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. As oui" acquainUmce began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have given an hour or two to levity ; but seriously, Mr IMarlow, do you think I could ever submit to a connexion where I must appear mercenary, and you imprudent? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirer ? MAHLOW [kneeling]. Does this look like security? Does this look like confi- dence? No, madam, every moment that shows me your merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me continue SIR CHARLES. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your indifference, your unin- teresting conversation? HARDCASTLE. Your cold contempt ; your formal interview ! What have you to say now? MARLOW. That I 'm all amazement! What can it mean? HARDCASTLE. It means that you can say and unsay things at pleasure : that you can address a lady in private, and deny it in public : that you have one story for us, and another for my daughter. 528 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. ?r? MARLOW. Daughter ! — This lady your daughtei HARDGASTLE. Yes, su', my only daughter : my Kate ; whose else should she he ? MARLOW. Oh, the devil ! MISS HARDGASTLE. Yes, sir, that very identical tall squinting lady you were pleased to take me for; [courtesyine] she that you addressed as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agreeable Rattle of the ladies' club. Ha ! ha! ha! MARLOW. Zounds, there s no bearing this ; it s worse than death ! MISS HARDGASTLE. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us leave to address you? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; or the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs Mantrap, and old Miss Riddy Ruckskin, till three in the morning? — Ha! ha! ha! MARLOW. O, curse on my noisy head ! I never attempted to be impudent yet that I was not taken down ! I must be gone. HARDGASTLE. Ry the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and f am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. 1 know she'll forgive you. Won't you for{{ive him, Kate? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. [They retire, slic tormenting him to the back scene. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEIl. 529 Enter MRS HARDCASTLE, TONY. MRS HARDCASTLE. So, SO, they Ve gone off. Let them go, I care not. HARDCASTLE. Who gone? MRS HARDCASTLE. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr Hastings, from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here. SIR CHARLES. Who, my honest George Hastings ? As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice. HARDCASTLE. Then, by the hand of my body, I 'm proud of the con- nexion. MRS HARDCASTLE. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her fortune; that remains in this family to console us for her loss. HARDCASTLE. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary? MRS HARDCASTLE. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. HARDCASTLE. But you know if your son^ when of age, reftises to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal. MRS HARDCASTLE. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought proper to wait for his refusal . 330 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE. MRS HARDCASTLE [aside]. What, returned so soon ! I begin not to like it. HASTINGS [to HARDCASTLE]. For my late attempt to fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded in duty. MISS NEVILLE. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to dissi- mulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my fortune to secure my choice : but I 'm now recovered from the delusion, and hope from your tenderness what is denied me from a nearer con- nexion. MRS HARDCASTLE. Pshaw, pshaw; this is all but the whining end of a modern novel, HARDCASTLE. Be it what it will, I 'm glad they're come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand whom I now offer you. TONY. Wliat signifies my refusing? You know I cant refuse her tifl J m. of age, father. HARDCASTLE. while I tliought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mothers desire to keep it secret. But since I find she SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. JO I liinis it to a \vron{] use, 1 must now declare you lia\e been of ajje these three months. TONY. Of age! Am I of age, father? HARDCASTLE. Above three months. TONY. Then you 11 see the first use I 11 make of my liberty. [ Taking MISS NEVILLE'S hand. ] Wituess all meti by these pre- sents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. SIR CHARLES. O brave Squire ! HASTINGS. My worthy fiiend ! MRS HARDCASTLE. My undutiful offspring ! MARLOW. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less ar])i- trary, I should be the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favour. HASTINGS [to MISS HARDCASTLE]. Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I in sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him. HARDCASTLE [joining their hands J. And I say so too. And, Mr Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't believe you 11 332 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather all the poor of the j)arisli about us, and the mistakes of ihe night shall be crowned with a merry morn- ing : so, boy, take her; and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mis- taken in the wife. [ Exeunt omnes. EPILOGUE, BY DR GOLDSMITH SPOKEN BY MRS BULKLEY, IN THE CHARACTER OF MISS HARDCASTLE. Well, havin(j stoop'd to conquer with success, And gain d a husband without aid from dress, Still, as a bar-maid, [ could wish it too, As I have conquer d him to conquer you : And let me say, for all your resolution, That pretty bar-maids have done execution. Our life is all a play, composed to please, « We have our exits and our entrances. » The first act shows the simple country maid, Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ; Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning action, « I hopes as how to give you satisfaction. » Her second act displays a livelier scene — The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn. Who whisks about the house, at market caters. Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, The chop-house toast of ojjling connoisseurs. 534 EPILOGUE. On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts, And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts — And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, E'en common-councilmen forget to eat. The fourth act shows her Avedded to the squire, And madam now begins to hold it higher ; Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro ! And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro : Boats upon dancing, and in all her pride Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside : Ogles and leers with artificial skill, Till, having lost in age the power to kill. She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. Such, through our lives the eventful history — The fifth and last act still remains for me. The bar-maid now for your protection prays. Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays. epilogue; TO HE Sl'OKEN IN THE CHAnACTEH OF TONY LUMPKIN. Hy J. CRADOCK, Esq. Well — now all's ended — and my comrades gone, Pray what becomes of mother s nonly son? A hopeful blade ! — in town Til fix my station, And try to make a bluster in the nation : As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her. Off — in a crack — I'll carry big Bet Bouncer. Why should not 1 in the great world appear? I soon shall have a thousand pounds a-year ! No matter what a man may here inherit. In London — 'gad, they've some regard to spirit. T see the horses prancing up the streets. And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; Then hoiks to jigs and pastimes, every night — Not to the plays — they say it a' n't polite ; ' This came too late to be spoken. 556 EPILOGUE. To Sadler s Wells, perhaps, or operas go. And once, by chance, to the roratorio. Thus here and there, for ever up and down, We 11 set the fashions too to half the town ; And then at auctions — money ne'er regard, Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a-yard : Zounds ! we shall make these London gentry say, We know what's damn d genteel as well as they. AN ORATORIO. NOW FIRST PRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL IN I)K goldsmith's HAND-WRITING. VOL. II. 22 THE PERSONS. FIRST JEWISH PROPHET. SECOND JEWISH PROPHET. ISRAELITISH WOMAN. FIRST CHALDEAN PRIEST. SECOND CHALDEAN PRIEST. CHALDEAN WOMAN. CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS. SCENE THE BANKS OF THE RIVER EUPHRATES, NEAI! ItARYI.ON. ACT I. FIRST PROPHKT. RECITATIVE. Ye captive tribes, that hourly w^ork and weep Where flows Euphrates murmuriu}! to the deep, Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend, And turn to God, your father and your friend. Insulted, chain d, and all the world our foe, Our God alone is all we boast below. • AIR. FIRST PROPHET. Our God is all we boast below. To him we turn our eyes ; And every added weight of woe Shall make our homage rise. SECOND PROPHET. And though no temple richly dressed, Nor sacrifice are here ; 22. 310 ORATORIO. We 11 make his temple in om* breast, And offer up a tear. [The first Stanza repeated by the CHORUS. I.SRAELITISH WOMAN. RECITATIVE. That Strain once more ; it bids remembrance rise, And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes. Ye fields of Sharon, dressed in flowery pride, Ye plains where Kedron rolls its glassy tide, Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd, Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around, How sw ect those groves, that plain how wondrous fair, How^ doid)ly sw eet when Heaven was with us there ! AIR. O memory, thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain^ To former jovs recurring ever. And turning all the past to pain. Hence intruder most distressing. Seek the happy and the free : The wretch who wants each other blessing, Ever wants a friend in thee. SECOND PROPHET. RECITATIVE. Yet why complain? \Vhat though by bonds confined, Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind? ORATORIO. 7)41 Have we not cause for triumph, Avlion we see Ourselves alone from idol worship free? Are not this very morn those feasts hejjun \V here prostrate error hails the rising sun? Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain For superstitious rites and mirth profane? And should we mourn? Should coward virtue fly, When vaunting folly lifts her head on high ? No ; rather let us triumph still the more, And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar. AlK. The triumphs that on vice attend Shall ever in confusion end ; The good man suffers but to gain, And every virtue springs from pain : As aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow ; But crush'd, or trodden to the ground, Diffuse their balmy sweets around. FIRST PROPHET. RECITATIVE. But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near. The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear ; Triumphant music floats along the vale. Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale ; The growing sound their swift approach declares, Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs. 04 42 OI{x\TORIO. Eiiicr CHALDEAN PRIESTS aitcmlLd. FIRST PfilEST. AIR. Come on, my companions, the triumph display, Let rapture the minutes employ. The sun calls us out on this festival dav, And our monarch partakes in the joy. SECOND PRIEST. Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies, Roth similar blessings bestow ; The sun with his splendour illumines the skies. And our monarch enlivens below. AIR. CHALDEAN WWMAN. Haste, yesjjriphtly sons of pleasure. Love presents the fairest treasure. Leave all other joys for me. A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT. Or ratlier, love\s delights despising, Haste to raptures ever rising. Wine shall bless the brave and free. OliATOUlO. "Slxh FIRST PRIEST. Wine and beauty thus inviting, Each to different joys exciting, ^Vhither shall my choice inchnc? SECOND PRIEST. I '11 waste no longer thought in choosing, Hut, neither this nor that refusing, 1 W make them both together mine. FIRST PRIEST. RECITATIVE. But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land, This sullen gloom in J udah's captive band ? Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung? Or why those harps on yonder willows hung ? Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along, The day demands it ; sing us Sion s song. Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir, For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre? AIR. Every moment as it flows Some peculiar pleasure owes. Come then, providently wise, Seize the debtor ere it flies. 544 ORATORIO. SECOND PRIEST. Think not to-morrow can repay The debt of pleasure lost to-day. Alas ! to-morrow's richest store Can but pay its proper score. SECOND PROPHET. RECITATIVE. Chain d as we are, the scorn of all mankind, To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd, Is this a time to bid us raise the strain, Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain ? No, never. May this hand forget each art That wakes to finest joys the human heart, Ere I forjjet the land that gave me birth, Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth ! SECOND PRIEST. Rebellious slaves ! if soft persuasion fail. More formidable terrors shall prevail. FIRST PROPHET. Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer — We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear. fEveiint CHALDEANS. OKATOUK). 3/i5 CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. Can chains or tortures bend the mind On God's supporting breast rechned? Stand fost, and let our tyrants see That fortitude is victory. [Exeunt. T. /, '>46 OR AT Oil 10. ACT II. ISRAELITES and CHALDEANS, as before. i FIRST PROPHET. AIR. O peace of mind, angelic guest, Thou soft companion of the breast, Dispense thy balmy store ! Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies, Till earth, receding from our eyes, Shall vanish as we soar. FIRST PROPHET. RECITATIVE. No more. Too long has justice been delay d, The king's commands must fully be obeyed ; Compliance with his will your peace secures. Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. Hut if, rebellious to his high command. You spurn the favours offer d from his hand, Tbink, timely think, what terrors are behind ; Iicflect, nor tempt to Vage the royal mind. on A J OHIO. 547 AIR. Fierce is the tempest howlinj; Alony the fiirrow'd main, And fierce the whirlwind roHin{; O'er Afric s sandy plain. But storms that fly To rend the sky, Every ill presaging. Less dreadful show To worlds helow Than angry monarch's raging. ISRAELITISII WOMAN. RECITATIVE. xVh me ! what angry terrors round us grow. How shrinks my soul to meet the threatened blow Ye prophets, skilled in Heaven s eternal truth, Forgive my sex s fears, forgive my youth ! Ah ! let us one, one little hour obey ; To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away. AIR. Fatigued with life, yet lodi to part, On hope the wretch relies ; And every blow that sinks the heart liids the deliider rise. 548 ORATORIO. Hope, like the taper s gleamy light, Adorns the wretch's way ; And still, as darker grows the night. Emits a brighter ray. SECOND PRIEST. RECITATIVE. Why this delay? At length for joy prepare. I read your looks, and see compliance there. Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise. Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies. Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre, The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire. CHALDEAN WOMAN. AIR. See the ruddy morning smiling. Hear the grove to bliss beguiling ; Zephyrs through the woodland playing. Streams along the valley straying. FIRST PRIEST. while these a constant revel keep. Shall reason only teach to weep? Hence, intruder ! we 11 pursue Nature, a better guide than you. OHATORIO. Ti^Q SECOIND PRIEST RECITATIVE. But hold ! see, foremost of the captive choir, The master-propliet grasps his full-toned lyre. Mark where he sits with executin*; art, Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart ; Sec how prophetic rapture fills his form. Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm. And now his voice, accordant to the string, Prepares our monarch's victories to sing. FIRST PROPHET. AIR. From north, from south, from east, from west, Conspiring nations come ; Tremhle, thou vice-polluted breast ; Blasphemers, all he dumb. The tempest gathers all around, On Babvlon it lies ; Down with her ! down, do^vn to the ground She sinks, she groans, she dies. SECOND PROPHET. Down with hoi , Lord, to lick the dust. Before yon setting sun ; Serve her as she hath served the just ! 'Tis fix d— It shall be done. 550 ORATOIIIO. FIRST PRIEST. KECITATIVE. No more ! when slaves thus insolent presume, The kinj; himself shall judge, and fix their doom. I'nthiiiking wretches ! have not you, and all, Heheld our power in Zedekiah's fall? To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes ; See where dethroned your captive monarch lies, Deprived of sight, and rankling in his chain ; See where he mourns his friends and children slain. Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confined. CHORUS OF ALL. Arise, all potent ruler, rise, And vindicate thy people's cause ; Till every tongue in every land Shall offer up imfeignVl applause. [Exeunt. OFiATORTO. 7)51 ACT III. RECITATIVE. FIRST PRIEST. Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are pass'd. And our fix'd empire shall for ever last : In vain the maddening prophet threatens woe, In vain rebellion aims her secret blow ; Still shall our name and growing power be spread, And still our justice crush the traitor's head. AIR. Coeval Avith man Our empire began. And never shall fall Till ruin shakes all. ^Vhen ruin shakes all. Then shall Babylon (all. SECOND PROPHET. KECITATiVE. 'Tis thus the pjoud triumphant rear the head, A little while, and all their power is fled. 552 ORATORIO. But, ha ! what means yon sadly plaintive train, That onward slowly bends along the plain? And now, behold, to yonder bank they bear A pallid corse, and rest the body there. Alas J too well mine eyes indignant trace The last remains of Judah's royal race. FalFn is our King, and all our fears are o'er, Unhappy Zedekiah is no more. AIR. Ye wretches who by fortune's hate In want and sorrow groan, Come ponder his severer fate, And learn to bless your own. FIRST PROPHET. You vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, Awhile the bliss suspend ; Like yours, his life began in pride. Like his, your lives shall end. FIRST PROPHET. HECITATIVE. Rehold his wretched corse with sorrow worn, His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn ; Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare, Those unbecoming rags, that matted hair ! And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe. Grasp the red boh, and lay the guilty low? OUATOJUO. 5'i3 How lon{;, liovv lon{j, Alnii{;hty God ol all, Shall Avrath >iiulictivc threaten ere it fall ! JSliAKUriSlI WOMAN. Ml'.. As pantinj; flies the hunted hind, Where brooks refreshing stray ; And rivers through the valley wind, That stop the hunter s way. Thus we, O Lord, alike distressed. For streams of mercy long ; Streams whicli cheer the sore oppressed, And overwhelm the strong. i<'insT PROPiiin. RECITATIVE. But whence that shout? Good heavens ! amazement all ! See yonder tower just nodding to the fall : Behold, an army covers all the ground, Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round : — And now behold the battlements recline — O God of hosts, the a ictory is thine ! CHORUS OF CAPTIVES. Down with them. Lord, to lick the dust ; Thy vengeance be begun ; Serve them as they have served the just. And let thv will be done. VOL. II. 23 354 ORATOR [Q. FIRST PRIEST. HECITATIVE. All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails, Cvrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails. The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along, — How low the proud, how feeble are the strong ! Save us, O Lord ! to Thee, though late, we pray ; And give repentance but an hour s delay. FIRST AND SECOND PRIEST. AIR. O happy, who in happy hour To God their praise bestow. And own his all-consuming power Before thev feel the blow ! SECOND PROPHET. RECITATIVE. Now, now\s our time ! ye wretches bold and blind, Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind, Ye seek in vain the Lord unsought before. Your wealth, your lives, your kingdom, are no more. AIR. O Lucifer, thou son of morn, Of Heaven alike and man the foe ; OUATOIUU 31)5 Heaven, men, and all, Now press thy lall, And sink thee lowest of the low. FIRST PUOPHET. O Babylon, how art thou fallen ! Thy fall more dreadful from delay ! Thy streets forlorn To Vvilds shall turn. Where toads shall pant, and vultures prey. SECOND PROPHET. RECITATIVE, Such be her fate. But hark ! how from afar The clarion's note proclaims the finished war Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand, And this way leads his formidable band. Give, give your songs of Sion to the wind, And hail the benefactor of mankind : He comes pursuant to divine decree. To chain the strong, and set the captive free. CHORUS OF YOUTHS. Rise to transports past expressing, Sweeter by remember'd woes ; Cyrus comes our wrongs redressing, Comes to give the world repose. 556 OIIATOKIO. CHORUS OF VIKGIXS. Cyrus comes, the world redressing, Love and pleasure in his train ; Comes to heighten every blessing, Comes to soften everv pain. SEMI-CHORUS. Hail to him with mercy reigning, Skiird in every peaceful art ; Who from bonds our limbs unchaining, ( )nly binds the wilhng heart. THE LAST CHORUS. but chief to thee, our God, defender, friend. Let praise be given to all eternity ; O Thou, without beginning, without end. Let us and all begin, and end, in Thee. THF, PREFACE TO DOCTOR BROOKES'S NEW A^D ACCURATE SYSTEM OF NATURAL HISTORY. PUBLISHED IN MDCCIAIll. PREFACE Of all the studies which have employed the industrious or amused the idle, perhaps natural history deserves the pre- ference : other sciences generally terminate in doubt, or rest in bare speculation ; but here every step is marked with certainty; and, while a description of the objects around us teaches to supply our wants, it satisfies our curiosity. The multitude of nature's productions, however, seems at first to bewilder the inquirer, rather than excite his attention ; the various wonders of the animal, vegetable, or mineral world, seem to exceed all powers of computa- tion, and the science appears barren from its amazing fer- tility. But a nearer acquaintance with this study, by giving method to our researches, points out a similitude in many objects which at first appeared different; the mind by de- grees rises to consider the things before it in general lights, till at length it finds nature, in almost every instance, act- ing with her usual simplicity. Among the number of philosophers who, undaunted by their supposed variety, have attempted to give a descrip- tion of the productions of nature, Aristotle deserves the first place. This great philosopher was furnished, by his 560 PREFACE TO pupil Alexander, with all that the then known world could produce to comph^te his design. By such parts of his work as have escaped the wreck of time, it appears, that he understood nature more clearly, and in a more comprehensive maimer, than even the present age, enlight- ened as it is with so many later discoveries, can boast. His design a])pears vast, and his knowledge extensive ; he only considers things in general lights, and leaves every subject when it becomes too minute or remote to be useful. In his History of Animals, he first describes man, and makes him a standard with which to compare the deviations in every more imperfect kind that is to follow. But if he has excelled in the history of each, he, together Avith Pliny and Theophrastus, has failed in the exactness of their descrip- tions. There are manv creatures, described bv those natu- ralists of antiquitv, which are so imperfectly characterized, that it is impossible to tell to what animal now subsisting we can refer the description. This is an unpardonable neglect, and alone sufficient to depreciate their merits ; but their credulity, and the mutilations they have suffered by time, have rendered them still less useful, and justify each subsequent attempt to improve what they have left behind. The most laborious, as well as the most voluminous natu- ralist among the moderns, is Aldrovandus. He was fur- nished with every requisite for making an extensive body of natural history. He was learned and rich, and during the course of a long life, indefatigable and accurate. But his works are insupportably tedious and disgusting, filled with unnecessary quotations and unimportant digressions. Whatever learning he had he was willing should be known, and, unwearied himself, he supposed his readers could never tire : in short, he appears a useful assistant to those who would compile a body of natural history, but is ut- 1)11 liJKJOKKS'S NATLIIAI. UI8TOHV. 7)6\ terlv iinsuited to such as only wish to read it with jirofit and dehght. Gesner and Jonston, wiihng to abrid^jc the voluminous productions of Aldrovandus, have attempted to reduce natural history into method, but their efforts have been so incomplete as scarcely to deserve mentioning. Their at- tempts w ere improved upon, some time after, by Mr Ray, whose method we have adopted in the history of quadru- peds, birds, and fishes, which is to follow. No systema- tical writer has been more happy than he in reducing natural history into a form, at once the shortest, yet most comprehensive. The subsequent attempts of Mr Klein and Linnaeus, it is true, have had their admirers, but, as all methods of classing the productions of nature are calculated merely to ease the memory and enlighten the mind, that writer who answers such ends with brevity and perspicuity, is most worthy of regard. And, in this respect, Mr Ray undoubt- edly remains still without a rival : he was sensible that no accurate idea could be formed from a mere distribution of animals in particular classes ; he has therefore ranged them according to their most obvious qualities ; and, content with brevity in his distribution, has employed accuracy only in the particular description of every animal. This intentional inaccuracy only in the general system of Ray, Klein and Linnaeus have undertaken to amend ; and thus by multiplying divisions, instead of impressing the mintl with distinct ideas, they only serve to confound it, making the language of the science more difficult than even the science itself. All order whatsoever is to be used for the sake of bre- vity and perspicuity; we have therefore followed that of Mr Ray in preference to the rest, whose method of classinj; 562 PREFACE TO animals, though not so accurate, perhaps, is yet more ob- vious, and being shorter, is more easily remembered. In his life-time he published his « Synopsis Methodica Quad- rupedum et Serpentini Generis," and, after his death, there came out a posthumous work under the care of Dr Derham, which, as the title-page informs us, was revised and perfected before his death. Both the one and the other have their merits ; but as he wrote currente calamo, for sub- sistence, they are consequently replete with errors, and though his manner of treating natural history be prefer- able to that of all others, yet there was still room for a new work, that might at once retain his excellencies, and supply his deficiencies. As to the natural history of insects, it has not been so long or so greatly cultivated as other parts of this science. Our own countryman Moufett is the first of any note that I have met with who has treated this subject with success. However, it was not till lately that it was reduced to a re- gular system, which might be, in a great measure, owing to the seeming insignificancy of the animals themselves, even though they were always looked upon as of great use in medicine ; and upon that account only have been taken notice of by many medical writers. Thus Dioscorides has treated of their use in physic ; and it must be owned, some of them have been well worth observation on this account. There were not wanting also those who long since had thoughts of reducing this kind of knowledge to a regular form, among whom was Mr Ray, who was discouraged by the difficulty attending it : this study has been pursued of late, however, with diligence and success. Reaumur and Swammerdam have principally distinguished themselves on this account ; and their respective treatises plainly show, that they did not spend their labour in vain. Since their DR BROOKES'S NATURAL HISTORY. 7>C>:^ lime, several audiors have published their systems, amonjj whom is LinnfEus, whose method beiny generally esteem- ed, I have thought proper to adopt. He has classed them in a very regular manner, though he says but little of the insects themselves. However, I have endeavoured to sup- ply that defect from other parts of his works, and fiom other authors w ho have written upon this subject ; by which means, it is hoped, the curiosity of such as delight in these studies will be in some measure satisfied. Such of them as have been more generally admired, have been longest insisted upon, and particidarly caterpillars and butterflies, relative to which, perhaps, there is the largest catalogue that has ever appeared in the English language. Mr Edwards and Mr Buffon, one in the History of Birds, the other of Quadrupeds, have undoubtedly deserved highly of the public, as far as their labours have extended ; but as they have hitherto cultivated but a small part in the wide field of natural history, a comprehensive system in this most pleasing science has been hitherto wanting. Nor is it a little surprising, when every other branch of literature has been of late cultivated with so much success among us, how this most interesting department should have been neglected. It has been long obvious that Aristotle was incomplete, and Pliny credulous, Aldrovandus too prolix, and Linnaius too short, to afford the proper entertainment; yet we have had no attempts to supply their defects, or to give a history of nature at once complete and concise, cal- culated at once to please and improve. How far the author of the present performance has ob- viated the wants of the public in these respects, is left to the world to determine ; this nnich, however, he may with- out vanity assert, that whether the system here presented be approved or not, he has left the science in a bettei- state 364 PREFACE TO than he found it. He has consulted every author whom he imafrined nii^jht give him new and authentic information, and painfully searched through heaps of lumber to detect falsehood ; so that many parts of the following work have exhausted much labour in the execution, though they maY discover little to the superficial observer. ISor have I neglected any opportunity that offered of conversing upon these subjects with travellers, upon whose judgments and veracity I could rely. Thus comparing accurate narrations \vith what has been already written, and following either, as the circumstances or credibility of the witness led me to believe. But I have had one advan- tage over almost all former naturalists, namely, that of having visited a variety of countries myself, and examined the productions of each upon the spot. Whatever Ame- rica or the known parts of Africa have produced to excite curiosity, has been carefully observed by me, and com- pared with the accounts of others. By this I have made some improvements that m ill appear in their place, and have been less liable to be imposed upon by the hearsay relations of credulity. A complete, cheap, and commodious body of natural history being wanted in our language, it was these advan- tages which prompted me to this undertaking. Such, therefore, as choose to range in the delightful fields of nature, will, I flatter myself, here find a proper guide ; and those who have a design to furnish a cabinet, Avill find co- pious instructions. With one of these volumes in his hand, a spectator may go through the largest museum, the British not excepted, see nature through all her varieties, and com- pare her usual operations with those wanton productions in which she seems to sport with human sagacity. I have DU IJHOOKES'S NATUliAL lirSTORY. 565 been sparing, however, in the description ot the deviations irom the usual course of pioduction ; first, because such are almost infinite, and the natural historian, who sliould spend his time in describing deiornied nature, would be as absurd as the statuary, who should fix upon a deformed man from whom to take his model of perfection. But I would not raise expectations in the reader which it may not be in my power to satisfy : he who takes up a hook of science must not expect to ac([uire knowledge at the same easy rate that a reader of romance does enter- tainment; on the contrary, all sciences, and natural history among the rest, have a language and a manner of treatment peculiar to themselves ; and he who attempts to dress them in borrowed or foreign ornaments, is every whit as use- lessly employed as the German apothecary we are told of, who turned the whole dispensatory into verse. It will be sufficient for me, if the following system is found as pleas- ing as the nature of the subject will bear, neither obscured by an unnecessary ostentation of science, nor lengthened out by an affected eagerness after needless embellishment. The description of every object will be found as clear and concise as possible, the design not being to amuse the ear with well-turned periods, or the imagination m ith bor- I owed ornaments, but to impress the mind Avith the sim- plest views of nature. To answer this end more distinctly, a picture of such animals is given as we are least acquainted \A ith. All that is intended by this is, only to guide the in- ([uirer with more certainty to the object itself, as it is to be Ibund in nature. I never would advise a student to apply lo any science, either anatomy, physic, or natural history, by looking on pictures only ; they may serve to direct hiuj more readilv lo the o})|e(ts intended, but he must by no 366 PREFACE, ktc. means suppose Iiimsell possessed of adequate and distinct ideas, till he has viewed the things themselves, and not their representations. Copper-plates, therefore, moderately well done, answer the learner s purpose every whit as well as those which cannot he purchased but at a vast expense ; they serve to guide us to the archetypes in nature, and this is all that the finest picture should be permitted to do, for nature herself ought always to be examined by the learner before he has done. INTRODUCTION TO A NEW HISTORY OF THE WORLD; INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN PUBMSHED IN TWELVE VOLUMES, OCTAVO, BY J. NEAVBERY, 1 764. ^ •■ TO THE PUBTJC. Experience every day convinces us, that no part of learn- ing affords so much wisdom upon such easy terms as his- tory. Our advances in most other studies are slow and disgusting, acquired with effort, and retained with diffi- culty ; hut in a well-written history, every step we proceed only serves to increase our ardour : we profit by the expe- rience of others, without sharing their toils or misfortunes ; and in this part of knowled(>e, in a more particular manner, study is but relaxation. Of all histories, however, that which is not confined to any particular reign or country, but which extends to the transactions of all mankind, is the most useful and enter- taining. As in geography we can have no just idea of the situation of one country, without knowing that of others ; so in history it is in some measure necessary to be ac- quainted with the whole thoroughly to comprehend a part. A knowledge of universal history is therefore highly useful, nor is it less entertaining. Tacitus complains, that the transactions of a few reigns could not afford him a suffi- cient stock of materials to please or interest the reader; but here that objection is entirely removed ; a Histoiy ol the World presents the most striking events, with the greatest variet\\ VOL. II. 24 ^^o 570 INTRODUCTION TO A NEW These are a part of the many advantages which universal historv has over all others, and which have encouraged so nianv wiitcrs to attempt compiling works of this kind among the ancients, as well as the moderns. Each in- vited hy the manifest utility of the design, vet many of them foiling through the great and unforeseen difficulties of the undertaking ; the barrenness of events in the early periods of history, and their fertility in modern times, equallv serving to increase their embarrassments. In re- counting the transactions of remote antiquity, there is such a defect of materials, that the willingness of mankind to supply the chasm has given birth to falsehood, and in- vited conjectiu'e. The farther we look back into those dis- tant periods, all the objects seem to become more obscure, or are totally lost, by a sort of perspective diminution. In this case, therefore, when the eye of truth could no longer discern clearly, fancy undertook to form the picture; and fables were invented where truths were wanting. For this reason, we have declined enlarging on such disquisi- tions, not for M'ant of materials, which offered themselves at every step of our progress, but because we thought them not worth discussing. Neither have we encumbered the beginning of our work with the various opinions of the heathen philosophers concerning the creation, which may be found in most of our systems of theology, and belong more properly to the divine than the historian. Sensible how liable we are to redimdancy in this first part of our design, it has been our endeavour to unfold ancient history with all possijjle conciseness ; and, solicitous to improve the reader s stock of knowledge, we have been indifferent as to the display of our own. We have not stopped to discuss oi confute; all the absurd conjectures men of speculation liav(; thrown in our way. We at first had even determined HISTOllY OV TIIK WOULD. 1571 not to deform the page ol truth Avith the names oi tiiose, whose labours had only been calculated to encumber it Avith fiction and vain speculation. However, we have thought jjropci-, upon second thoughts, slightly to inon- tion them and their opinions, quoting the author at the bottom of the page, so that the reader, who is curious about such particularities, mav kno^v where to have re- coiuse for fuller information. As, in the early part of history, a want of real facts halh induced many to spin out the little that was known with conjecture, so in the modern part, the superfluitv of trifling anecdotes was equally apt to introduce confusion. In one case, history has been rendered tedious, from our want of knowing the truth ; in the other, from knowing too much of truth not worth our notice. Every year that is added to the age of the world, serves to lengthen the thread of its history; so that, to give this branch of learning a just length in the circle of human pursuits, it is necessary to abridge several of the least important facts. It is true, we often at present see the annals of a single reign, or even the transactions of a single year, occupying folios : but can the writers of such tedious journals ever hope to reach posterity, or do they think that oui- descendants, whose attention will naturally be turned to their OM'n concerns, can exhaust so much time in tlie examination of ours? A plan of general history, rendered too extensive, deters us from a study that is perhaps, of all others, the most useful, by rendering it too laborious ; and, instead oi^illuiing our curiosity, excites our despair. \Vriters are Unpardonable who convert our amusement into labour, and divest knowledge of one of its most pleasing allurements. The ancients have repiesented history luider the figure of a Avoman, easy, graceful, and inviting ; but we have seen her 572 INTUODUCTION TO A NEW ill our days converted, like the viqpn of Nabis, into an inslniinent of torture. How far ^^e have retrenched these excesses, and steered l)ctween the opposites of exuberance and abridgment, the judicious are left to determine. We here offer the public a llistorv of mankind, from the earliest accounts of time to the jircsent age, in tw^elve volumes, which, upon mature deliberation, appeared to us the proper mean. It has been oin^ endeavour to give every fact its full scope ; but, at the same time, to retrench all disgusting superfluity, to fjive every object the due proportion it ought to maintain in tlic general picture of mankind, without croAvding the canvass. We hope, therefore, that the reader Mill here see the revolutions of empires without confusion, and trace arts and laws from one kingdom to another, without losing his interest in the narrative of their other transactions. To attain these ends with greater certainty of success, we have taken care, in some measure, to banish tbat late, and we may add Gothic, practice, of using a multiplicitv of notes ; a thing as much unknown to the ancient historians, as it is disgusting in the moderns. IJalzac somewhere calls vain erudition the baggage of antiquity ; might we in turn be permitted to make an apophthegm, we would call notes the baggage of a bad writer. It certainly argues a defect of method, or a want of perspicuitv, when an author is thus obhged to write notes upon his own works; and it mav assurediv be said, that whoever undertakes to write a commciii upon himself, will for ever lemain without a rival his own commentator. We have, therefore, lopped off such excrescences, though not to any degree of affectation ; as sometimes an acknowledged blemish may be admitted into works of skill, either to cover a greater defect, or to take a nearer course to beantv. f laving mentioned the danger of UISTOKY OF Till-: WORLD. 575 alTcclation, il may be |)ro])cr Lo oIjsoi'vc, tliatas lliis, ol all delects, is most apt to insinuate itsellinto such a work, we have, therefore, been upon our {juard ajjainst it. Innova- tion, in a performance ol" this natuic, should l)y no means be attempted : tho>e names and spellings which have been used in our language for time immemorial, ought to con- tinue unaltered ; for, like states, they acquire a sort oi' Jus (liuturnoi possessionis, as the civilians express it, however unjust their original claims might have been. With respect to chronology and geography, the one oi" which fixes actions to time, while the otiier assigns then) to place, we have followed the most apj)roved methods among the moderns. All that was requisite in this, was to preserve one system of each invariably, and permit such as chose to adopt the plans of others to rectify our deviations to their own standard. If actions and things are made to preserve their due distances of time and place mutually with respect to each other, it matters little as to the dura- tion of them all with respect to eternity, or their situation with regard to the universe. Thus much we have thought proper to premise con- cerning a work which, however executed, has cost much labour and great expense. Had we for our judges the unbiassed and the judicious alone, few words would have served, or even silence would have been our best ad- dress ; but when it is considered that we have laboured for the public, that miscellaneous being, at variance within itself, from the differing influence of pride, prejudice, or incapacity; a public already sated Avith attempts of this nature, and in a manner unwilling to find out merit till forced upon its notice, we hope to be pardoned for thus endeavouring to show where it is presumed we have hatl a superiority. A Ilistorv of the AVorld to the present time. 574 iNTilODUGTION, inc. at once satisfactorv and succinct, calculated latlier for use than curiositv, to he lead rather than consulted, seeking applause from the readers feelin{>s, not from his igno- rance of learning, or affectation of heing thought learned : a history that may be puichased at an easy expense, yet that omits nothing material, delivered in a style correct, yet familiar, was wanting in our language ; and, though sensible of our own insufficiency, this defect we have at- tempted to supply. ^YlIatever reception the present age or posterity may give this work, we rest satisfied with our own endeavours to deserve a kind one. The completion ■ of our design has for some years taken up all the time 1 we could spare from other occupations, of less import- * anje indeed to the public, but probably more advanta- geous to ourselves. We are unwilling, therefore, to dis- miss this subject without observing, that the labour of so great a part of life should, at least, be examined with can- dour, and not carelessly confounded in that multiplicity of daily publications, which are conceived Avithout effort, are produced without praise, and sink without censure. THE PREFACE TO THE ROMAN HISTORY BY DR GOLDSMITH. FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR MDCCLXIX. PREFACE There are some subjects on which a writer must decline all attempts to acquire fame, satisfied with beinj^ obscurely useful. After such a number of Roman Histories, in al- most all languages, ancient and modern, it would be but imposture to pretend new discoveries, or to expect to offer any thing in a work of this kind, which has not been often anticipated by others. The facts which it relates have been a hunched times repeated, and every occurrence has been so variously considered, that learning can scarcely find a new anecdote, or genius give novelty to the old. [ hope, therefore, for the readers indulgence, if, in the following attempt, it shall appear, that my only aim was to supply a concise, plain, and unaffected narrative of the rise and de- cline of a well-known empire. I was contented to make such a book as could not fail of being serviceable, though of all others the most unlikely to promote the reputation of the writer. Instead, therefore, of pressing forward among the ambitious, I only claim the merit of knowing my own strength, and falling back among the hindmost ranks, with conscious inferiority. ! am not ignorant, however, that it Avoidd be no difficult tijsk to pursue the same art by Avhich many dull men, every ITS J»UEFACE TO THE ht a few hours spent in makin{> a proper selection would not be ill bestowed. Compilations of this kind are chiefly designed for such as either want leisure, skill, or fortune, to choose for them- selves ; for persons whose professions turn them to different pursuits, or who, not yet arrived at sufficient maturitv, require a guide to direct their application. To our youth, particularly, a publication of this sort may be useful ; since, if compiled with any share of jud{;ment, it may at once unite precept and example, show them what is beautiful, and inform them why it is so : I therefore offer this, to the best of my judgment, as the best collection that has as yet appeared ; tlu)ugh, as tastes are various, numbers will be of a very different opinion. iSIany, perhaps, may wish to see in it the poems of their favourite authors, others may wish that I had selected from works less generally read, and others still may wish that 1 had selected from their own. But my design was to give a useful, imalfccted compilation; one that might tend to advance the reader's vor,. 11. 26 402 PIlIiFACE TO THE taste, and not impress hiin with exalted ideas of mine. Nothing is so common, and yet so absmd, as affectation in criticism. The desire of being thought to have a more discerning tiiste than others, has often led writers to labour after error, and to he foremost in promoting deformity. In this compilation, 1 rim but few risks of that kind : every poem here is well known, and possessed, or the j)ubhc has been long mistaken, of peculiar merit; every poem has, as Aristotle expresses it, a beginning, a middle, and an end, in which, however trifling the rule may seem, most of the poetry in our language is deficient. I claim no merit in the choice, as it was obvious, for in all lan- guages best productions are most easily found. As to the short introductory criticisms to each poem, they are rather designed for boys than men ; for it M^ll be seen that I de- clined all refinement, satisfied with being obvious and sin- cere. In short, if this work be useful in schools, or amusing in the closet, the merit all belongs to others; I have no- thing to boast, and at best can expect, not applause but pardon. Oliver Goldsmith. THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. This seems to be Mr Pope's most finished production, and is, perhaps, the most perfect in our language. It ex- hibits stronger powers of imagination, more harmony of numbers, and a greater knowledge of the world than any other of this poet's works ; and it is probable, if our coun- try were called upon to show a spec;imen of their genius to foreigners, this would be the work fixed upon. BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH POETRY. M)7y IL PENSEROSO. I have heard a very judicious critic sav, that he had a higher idea ol Milton s style in poetry, from the two fol- lowing poems, than from his Paradise Lost. It is certain, the imagination shown in them is correct and strong. The introduction to both in irregular measure is borrowed from the Italians, and hurts an English ear. AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YAUD. This is a very fine poem, but overloaded with epithet. The heroic measure, with alternate rhyme, is very pro- perly adapted to the solemnity of the subject, as it is the slowest movement that our language admits of. The latter part of the poem is pathetic and interesting. * LONDON, CN IMITATION OF THE THIRD SATIRE OF JUVENAL. This poem of Mr Johnson's is the best imitation of the original that has appeared in our language, being possessed of all the force and satirical resentment of Juvenal. Imi- tation gives us a much truer idea of the ancients than even translation could do. THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS, IN IMITATION OF SPENSER. This poem is one of those hapj^inesses in which a poet excels himself, as there is nothing in all Shenstone Avhich any way approaches it in merit; and, though I dislike the imitations of onrold English ]ioets in general, yet, on this afi. i^04 PREFACE TO THE minute subject, the antiquity of the style produces a very hidicrous solemnity. COOPER'S HILL. This poem by Denham, thoufjh it may have been ex- ceeded by later attempts in description, yet deserves the liiahcst applause, as it far surpasses all that went before it : the concluding part, though a little too much crowded, is very masterly. ELOLSA TO ABELARD. The harmony of numbers in this poem is very fine. It is rather drawn out to too tedious a length, although the passions vary with great judgment. It may be considered as superiour to any thing in the epistolary way ; and the many translations which have been made of it into the modern languages, are in some measure a proof of this. AN EPISTLE FROM MR PHILIPS TO THE EARL OF DORSET. The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. The latter part is tedious and trifling. A LEITER FROM ITALY TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CilARLES LORD HALIFAX, lyoi. Few poems have done more honour to English genius itiantliis. There is in it a strain of political thinking that was, at that time, new in our poetry. Had the haimony BEAUTIES OF EINGLI8U l»UEJ4iY. 405 of tliis been equal to tluit ol Pope's versification, it would be incontestably the finest poem in our language; but there is a dryness in the nundjers, which gieatly lessens the pleasure excited both by the poefs judgment and imagination. ALEXANDER'S FEAST; or, THE POWER OF MUSIC. AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST CECILIa's DAY. This ode has been more applauded, perhaps, than it has been lelt ; however, it is a very fine one, and gives its beauties rather at a third or fourth than at a hrst perusal. ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST CECILIA'S DAY. This ode has by many been thought equal to the former. As it is a repetition of Dryden s manner, it is so far inferior to him. The wiiole hint of Orpheus, with many of the lines, has been taken from an obscure Ode upon INIusic, published in Tate's Miscellanies. THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK, IN SIX PASTORALS. These are Mr Gay s principal performance. They were originally intended, 1 suppose, as a burlesque on those of Philips ; but perliaps, without designing it, he has hit the true spirit of pastoral poetry. In fact, he more resembles Theocritus than any other English pastoral writer what- soever. There runs through the whole a strain of rustic pleasantry, which should ever distinguish this species of composition ; but how far the antiquated expressions used 406 PREFACE TO THE here may contribute to the liumour, I will not determine ; for my own part, I could wish the simplicity were pre- served, without reciuring to such obsolete antiquity for the manner of expressing it. MAC FLECKNOE. The severity of this satire, and the excellence of its versification, give it a distinguished rank in this species of composition. At present, an ordinary reader would scarce- ly suppose that Shadwell, who is here meant by Mac Flecknoe, Mas worth being chastised ; and that Dryden, descending to such game, was like an eagle stooping to catch flies. The truth however is, Shadwell at one time held divided reputation with this great poet. Every age produces its fashionable dunces, who, by following the transient topic or humour of the day, supply talkative ignorance with materials for conversation. ON POETRY.— A Rhapsody. Here follows one of the best versified poems in our lan- guage, and the most masterly production of its authoj*. The severity with which Walpole is here treated, was in consequence of that minister s having refused to provide for Swift in England, when applied to for that purpose, in the year 1726 (if I remember right). The severity of a poet, however, gave Walpole very little uneasiness. A man whose schemes, like this minister s, seldom extended beyond tlie exigency of the vear, but little regarded the contemj)t of posterity. ntAUTlES OF ENGLISH I'UK'l liY. 407 OV THE USE OF RICHES. This poem, as Mr Pope tells us himself, cost much atten- tion and lahoui' ; and from the easiness that appears in it, one would be apt to think as much. FROM THE DISPENSARY.— Canto VI. This sixth canto of the Dispensary, by Dr Garth, has more merit than the wliole preceding part of the poem, and, as I am told, in the first edition of this work, it is more correct than as here exhibited; but that edition T have not been able to find. The praises bestowed on this poem are more than have been given to any other; but our approbation at present is cooler, for it owed part of its fame to party. SELIM; OH, THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL. The following eclogues, written by Mr Collins, are very pretty ; the images, it must be owned, are not very local ; for the pastoral subject could not well admit of it. The description of Asiatic magnificence and manners is a sub- ject as yet unattempted amongst us, and, I believe, capable of furnishing a great variety of poetical imagery. THE SPLENDID SHILLING. This is reckoned the best parody of Milton in our language : it has been a hundred times imitated M'ithout success. The truth is, the first thing in this way must pre- clude all future attempts; for nothing is so easy as to bur- lesque any man s manner, when we are once showed the way. .508 PREFACE TO THE A PIPE or TOIJACCO, IN IMITATION OF SIX SEVERAL AVTHORS. Mr Hawkins Browne, the author of these, as I am told, had no good original manner of his own, yet we see how well he succeeds when he turns an imitator ; for the fol- lowing are rather imitations than ridiculous parodies. A NIGHT PIECE ON DEATH. The great fault of this piece, written by Dr Parnell, is, that it is in eight syllable lines, very improper for the so- lemnity of the subject; otherwise, the poem is natural, and the reflections just. A FAIRY TALE. By Dr Parnell. Never was the old manner of speaking more happily applied, or a tale better told, than this. PALEMON AND LAVINIA. Mr Thomson, though in geneial a verbose and affected poet, has told this story with unusual simplicity : it is ra- ther given here for being much esteemed by the public than bv the editor. THE BASTARD. Almost all things written from the heart, as this certainly was, have some merit. The poet here describes sorrows and misfortunes which were by no means imaginary ; and thus there runs a truth of thinking through this poem, without which it would be of little value, as Savage is, in other respects, but an indifferent poet. BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH POETJIV. U)9 THE POET AND HIS PATRON. Mr Moore was a poet that never had justice done him while livinjj; there are few of the moderns have a more correct taste, or a more pleasing manner of expressing their thonghts. It was upon these fables he chiefly found- ed his reputation, yet they are bv no means his best pro- duction. AN EPISTLE TO A LADY. This little poem, by Mr Nugent, is very pleasing. The easiness of the poetiy, and the justice of the thoughts, constitute its principal beauty. HANS CARVEL. This bagatelle, for which, by the by, Mr Prior has got his greatest reputation, was a tale told in all the old Italian collections of jests, and borrowed from thence by Fontiune. It had been translated once or twice before into English, yet was never regarded till it fell into the hands of Mr Prior. A strong instance how much every thing is improved in the hands of a man of genius. BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. This poem is very fine, and, though in the same strain with the preceding, is yet superiour. TO TPIE EARL OF WARWICK, » ON THE DEATH OF MR ADDISON. This elegy (by Mr Tickell) is one of the finest in our language : there is so little new that can be said uj)on the 410 PKEFxVCE TO THE (loalli of a IVientl, after the complaints of Ovid and the Latin Itahans in this way, that one is surprised to see so much novekv in this to strike us, and so much interest to afl'ect. COLIN AND LUCY.— A Ballad. Through all TickelFs Works there is a strain of ballad- thiiiking, if I may so express it; and in this professed bal- lad he seems to have surpassed himself. It is, perhaps, the best in our language in this way. THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. This ode, by Dr Smollett, does rather more honour to the author s feelings than his taste. The mechanical part, with regard to numbers and language, is not so perfect as so short a work as this requires ; but the pathetic it con- tains, particularly in the last stanza but one, is exquisitely fine. ON THE DEATH OF THE LOliD PROTECTOR. Our poetry was not quite harmonized in Waller s time ; so that this, which would be now looked upon as a slo- venly sort of versification, was, with respect to the times in which it was written, almost a prodigy of haimony. A modern reader will chiefly be struck with the strength of tliinking, and the turn of the compliments bestowed upon the usurper. Every body has heard the answer our poet made Charles H. who asked him how his poem upon Crom- well came to be finer than his panegyric upon himself? « Your Majesty," replies Waller, « knows that poets always succeed best in fiction.') BEAUTIKS OF ENGLISH POETRY. ill THE STORY OF PIIOERUS AND DAPHNE, APPLIED. Tlio French claim this as belon(jing to thorn. To whom- soever it belongs, the thought is finely turned. NIGHT THOUGHTS. By Dr Young. These seem to be the best of the collection ; from whence only the first two are taken. They are spoken of differently, either with exaggerated applause or contempt, as the reader s disposition is either turned to mirth or me- lancholy. SATIRE I. Young's Satires w'ere in higher reputation when pub- lished than they stand in at present. He seems fonder of dazzling than pleasing; of raising our admiration for his wit than our dislike of the follies he ridicules. A PASTORAL BALLAD. The ballads of Mr Shenstone are chiefly commended for the natural simplicity of the thoughts, and the harmony of the versification. However, they are not excellent in either. PHOEBE.— A Pastoral. This, by Dr Byron, is a better effort than the preceding. A SONG. « Despairing beside a clear stream. » This, by Mr Rowe, is better than any thing of the kind in our language. A\'2 PREFACE, etc. AN ESSAY ON POETRY. This work, by the Duke of Buckinffham, is enrolled amonf]^ our (^reat English productions. The precepts are sensible, the poetry not indifferent, but it has been praised more than it deserves. CADENAS AND VANESSA. This is thought one of Dr Swift's correctest pieces ; its chief merit, indeed, is the elegant ease with which a story, but ill conceived in itself, is told. ALMA; OR, THE PROGRESS OF THE MIND. nstvTst yxf «f stXo^ecv iai) to. yiyvojutvx. What Prior meant by this poem I can't understand : by the Greek motto to it, one would think it was either to laugh at the subject or his reader. There are some parts of it very fine ; and let them save the badness of the rest. PREFACE TO A COLLECTION OF POEMS, FOR YOUNG LADIES, DEVOTIONAL, MORAL, AND ENTERTAINING. PinST PRINTED IN THE TF.AR MnCCLXVIf. IMIKFACE Dr Fordyck's excellent Sermons for Youn^j Women in some measure gave rise to the following compilation. In that work, where he so judiciously points out all tlie de- fects of female conduct to remedy them, and all the proper studies which they should pursue, with a view to improve- ment, poetry is one to whicli he particularly would attach them. He only ojjjects to the danger of pursuing tins charming study through all the immoralities and false pic- tures of happiness with which it abounds, and thus be- coming the martyr of innocent curiosity. In the following compilation, care has been taken to select not only such pieces as innocence may read widiout a blush, but such as will even tend to strengthen that inno- cence. In this little work, a lady may find the most ex- quisite pleasure, while she is at the same time learning the duties of life; and, while she courts only entertain- ment, be deceived into wisdom. Indeed, this would be too great a boast in the preface to any original work; but here it can be made with safety, as every poem in the fol- lowing collection would singly have procured an autiior great reputation. <16 PREFACE TO They are divided into Devotional, Moral, and Entertain- ing, thus comprehending the three great duties of life; that which we owe to God, to our neighbour, and to our- selves. In the first part, it must be confessed, our l^nghsh poets have not very much excelled. In that department, name- ly, the praise of our Maker, by M'hich poetry l^egan, and from which it deviated by time, we are most faultily defi- cient. There are one or two, however, particularly the Deity, by INIr Boyse ; a poem, when it first came out, that lay for some time neglected, till introduced to public no- tice by iNIr Hervey and Mr Fielding. In it the reader will perceive many striking pictures, and perhaps glow with a part of that gratitude which seems to have inspired the wiiter. In the moral part I am more copious, from the same rea- son, because our language contains a large number of the kind. Voltaire, talking of our poets, gives them the pre- ference in moral pieces to those of any other nation ; and indeed no poets have better settled the bounds of duty, or more precisely determined the rules for conduct in life than ours. In this department, the fair reader will find the Muse has been solicitous to guide her, not with the allurements of a syren, but the integrity of a friend. In the entertaining part, my greatest difficulty was what to reject. The materials lay in such plenty, that I was bewildered in my choice : in this case, then, I was solely determined by the tendency of the poem : and where I found one, however well executed, that seemed in the least tending to distort the judgment, or inflame the imagina- tion, it was excluded without mercy. I have here and there, indeed, when one of particular beauty offered with a few blemishes, l()|)[)ed off flie defects; and thus, like the l»UEM8 F()l{ YOUNG LADIES. 417 tyrant who fitted all strangers to the bed he had prepared for them, I have inscuted some, by first adaptinj; them lo my plan : we only differ in this, that he mutilated wifli a had design, I from motives of a contrary nature. It will be easier to condemn a compilation of this kind, than to prove its inutility. While young ladies arc readers, and while their guardians are solicitous that they shall only read the b{\st books, there can be no danger of a work of this kind being disagreeable. It offers, in a very small compass, the very flowers of our poetry, and that of a kind adapted to the sex supposed to be its readers. Poetry is an art which no young lady can or ought to be wholly ignorant of. The pleasme which it gives, and indeed the necessity of knowing enough of it to mix in modern con- versation, will evince the usefulness of my design, which is to supply the highest and the most innocent entertainment at the smallest expense ; as the poems in this collection, if sold singly, would amount to ten times the price of what I am able to afford the present. VOL. II. ^-1 CRITICISM ON MASSEY'S TRANSLATION OF THE FASTI OF OYID. PUBLISHED IN THE YEAR MDCCLVII. 27. GIUTIGISM ON MASSEY'S TRANSLATION OK THE FASTI OF OYIl). It was no bad remark of a celebrated French ladv,' tlial a bad ti-anslator was like an ignorant footman, whose blundering messages disgraced his master by the awk- wardness of the delivery, and frequently turned compli- ment into abuse, and politeness into rusticity. We cannot indeed see an ancient elegant writer mangled and misre- presented by the doers into English, without some degree of indignation ; and are heartily sorry that our poor friend Ovid should send his sacred kalendar to us by the hands of Mr William Massey, who, like the valet, seems to have entirely forgot his master's message, and substituted an- other in its room very uidike it. Mr Massey observes in his preface, with great truth, tliat it is strange that this most elaborate and learned of all Ovid's woiks should be so much neglected by our English translators ; and that it should be so little read or rtjgarded, whilst his Tristia, ' Madame La Faycite. .{22 CRITICISM ON MASSEY'S Epistles, and Metamorphoses, are in almost every school- hoy's hands. « All the critics, in general," says he, « speak of this part of Ovid's writings with a particular applause ; yet 1 know not hy what unhappy fate there has not been that use made thereof, which would be more beneficial, in many respects, to young students of the Latin tongue, than any other of this poefs works. For though Pan- theons, and other books that treat of the Roman mythology, may be usefully put into the hands of young proficients in the Latin tongue, yet the richest fund of that sort of learn- ing is here to be found in the Fasti. I am not without hopes, therefore, that by thus making this book more familiar and easy, in this dress, to English readers, it will the more readily gain admittance into our public schools ; and that those who become better acquainted therewith, will find it an agreeable and instructive companion, well stored with recondite learning. I persuade myself also, that the notes which I have added to my version will be of advantage, not only to the mere English reader, but like- wise to such as endeavour to improve themselves in the knowledge of the Roman language. « As the Latin proverb says, Jacta est alea; and my performance must take its chance, as those of other poetic adventurers have done before me. I am very sensible, that I have fallen in many places far below my original ; and no wonder, as I had to copy after so fertile and polite a genius as Ovid's ; who, as my Lord Orrery, somewhere in Dean Swift's Life, humorously observes, could make an instructive song out of an old almanack. '< That my translation is more diffuse, and not brought within the same number of verses contained in my origi- nal, is owing to two reasons ; firstly, because of the concise and expressive nature of the Latin tongue, which it is very TRANSLATION OF OVID'S FASTI. .125 difficult (at least I find it so) to keep to strictlv, in our lan- gua(je ; and secondly, I took the liberty, sometimes to ex- patiate a little upon my subject, rather than leave it in obscurity, or unintelli{jible to my English readers, beinjf indifferent whether they may call it translation or para- phrase; for, in short, I had this one design most particu- larly in view, that these Roman Fasti mifjht have a way opened for their entrance into our grammar-schools. » What use this translation may be of to grammar-schools, we cannot pretend to guess, unless, by way of foil, to give the boys a higher opinion of the beauty of the original by the deformity of so bad a copy. But let our readeis judge of Mr Massey's performance by the following specimen. For the better determination of its merit, we shall subjoin the original of every quotation. « The calends of each month throufjhout the year, Are under Juno's kind peculiar care ; But on the ides, a white lamb from the field, A grateful sacrifice, to Jove is kill'd ; But o'er the nones no guardian god presides ; And the next day to calends, nones, and ides, Is inauspicious deem'd ; for on those days The Romans suffer'd losses many ways ; And from those dire events, in hapless war, Those days unlucky nominated are. »> Vindicat Ausonias Junonis cura kalendas : Idibus alba Jovi grandior agna cadit. Nonarum tutela Deo caret. Omnibus istLs (Ne fallere cave) proximus Ater erit. Omen ab everitu est : illis nam Roma diebus Damna sub adverso tristia Marte tulit. Ovid's address to Janus, than which in the original scarce any thing can be more poetical, is thus familiarized 424 CRITICISM ON MA88EYS into soinotliiiifj much worse than prose by the transhi- tor : — (I Say, Janus, say, why we begin the year In winter? sure the spring is better far : All things are then renew'd; a youthful dress Ack^rns tlie (lowers, and beautifies the trees; New swelling buds appear upon the vine, And apple-blossoms round the orchard shine; IJirds fdl the air with the harmonious lay, And lambkins in the meadows frisk and play; The swallow then forsakes her wint'ry rest, And in the chimney chatt'ring makes her nest; The fields are then renew'd, the ploughman's care; Mayn't this be call'd renewing of the year? To my long questions Janus brief replied, And his whole answer to two verses tied. The winter tropic ends the solar race, Which is begun again from the same place; And to explain more fully what you crave, The sun and year the same beginning have. I>ut w hy on new-year's day, said I again, Are suits commenced in courts? The reason's plain, Die, age, frigoribus quare novus incipit annus, Qui melius per ver incipiendus erat? Omnia tune florent: tunc est nova temporis ;ctas: £t nova de gravido palmitc gemma tumct. Et modo formatis amicitur vitibus arbos: Prodit et in summum seminis herba solum : Kt tepidum volucres concentibus aera muleent : Ludit et in pratis, luxuriatfjue pccus. Turn l)landi soles: ignotafuic prudil liiriiM(lo; Et luteum celsa sub trabe fingit opus. Turn patitur cultus ager, et rc^novatur aratro. Hsee anni novitas jure voeanda luit. (^uajsieram niultis: non multis ille nioratus, Contulit in versus sic sua verba dnos. TRANSLATION OF OVID S FASTI. ',25 Replied the {]fo< Concipit ulla prcces; dictaque pondus babcnt. 'fs. 26 CRITICISM ON MASSEY'S Is there a possibility tliat any thing can be more dif- ferent from Ovid in Latin than this Ovid in Enghsh? Quam sihi disparl The translation is indeed beneath all criticism. But let us see what Mr Massey can do with the sublime and more animated parts of the performance, where the sub- ject might have given him room to show his skill, and the example of his author stirred up the fire of poetry in his breast, if he had any in it. Towards the end of the second book of the Fasti, Ovid has introduced the most tender and interesting story of Lucretia. The original is inimitable. Let us see what Mr Massey has made of it in his transla- tion. After he has described Tarquin returning from the sight of the beautiful Lucretia, he proceeds thus : « The near approach of day the cock declared By his shrill voice, when they again repair'd Back to the camp ; but Sextus there could find Nor peace nor ease for his distempered mind; A spreading fire does in his bosom burn, Fain would he to the absent fair return ; The image of Lucretia fills his breast. Thus at her wheel she sat ! and thus was dress'd ! What sparkling eyes, what pleasure in her look ! Ilow just her speech, and how divinely spoke ! Like as the waves, raised by a boisterous wind, Sink by degrees, but leave a swell behind : Jam dederat cantum lucis pra?nuncius ales ; Cum referunt juvenes in sua castra pedem. Carpitur attonitos absentis ima{jine seiisus Illc : recordanti plura magisque placent. Sic sedit; sic culta fuit: sic stamina nevit: Neglecte collo sic jacuere coma; : IIos habuit vultus : hie illi verba fuere : Hie decor, htec facies, hie color oris erat. Ut sold a magno fluftvis lanyuesrere flatu; TRANSLATION OF OVID'S FASTI. ^27 So, thou{5li by absence lessen'd was his fire, There still remain'd the kindlinjjs of desire; Unruly lust from hence be(}an to rise, Which how to gratify he must devise ; All on a rack, and stung with mad designs, He reason to his passion quite resigns; VVhate'er 's th' event, said he, I '11 try my fate, Suspense in all things is a wretched state; Let some assistant god, or chance, attend, All bold attempts they usually befriend : This way, said he, I to the Gabii trod ; Then girding on his sword, away he rode. The day was spent, the sun was nearly set. When he arrived before Collatia's gate; Like as a friend, but with a sly intent. To Collatinus' house he boldly went ; There he a kind reception met within From fair Lucretia, for they were akin. What ignorance attends the hiunan mind ! How oft we are to our misfortunes blind ! Thoughtless of harm, she made a handsome feast, And o'er a cheerful glass regaled her guest Sed tamen a vento, qui fuit ante, tumet: Sic, fjuamvis aberat placitae pra'sentia forma^, Quern dederat prasens forma, manebat amor. Ardet; et injusti stimulis agitatus amoris Comparat indigno vimque dolumque toro. Exitus in duhio est: audebimus ultima, dixit: Videiit, aiidcntis forsne deusno juvct. Gcpimus audendo Gabios quoque. Talia fatus Ense latus cingit: tcrgaque pressit equi. Accipit £Prata juvenem Collatia porta : Condere jam vultus sole parante suos. Hostis, ut liospes, init penetralia Collatina : Coniiter excipitur: sanguine junctus erat. Quantum animis erroris inesti parat inscia reruni Infclix epulas hostibus ilia suis. 528 CUI riClSM ON MASSI^Y S Witli lively chat; ami then to bed they went ; lUit Tar(]uin still pursued his vile intent; All dark, about the dead of night he rose, And softlv to I^u-retia's rhamhcr {yoes; His naked sword he carried in his hand, That what he could not win he might command ; With rapture on her bed himself he threw, And as approaching to her lips he drew, Dear cousin, ah, my dearest life, he said, 'Tis I, 'tis Tarquin ; why are you afraid? Trembling with fear, she not a word could say, Iler spirits fled, she fainted quite away ; Like as a lamb beneath a wolf's rude paws, AppaUVl and stunn'd, her breath she hardly draws ; What can she do ? resistance would be vain. She a weak woman, he a vigorous man. Should she cry out? his naked sword was by ; One scream, said he, and you this instant die : Would she escape? his hands lay on her breast, Now first by hands of any stranger press'd : The lover urged by threats, rewards, and prayers ; But neither prayers, rewards, nor threats, she hears : Functus erat dapibus : poscunt sua tempora somni. Nox erat; et tota lumina nulla flomo. Surpjit, et auratum vnjjina dcripit cnseni : Et venit in tlialamos, nupta pudica, tuos. Utcjue torum pressit; ferrum, Lucretia, mecuni est, Natus, ait, regis, Tarquiniusque vocor. Ilia nihil: neque enim vocem viresque loquendi, Aut aliquid tf)l() piM^toic mentis hal)et. Sed trcmit, ul (juondnm stabulis deprensa relictis, Parva sub infesto cum jacet agne lupo. Quid faciat? pugnet? vincetur femina pugna. Clamet? at in dextra, (|ui necet, ensis adest. Kflu{;iat? positis urgetur peetora palmis; ISunc primiun externa peetora laeta manu. TIJANSLATlOiN OF UVIU'S FASTI. 129 Will you not yield? lie cries; then know my will — When these my warm desires have had tjieir fill, liy your dead corpse Fll kill and lay a slave, And in that posture hoth tog^ether leave; Then feijfn myself a witness of your shame, And fix a lasting) blemish on your fame. Her mind the fears of blemish'd fame controul. And shake the resolutions of her soul ; iUit of thy conquest, Tarquin, never boast, Gaining; that fort, thou hast a kingdom lost; Venjjeance thy complicated ffuilt attends, Which both in thine, and fam'ly's ruin ends. With rising day the sad Lucretia rose. Her inward grief her outward habit shows; Mournful she sat in tears, and all alone, As if she'd lost her only darling son ; Tlien for her husband and her father sent. Who Ardea left in haste to know th' intent ; Who, when they saw her all in mourning dress'd, To know the occasion of her grief, request ; WMiose funeral she mourn'd desired to know. Or why she had put on those robes of woe? Instat amans hostis precibus, pretioque, minisquc : Nee preco, nee pretio, nee movet ille minis. Nil a{jis; eripiam, dixit, per erimina vitani: Falsus adulterii testis adulter ero. Interimam famulum; eum quo deprensa fereris. Suecubuit fania- victa puella metu. (^uid, vietor, gaudes? hicc te victoria perdet. Heu quanto regnis nox stetit una tuis! Jamque erat orta dies : passis sedet ilia eapillis ; Ut solet ad nati mater itura rogum. flranda'vum(|ue palrcm fido eum ronjuge eastris Evocat; et posita vcnit utertjue mora. Ulque vident habitum; qua; luetus causa, requirunt Cui paret exsequias, quove sit ieta malo. 450 CH1TICI8M, i:tc. Shf loiifj conceal'd the melancholy cause, Wliile from her eyes a briny fountain floAVS : Iler aged sire, and tender husband strive To heal her grief, and words of comfort give ; Yet dread some fatal consequence to hear, And begg'd she would the cruel cause declare. » Ilia diu reticet, pudibundaque celat amictu Ora. Fluunt lacrymaB more perennis aquae. Hinc pater, hinc conjux lacrymas solantur, et orant Iiidicet: et ca;co flentque paventque metu. Ter conata loqui, etc. Our readers will easily perceive by this short specimen, how very unequal Mr Massey is to a translation of Ovid. In many places he has deviated entirely from the sense, and in every part fallen infinitely below the strength, ele- gance, and spirit of the original. We must beg leave, there- fore, to remind him of the old Italian proverb,' and hope he will never for the future traduce and injure any of those poor ancients who never injured him, by thus pestering the world with such translations as even his own school- hoys ought to be whipped for. ' 11 Tradattores Tradatore. CRITICISM ON BARPxET'S TRANSLATION OF OVID'S EPISTLES. PUI5LISHED IN MDCCLIX. i i i CP.ITKJISM ON BARRET'S TRANSLATION OF OVID S EPISTLES. The praise which is every day lavished upon Vir^jil, Ho- race, or Ovid, is often no more than an indirect method the critic takes to compliment his own discernment. Their works have long been considered as models of beauty ; to praise them now is only to show the conformity of our taste to theirs: it tends not to advance their reputation, but to promote our own. Let us then dismiss, for the pre- sent, the pedantry of panegyric ; Ovid needs it not, and we are not disposed to turn encomiasts on ourselves. It will be sufficient to observe, that the multitude of translators which have attempted this poet serves to evince the number of his admirers ; and their indifferent success, the difficulty of equalling his elegance or his ease. Dryden, ever poor, and ever willing to be obliged, soh- cited the assistance of his friends for a translation of these epistles. It was not the first time his miseries obliged VOL. II. 28 454 CRITICISM ON BARRET S iiiiu to call in happier bards to his aid ; and to permit such to (jnarter their fleeting performances on the lasting merit of his name. This cleemosvnarv translation, as mi"ht well be expected, was extremely unequal, frequently unjust to the poets meaning, almost always so to his fame. It \\as puldished without notes; for it was not at that time customary to swell every performance of this nature with comment and scholia. The reader did not then choose to have the current of his passions interrupted, his attention (!very moment called off from pleasure only, to be informed Avhy he was so pleased. It was not then thought neces- .sarv to lessen surprise by anticipation, and, like some spectators we have met at the plav-house, to take off our attention from the performance, by telling, in our ear, what will follow next. Since this united effort, Ovid, as if born to misfortune, has undergone successive metamorphoses, being some- times transposed bv schoolmasters unacquainted with Eng- lish, and sometimes transversed by ladies who knew no Tatin : thus he has alternately worn the dress of a pedant oi' a rake ; either crawling in humble prose, or having his hints explained into unbashful meaning. Schoolmasters, who knew all that was in him, except his graces, give the names of places and towns at full length, and he moves along stifflv in their literal versions, as the man who, as we are told in the Philosophical Transactions, was afflicted with a universal anchilosis. His female imitators, on the other hand, regard the dear creature only as a lover ; express the delicacy of his passion by the ardour of their own ; and if now and then he is found to grow a little too warm, and perhaps to express himself a little indelicately, it must be imputed to the more poignant sensations of his fair admireis. In a word, we have seen him stripped of TRANSLATION OF OVri) S EPISTLES. 435 all his beauties in the versions of Stirling} and Clark, and talk like a debauchee in that of Mrs ; but the sex should ever be sacred from criticism ; perliaps the kidies have a right to describe raptures which none but tliein- selves can bestow. A poet, hke Ovid, whose greatest beauty lies rather in expression than sentiment, must be necessarily difficult to translate. A fine sentiment may be conveyed several different ways, without impairing its vigour; liut a sen- tence delicately expressed will scarcely admit the least variation without losing beauty. The performance before us will serve to convince the public, that Ovid is more easily admired than imitated. The minslator, in his notes, shows an ardent zeal for the reputation of his poet. It is possible too he may have felt his beauties ; however, he does not seem possessed of the happy art of giving his feelings expression. If a kindred spirit, as we have often been told, must animate the translator, we fear the claims of Mr Barret Avill never receive a sanction in the hcraldrv of Parnassus. His intentions, even envy must own, arc laudable : no- thing less than to instruct boys, schoolmasters, grow^n gentlemen, the public, in the principles of taste (to use his own expression), both by precept and by example. His manner it seems is, « to read a course of poetical lectures to his pupils one night in the week ; w hich, beginning with this author, running through select pieces of our own, as well as the Latin and Greek writers, and ending widi Lon- ginus, contributes no little towards forming their taste. » No little, reader observe that, fiom a person so perfectly master of the force of his own language : what may not be expected from his comments on the beauties of an- other ? 0.8. 436 CRITICISM ON BARRET'S |{iit, in order to show in ^\llat manner lie has executed ihese intentions, it is proper he should first march in re- view as a poet. V\'e shall select the first epistle that offers, which is that from Penelope to Ulysses, observing before- hand, lliat the \vhole translation is a most convincing in- stance, that English words may be placed in Latin order, without being wholly unintelligible. Such forced transpo- sitions serve at once to give an idea of the translators learning, and of difficulties surmounted. PENELOPE TO ULYSSES. (I Thi.s, still your wife, my ling'ring lord ! I send : Yet be your answer personal, not pennVl.)) These lines seem happily imitated from Taylor, the water- |)oot, who has it thus; li To thee, dear Ursula, these lines I send. Not Avith my hand, but with my heart, they're penn'd." Rut not to make a pause in the leader s pleasure, we pro- ceed. u Sunk now is Troy, the curse of Grecian dames ! (Her king, her all, a worthless prize!) in flames. O had by storms (his fleet to Sparta bound) Tir adult'rer perish'd in the mad profound I Here seems some obscurity in the translation: we are at a loss to know what is meant by the mad pi^ofouud. It can certainly mean neither Bedlam sior Fleet-Ditch; for thongh the epithet mad might agree with one, or profound with the other, yet when united they seem incompatible with eitbei-. The profound has frecpiendy been used to signify bad verses ; and poets are sometimes said to be TIIAISSLATIOIS OF OVID'S EIMSI LES. A7u mad: Avlio knows J)ul Penelope wishes that Paris niij^lit have died in the very act ot" rhyminjj; and as he was a sliepheid, it is not inij)robable to suppose but that he was a poet also. « Gold in a widow'd bed I ne'er had lay, Nor chid with weary eyes the linjj'rinfj day." Lay for lain, by the figure {'infjlimus. Our translatoi" makes frequent use of tliis figure. .> Nor the protracted nuptials to avoid, \iy ni(;ht unravell'd what the day employed. When have not fancied danjjers broke my rest ? Love, tim'rous passion ! rends the anxious breast. In thought I saw you each fierce Trojan's aim ; Pale at the mention of bold Hector's name! " Ovid makes Penelope shudder at the name of Hector. Our translator, with great propriety, transfers the fright from I'enelope to Ulysses himself : it is he who grows pale at the name of Hector; and well indeed he might ; for Hector is represented by Ovid, somewhere else, as a ter- rible fellow, and Ulysses as little better than a poltroon. « Whose spear when brave Antilochus imbrued. By the dire news awoke, ray fear renew'd. Clad in dissembled arms Patroclus died : And a Oh the fate of stratajjem ! » I cried. Tlepolenuis, beneath the Lvcian dart, His breath resigned, and roused afresh my smart. Thus, when each Grecian press'd the bloody field, Gold icy horrors my fond bosom chill'd.)) Here we may observe how epithets tend to strengthen the force of expression. First, her horrors are cold, and -'.-^ 58 CKITICISM ON BARRET 8 so far Ovid seems to think also ; but the translator adds, Ironi himself, the epithet icy, to show that they are still colder — a fine climax of frigidity ! " But Heaven, indiil{jent to my chaste desire, Has wrapp'd (my husband safe) proud Troy in fire." The reader may have already observed one or two in- stances of our translator s skill, in parenthetically clapping one sentence within another. This contributes not a little to obscuritv ; and obscurity, Ave all know, is nearly allied to admiration. Thus, when the reader begins a sentence M'hich he finds pregnant with another, which still teems with a third, and so on, he feels the same surprise which a countryman does at Bartholomew-fair. Hocus shows a bag, in appearance empty ; slap, and out come a dozen new-laid eggs ; slap again, and the number is doubled : but Avhat is his amazement, when it swells with the hen that laid them ! « The Grecian chiefs return, each altar shines, And spoils of Asia grace our native shrines. Gifts, for their lords restored, the matrons bring ; The Trojan fates o'ercome, triumphant sing; Old men and trembling maids admire the songs, And wives liang, Hst'ning, on their husbands' tonyues.yi Critics have expatiated, in raptures, on the delicate use the ancients have made of the verb pendere. Virgil's goats are described as hanging on the mountain side ; the eyes of a lady hang on the looks of her lover. Ovid has in- creased the force of the metaphor, and describes the wife as hanging on the lips of her husband. Our translator has gone still fartbei-, and described the lady as pendent from his tongue. A fine picture ! THANSLATION OF OVID S EPISTLKS. A7A) u Now, drawn in wine, fierce battles meet their eyes. And Ilion's towers in miniature arise : There stretch'd Sigean plains, here Simois flow'd : And there old Priam's lofty palace stood. Here Peleus' son encamp'd, Ulysses there; Here Hector's corpse distain'd the rapid car." «i Of this the Pylian sage, in quest of thee Embark'd, your son inform'd his mother he." If we were permitted to offer a correction upon tiie two last lines, we would translate them into plain English thus, still preserving the rhyme entire. The Pylian sage inform'd your son embark'd in quest of thee Of this, and he his mother, that is me. « He told how Rhesus and how Dolon fell, By your wise conduct and Tydides' steel ; That doom'd by hea\'y sleep oppress'd to die, And this prevented, a nocturnal spy ! Hash man ! unmindful what your friends you owe. Night's gloom to tempt, and brave a Thracian foe By one assisted in the doubtful strife ; To me how kind ! how provident of life ! Still throbb'd my breast, till, victor, from the plain. You join'd, on Thracian steeds, th' allies again. « But what to me avails high Ilium's fall. Or soil continued o'er its ruin'd wall; If still, as when it stood, my wants remain ; If still I wish you in these arms in vain? « Troy, sack'd to others, yet to me remains, Though Greeks, with captive oxen, till her plains. Ripe harvests bend where once her turrets stood; Rank is her soil, manured with Phrvgian blood ; 440 CRITICISM ON BARRET S Ilarsli on the plouf^lis, men's bones, half buried, sound. And {^fiass each luin'd mansion hides around. Yet, hid in distant eUmes, my conqVor stavs; Unknown the cause of these severe delays ! 11 No foreign merchant to our isle resoits, Hut qucstion'd much of you, he leaves our ports; Hence each departing sail a letter bears To speak (if you are found) my anxious cares. « Our son to Pylos cut the briny wave ; But Nestor's self a dubious answer gave : To Sparta next — nor even could Sparta tell What seas you plougli, or in what region dwell ! (I Better had stood Apollo's sacred wall : () could I now my former wish recal ! War my sole dread, the scene I then should know ; And thousands then would share the common woe : But all things now, not knowing what to fear, T dread ; and give too large a field to care. Whole lists of dangers, both by land and sea. Are muster'd, to have caused so long delay. II But while your conduct thus I fondiv clear, Pei'haps (true man !) you court some foreign fair; Perhaps you rally your domestic loves. Whose art the snowy fleece alone improves. No ! may I err, and start at false alarms ; May nought but force detain you from ray arms, « Urged by a father's right again to wed. Firm I refuse, still faithful to your bed ! Still let him urge the fruitless vain design ; I am — I must be— and I will be thine. Though melted by my chaste desires, of late liis rig'rous importunities abate. TRANSLATION (3F OVID S EPISTLES. V,\ « Of teasing' suitors a luxurious train, From neighbouring isles, have cross'd the liquid plain. Here uncontroU'd th' audacious crews resort, Rirte your wealth, and revel in your court. Pisander, Polyl)us, and Medon, lead, Antinoiis and luirymachus sutroed, With others, w hose rapacious throats devour The wealth you purchased once, distain'd with gore. Melanthius add, and Irus, hated name ! A beggar rival to complete our shame. u Three, helpless three ! are here ; a wife not strong, A sire too aged, and a son too young. He late, by fraud, cnibark'd for Pylos' shore, Niglifrom my arms for ever had been tore.» These two lines are replete Avitli beauty: niyh, which implies approximation, and^/wn, which implies distance, are, to use our translator s expressions, drawn as it were up in line of battle. Tore is put for torn, that is, torn by fraud, from her arms ; not that her son played truant and embarked by fraud, as a reader who does not understand Latin might be apt to fancy. « Heaven grant the youth survive each parent's date. And no cross chance reverse the course of fate. Your nurse and herdsman join this wish of mine, And the just keeper of your bristly swine.i) Our translator observes in a note, that « the simplicity expressed in these lines is so far from being a blemish, that it is, in fact, a very great beauty : and the modern critic, who is offended with the mention of a sty^ however he may pride iiimself upon his false delicacy, is either too short- sighted to p(Muir;jte into real nature, or lias a stomarli too 442 CRITICISM Ors BARRET'S nice to di^jest the noblest relics of antiquity." He means, no doubt, to digest a hog-sty; but, antiquity apart, we doubt if even Powel the fire-eater himself could bring his appetite to relish so unsavoury a repast. « By age your sire disarm'd, and wasting woes, The helm resigns, amidst surrounding foes. This may your son resume (when years allow). But oh ! a father's aid is wanted now. Nor have I strength his title to maintain, Haste then, our only refuge, o'er the main." u A son, and long may Heaven the blessing grant, You have, whose years a sire's instructions want. Think how Laertes drags an age of w^oes, In hope that you his dying eyes may close ; And I, left youthful in my early bloom, Shall aged seem; how soon soe'er you come." But let not the reader imagine we can find pleasure in thus exposing absurdities, which are too ludicrous for serious reproof. While we censure as critics, we feel as men, and could sincerely wish that those, whose greatest sin is, perhaps, the venial one of writing bad verses, would regard their failure in this respect as we do, not as faults, but foibles ; they may be good and useful members of so- ciety, without being poets. The regions of taste can be travelled only by a few, and even those often find indiffe- rent accommodation by the way. Let such as have not got a passport from nature be content with happiness, and leave the poet the unrivalled possession of his misery, his garret, and his fame. We have of late seen the republic of letters crowded TllAINSLATlOIS OF OVID S El»I.S J LES. W.") with some, who have no other pretensions to apphiusc hiii industry, who have no other merit J)ut that ol readiii}} many books, and makin^j lon(} quotations : these we have heard extolled by sympathetic dunces, and have seen them carry off the rewards o( genius ; while others, who should have been born in better days, lelt all the Avants of po- verty, and the agonies of contempt. Who then that has a regard for the public, for the literary honours of our coun- try, for the figure we shall one day make among posterity, that would not choose to see such humbled as are possessetl only of talents that might have made good cobblers, hati fortune turned them to trade? Should such prevail, the real interests of learning must be in a reciprocal proportion to the power they possess. Let it be then the character of our periodical endeavours, and hitherto we flatter our- selves it has ever been, not to permit an ostentation of learn- ing to pass for merit, nor to give a pedant quarter upon the score of his industry alone, even thoujjh he took refuge behind Arabic, or powdered his hair with hieroglyphics. Authors thus censured may accuse our judgment, or our reading, if they please, but our own hearts will acquit us of envy or ill-nature, since we reprove only with a desire to reform. But we had almost forgot, that our translator is to be considered as a critic as well as a poet ; and in this depart- ment he seems also e([ually unsuccessful w ith the former. Criticism at present is different from what it was upon the revival of taste in Europe ; all its rules are now well known ; the only art at present is, to exhibit them in such lights as contribute to keep the attention alive, and excite a favourable audience. It must borrow graces from elo- quence, and please while it aims at instruction : but m- /,44 CU1TICI8M 0> lixiKKET S stead of this, we have a combination of trite observations, (lehvered in a style in which those who are disposed to make war upon words, will lind endless opportunities of triumj)h. He is sometimes hypercritical: thus, pajje 9. « Pope, in his excellent Essay on Criticism (as will, in its place, when YOU come to be lectured upon it, at full be ex- plained), terms this making the sound an echo to the sense. But I apprehend that definition takes in but a part, for the best ancient poets excelled in thus painting to the eye as well as to the ear. Virgil, describing his house- wife preparing her m ine, exhibits the act of the fire to the eye. « Aut dulcis niusti Vulcano decoquit humorem, Et foliis uudani trepidi dispumat aheni.)) « For the line (if I may be allowed the expression) boils over; and, in order to reduce it to its proper bounds, you must, with her, skim off the redundant syllable." These are beauties which, doubtless, the reader is displeased he cannot discern. Sometimes confused : « There is a deal of artful and concealed satire in what OEnone throws out against Helen; and to speak tiuth, there was fair scope for it, and it might naturally be expected. Her chief design was to render his new mistress suspected of meretricious arts, and make him apprehensive that she would hereafter be as ready to leave him for some new gallant, as she had before, perfi- diously to her lawful husband, followed liim.» Sometimes contradictory : thus, page 3. « Stvle (siiys he) is used by some writers, as synonymous with diction, yet ill iiiv ()j)inion, it has ralhei' a complex sense, including TRANSLATION OF OVID S EPISTLES. 445 both son till lent and diction." Oppose to this, pa;;(' i3f). « As to concord, and even style, they are accpiiraljle by most youth in due time, and by many with ease; but the art of thinking] properly, and choosing the best senti- ments on every subject, is what comes later. » And sometimes he is guilty of false criticism : as when he says, Ovid's chief excellence lies in description. De- scription was the rock on which he always split; Nescivit quod bene cessit rdinquere, as Seneca says of him : when once he embarks in description, he most commonly tires us before he has done with it. But to tire no longer the reader, or the translator, with extended censure ; as a cri- tic, this gentleman seems to have drawn his knowledge from the remarks of others, and not his own reflection; as a translator, he understands the language of Ovid, but riot his ])eauties ; and though he may be an excellent school- master, he has, however, no pretensions to taste. E^M) Ol' VOLUMI II • • UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form T.rt-nam-S, '58(587684)444 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY rACHITY AA 000 380 009 i i^^i^ypp®?^p™^iP»^^ »i Yf%.r%f wv/-i : ■^^m^i