Fred.I know you are, and have been; but I come only to do him a last office. He'll trouble you no more, but I must conjure you to read this, and inform this learned gentleman what you know of this misfortune.
Pen.[Reading.] "Your cruelty provoked me to desire the favour of dying by Mr. Bookwit's hand, since he had taken from me more than life in robbing me of you——farewell for ever——I direct Frederick not to give you this till I am no more." Writ in his blood! "Till I am no more!" Lovemore no more! Thou shalt not be no more——thou shalt live here for ever. Here, thou dearest paper, mingle with my life's stream; either the paper bleeds anew, or my eyes weep blood. So let 'em do forever——Oh, my Lovemore! did the vanity of a prating boy banish thy solid services and manly love?
Fred.This is no reparation to him for his lost life, nor me for my lost friend. Yet when you please to receive 'em, I am obliged to deliver you some papers, wherein he has given you all the fortune he could bestow, nor would revoke it, even thus injured as he was.
Pen.Curse on all wealth and fortune! He—he is gone who only deserved all, and whose worth I know too late!
Love.[ToFred.] Oh, ecstasy! Why was I angry at her rejoicing at my sorrow, when hers to me is such a perfect bliss? 'Tis barbarous not to discover myself.
Fred.[ToLove.] Do, and be used barbarously——But, madam, you must be composed. Your life, for ought I know, is at stake; for there is no such thing as accessories in murder; and it can be proved you knew of Lovemore's threatening to fight Bookwit. You must either take your trial yourself, or be Mr. Bookwit's witness.
Pen.I his witness! No, I'll swear anything to hang him.
Fred.Ah, madam, you must consider yourself, however——Pray, sir, read her indictment to her.
Love.[Reading.] "That on the said third day of April the said Penelope, of the parish of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, spinster, without fear before her eyes, but by the instigation of the devil, and through an evil pride of heart——"
Pen.'Tis too true——[Weeping.
Love."Did contrive, abet, and consent to the death of John Lovemore, Esq., of the age of twenty-eight years, or thereabouts."
Fred.I can't hear the mention of him without tears. He was the sincerest friend.
Love.I think I have seen him. He was, I've heard, a man of honesty, but of something a disagreeable make.
Pen.Oh, sir, you never saw him if you think so——His person was as free as his mind was honest, nor had he imperfection, but his love of me. [Weeps.
Love.[ToFred.] I tremble I shall disoblige her too much.
Fred.[ToLove.] You shan't discover yourself, you shall go through her soul, now 'tis moved on our side. Win her now, or see my face no more; I'll not have my wine spoiled every night with your recitals of love, and askingadvice, though you never mean to take it, like a true lover.
Pen.When did that best of men expire, good Mr. Frederick?
Fred.This morning. But should I speak the manner? With a faint, dying voice he called me to him. I went in tenderness to take my long farewell. He, in a last effort of nature, pressed me to his breast, and, with the softest accent, sighed in death—"Penelope."
Pen.Oh, the too generous man! Ungrateful I!Curses on him first flattered with his tongue,On her that first dissembled in her silence——What miseries have they entailed on lifeTo bring in fraud and diffidence of love!Simplicity's the dress of honest passion,Then why our arts, why to a man enamoured,That at her feet effuses all his soul,Must woman cold appear, false to herself and him?
Fred.[ToLove.] Do you see there? You'd have spoke before she considered that.
Pen.Oh, could I see him now, to press his livid lips,And call him back to life with my complaints,His eyes would glare upon my guilt with horror,That used to gloat and melt in love before me.Let mine for ever then be shut to joy,To all that's bright and valuable in man!I'll to his sacred ashes be a wife,And to his memory devote my life. [Exit.
Love.This is worth dying for indeed. I'll follow her.
Fred.No, you shan't; let her go in, throw herself upon her bed, and hug, and call her pillow "Lovemore." 'Tis but what you've done a thousand times for her.
Love.That's true too.
Fred.Let her contemplate on the mischief of her vanity. She shall lament till her glass is of our side—till its pretty eyes be all blubbered; its heart must heaveand pant with perfect anguish before 'twill feel the sorrow of another's. Don't you know, pride, scorn, affectation, and a whole train of ills must be sobbed away before a great beauty's mortified to purpose?
EnterServant.
EnterServant.
Serv.Old Mr. Bookwit enquires for you here, Mr. Frederick.
Fred.Pray, let him come up.
EnterOld Bookwit.
EnterOld Bookwit.
Love.What's the matter? You seem more discomposed than you were at Mr. Frederick's. Something still new?
O. Book.I saw the boy a-coming in a chair; he looks so languid and distressed, poor lad! He has all his mother's softness, by nature of the sweetest disposition. Oh, gentlemen, you know not what it is to be a father! To see my only child in that condition——My grief quickened at the sight of him. I thought I could have patience till I saw him.
EnterServant.
EnterServant.
Serv.There are two or three in chairs desire admittance by appointment.
O. Book.'Tis right, sir.
EnterYoung Bookwit, Latine,andGaoler.
EnterYoung Bookwit, Latine,andGaoler.
Oh, my dear child! Oh, Tom! are all thy aged father's hopes, then, come to this, that he can't see thee, his only son, but guarded by a gaoler? Thy mother's happy that lived not to see this day. Is all the nurture that she gave thy infancy, the erudition she bequeathed thy youth, thus answered? Oh, my son! my son! rise and support thy father! I sink with tenderness, my child; come to my arms while thou art mine.
Y. Book.Oh, best of fathers!Let me not see your tears,Don't double my afflictions by your woe——There's consolation when a friend laments us, butWhen a parent grieves, the anguish is too native,Too much our own to be called pity.Oh, sir, consider; I was born to die.'Tis but expanding thought, and life is nothing.Ages and generations pass away,And with resistless force, like waves o'er waves,Roll down the irrevocable stream of timeInto the insatiate ocean for ever——Thus we are gone.But the erroneous sense of man—'tis the lamentedThat's at rest, but the survivor mourns.All my sorrows vanish with that thought,But Heaven grant my aged father patience!O. Book.Oh, child! [Turning away.Y. Book.Do not torment yourself, you shall promise not to grieve.What if they do upbraid you with my death?Consider, sir, in death that our relation ceases;Nor shall I want your care, or know your grief.It matters not whether by law, or nature, 'tis I die.What, won't my father hear me plead to him?Don't turn from me——Yet don't look at me with your soul so full.O. Book.Oh, my child! my child! I could hear thee ever.'Twas that I loved thee that I turn away;To hear my son persuade me to resign him,I can't, I can't. The grief is insupportable.Y. Book.You make a coward of me with your anguish.I grow an infant, scarce can weep with silence;But let me keep some decency in my distress.O. Book.If we might be apart—[Looking at the company.But that's too much to hope.
Gaol.No, no, we'll leave you to yourselves. [Exeunt.
O. Book.I have too much upon me, child, to speak—and, indeed, have nothing to say, but to feed my eyes upon thee e'er we part for ever, if tears would let me. When you have slept in your cradle, I have waked for you—and was it to this end! Oh, child, you've broke your father's heart. [Swoons.
Y. Book.Good Heav'n forbid it—guard him and protect him.He faints, he's cold, he's gone; [Running to him.He's gone, and with his last breath called me parricide."You've broke your father's heart!" Oh, killing sound!I'm all contagion; to pity me is death:My griefs to all are mortal but myself."You've broke your father's heart!" If I did so,Why thus serene in death, thou smiling clay?Why that calm aspect to thy murderer?Oh, big unutterable grief——merciful Heaven!I don't deserve this ease of tears to meltWith penitence—Oh, sweet, sweet remorse;Now all my powers give wayTo my just sorrow, for the best of fathers. [Aloud.Thou venerable fountain of my life,Why don't I also die, derived from thee?Sure you are not gone—Is the way out of lifeThus easy, which you so much feared in me?[Takes him by the hand.Why stay I after? But I deserve to stay,To feel the quick remembrance of my follies.Yet if my sighs, my tears, my anguish can atone——
Re-enterFrederick, Lovemore, Latine, Gaoler, Victoria,andPenelope.
Re-enterFrederick, Lovemore, Latine, Gaoler, Victoria,andPenelope.
Fred.What is the matter? What——
Y. Book.Behold this sight! I am the guilty wretch—
Fred.Keep aside a little, sir, he only swoons, I hope.I think he breathes—yes, he returns. You must compose yourself.
Lat.Poor Bookwit! how utterly he seems distressed!
O. Book.I will be calm—resign to Heaven—and hear you patiently.
Fred.You, sir, his favourite servant, pray speak honestly the truth of what you know to this learned gentleman, who is counsel in this case.
Y. Book.Sir, he is not——
Love.Pray, sir, give the servant leave first.
Lat.Know, then, I am not what I seem, but a gentleman of a plentiful fortune. I am thus dressed to carry on such gay pursuits as should offer in this town. Not to detain you, Mr. Bookwit sent me late last night with a letter to one of these ladies. Coming from thence, as I crossed, I saw Lovemore in the Garden. He stopped me, and, after some questions concerning my message to this house, to which he did not like my answers, he struck me. We fought—I left him dead upon the spot; of which this gentleman is guiltless.
O. Book.How! was it you, then, that killed Mr. Lovemore?
Lat.'Twas this unhappy hand gave him his death, but so provoked—
Y. Book.Who could believe that any pleasing passionCould touch a breast loaded with guilt like mine?But all my mind is seized with admirationOf thy stupendous friendship. What then—Could'st thou hold thy innocent hand up at a barWith felons, to save thy friend?How shall I chide or praise thy brave imposture?Ah, sir, believe him not! He cannot bear the loss of me whom he o'ervalues; therefore with highest gallantry he offers a benefit which 'twere the meanest baseness to receive.But death's more welcome than a life so purchased.
Lat.We all know you can talk, and gild things as you please, but the lady's servant knows I was taken near the body when you——
Y. Book.Sir, do but hear me—[Pushing awayLat.
Lat.I'll easily convince you—[Pushing awayBook.
Y. Book.Pray mind him not, his brain is touched—
Lat.I am the man, he was not near the place——
Love.I can hold out no longer.—Lovemore still lives to adore your noble friendship, and begs a share in't. Be not amazed! but let me grasp you both, who, in an age degenerate as this, have such transcendent virtue—
Y. Book.Oh, Lovemore! Lovemore! how shall I speak my joy at thy recovery—I fail beneath the too ecstatic pleasure.What help has human nature from its sorrows,When our relief itself is such a burthen?
O. Book.Oh, the best burthen upon earth!—I beg your pardon, sir—I never was so taken with a man in my life at first sight. [KissesLove.] Let me be known to you too. [ToLat.
Lat.Sir, you do me honour.
O. Book.But you, ladies, are the first cause of the many errors we have been in, and you only can extricate us with satisfaction. Such is the force of beauty. The wounds the sword gave this gentleman were slight, but you've transfixed a vital and a noble part—his heart. Had I known his pretences, I had not interposed for my son.
Fred.Come, madam, no more of the cruel—go on, Lovemore; o' my conscience, the man's afraid 'tis impudence to be alive again. You see him now, madam; now you may press his livid lips, and call him back to life with your complaints.
Love.I stand, methinks, on the brink of fate, in an ambiguous interval of life, and doubt to accept of being till you smile. In every human incident besidesI am superior, and can choose or leave;But in minutest things that touch my love,My bosom's seized with anguish or with transport.
Pen.You've shown your passion to me with such honour that if I am confused, I know I should not be, to say I approve it; for I know no rules should make me insensible of generous usage. My person and my mind are yours for ever.
Love.Then doubts, and fears, and anxious cares be gone,All ye black thoughts that did corrode my breast;Here enter faith, and confidence, and love!Love that can't live with jealousy, but dwellsWith sacred marriage, truth, and mutual honour.I knew not where you would bestow your vows,But never doubted of your faith when given.[Kissing her hand.O. Book.You see, my son, how constancy's rewarded!You have from nature every qualityTo make you well become what fortune gave you;But neither wit nor beauty, wealth nor courage,Implicitly deserve the world's esteem;They're only in their application good.How could you fight a man you knew not why?You don't think that 'tis great merely to dare?'Tis that a man is just he should be bold.Indeed you've erred.
Lat.You give my friend, methinks, too much compunction for a little levity in his actions—when he's too severe in his own reflections on 'em.
Pen.Well, Victoria, you see I take your advice at last in choice of Lovemore.
Vict.I congratulate your missing of the other.
Pen.I heartily believe you, my dear friend.
O. Book.But we best guide our actions by hopes of reward. Could but my son have such a glorious prospectas this fair one. [ToVictoria.] I doubt not but his future carriage would deserve her.
Vict.I believe I may safely promise to approve of all the truth he tells me.
Y. Book.You've promised, then, to like all I shall say.
O. Book.These unexpected good events deserve our celebration with some mirth and fiddles.
Fred.I foresaw this happy turn, therefore have prepared 'em. Call in the dancers.
Song, byMr. Leveridge.I.The rolling years the joys restore,Which happy, happy Britain knew,When in a female age beforeBeauty the sword of justice drew.II.Nymphs and fawns, and rural powers,Of crystal floods and shady bowers,No more shall here preside;The flowing wave and living green,Owe only to their present queenTheir safety and their pride.III.United air and pleasures bring,Of tender note and tuneful string,All your arts devoted areTo move the innocent and fair.While they receive the pleasing wound,Echo repeats the dying sound.Y. Book.Since such deserved misfortunes they must share,Who with gay falsehoods entertain the fair;Let all with this just maxim guide their youth,There is no gallantry in love but truth. [Exeunt.
Our too advent'rous author soared to-nightAbove the little praise, mirth to excite,And chose with pity to chastise delight.For laughter's a distorted passion, bornOf sudden self-esteem and sudden scorn;Which, when 'tis o'er, the men in pleasure wise,Both him that moved it and themselves despise;While generous pity of a painted woeMakes us ourselves both more approve and know.What is that touch within which nature gaveFor man to man e'er fortune made a slave?Sure it descends from that dread Power alone,Who levels thunder from His awful throne,And shakes both worlds—yet hears the wretched groan.'Tis what the ancient sage could ne'er define,Wondered—and called part human, part divine;'Tis that pure joy which guardian angels know,When timely they assist their care below,When they the good protect, the ill oppose;'Tis what our sovereign feels when she bestows,Which gives her glorious cause such high success,That only on the stage you see distress.
"Oportet ut is qui audiat cogitet plura quam videat."[77]Cicero de Oratore.
Steele's third play,The Tender Husband: or, the Accomplished Fools, a Comedy, was given to Rich, of the Theatre Royal, in March, 1705, and was produced on April 23, when it ran for five nights, "with several entertainments of singing by Mrs. Tofts, and dancing"; and again in May and June. The profits were but small. The play was published by Tonson on the 9th of May. It was acted several times nearly every year between 1705 and 1736, and occasionally afterwards. In 1760, Garrick appeared as Sir Harry Gubbin, and in 1802, Charles Kemble and Mrs. Jordan acted in the piece. Mills (Clerimont, Sen.), Wilks (Capt. Clerimont), Estcourt (Pounce), Bullock (Sir Harry Gubbin), Pinkethman (Humphry Gubbin), Norris (Tipkin), Mrs. Powell (Aunt), and Mrs. Oldfield (Niece), were in the original cast. Steele was indebted for some ideas in the fourth Act to Molière'sSicilien: ou, l'Amour Peintre, and possibly to Cibber'sCareless Husband, which had recently appeared. In No. 555 of theSpectatorhe said that "many applauded strokes" in the piece were from Addison's hand. Fielding, Goldsmith, and Sheridan had Steele's play in view when they created the characters of Squire Western, Tony Lumpkin, and Lydia Languish. The phrase "accomplished fools" had been used by Steele in theLying Lover(p.148).
Sir,
You'll be surprised, in the midst of a daily and familiar conversation, with an address which bears so distant an air as a public dedication. But to put you out of the pain which I know this will give you, I assure you I do not design in it, what would be very needless, a panegyric on yourself, or what, perhaps, is very necessary, a defence of the play. In the one I should discover too much the concern of an author, in the other too little the freedom of a friend.
My purpose in this application is only to show the esteem I have for you, and that I look upon my intimacy with you as one of the most valuable enjoyments of my life. At the same time I hope I make the Town no ill compliment for their kind acceptance of this Comedy, in acknowledging that it has so far raised my opinion of it, as to make me think it no improper memorial of an inviolable friendship.
I should not offer it to you as such, had I not been very careful to avoid everything that might look ill-natured, immoral, or prejudicial to what the better part of mankind hold sacred and honourable.
Poetry, under such restraints, is an obliging service to human society; especially when it is used, like your admirable vein, to recommend more useful qualities in yourself, or immortalise characters truly heroic in others. I am here in danger of breaking my promise to you, therefore shall take the only opportunity that can offer itself of resisting my own inclinations, by complying with yours. I am,
Sir,
Your most faithful,
Humble Servant,
Richard Steele.
Written byMr. Addison.
Spoken byMr. Wilks.[79]
In the first rise and infancy of farce,When fools were many, and when plays were scarce,The raw, unpractised authors could, with ease,A young and unexperienced audience please;No single character had e'er been shown,But the whole herd of fops was all their own;Rich in originals, they set to view,In every piece, a coxcomb that was new.But now our British theatre can boastDrolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host!Fruitful of folly and of vice, it showsCuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and beaux;Rough-country knights are found of every shire,Of every fashion gentle fops appear;And punks of different characters we meet,As frequent on the stage as in the pit.Our modern wits are forced to pick and cull,And here and there by chance glean up a fool;Long ere they find the necessary spark,They search the Town and beat about the Park;To all his most frequented haunts resort,Oft dog him to the Ring,[80]and oft to Court;As love of pleasure or of place invites,And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's.[81]However, to do you right, the present ageBreeds very hopeful monsters for the stage,That scorn the paths their dull forefathers trod,And won't be blockheads in the common road.Do but survey this crowded house to-night—Here's still encouragement for those that write.Our author, to divert his friends to-day,Stocks with variety of fools his play;And that there may be something gay and new,Two ladies errant has exposed to view;The first a damsel, travelled in romance,The t'other more refined—she comes from France.Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger,And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger.
I.See, Britons, see, with awful eyes,Britannia from her seas arise!Ten thousand billows round me roar,While winds and waves engage,That break in froth upon my shore,And impotently rage.Such were the terrors which of lateSurrounded my afflicted state;United fury thus was bentOn my devoted seats,Till all the mighty force was spentIn feeble swells, and empty threats.II.But now, with rising glory crowned,My joys run high, they know no bound;Tides of unruly pleasure flowThrough every swelling vein,New raptures in my bosom glow,And warm me up to youth again.Passing pomps my streets adorn;Captive spoils, in triumph borne,Standards of Gauls, in fight subdued,Colours in hostile blood embrued,Ensigns of tyrannic might,Foes to equity and right,In courts of British justice wave on high,Sacred to law and liberty.My crowded theatres repeat,In songs of triumph, the defeat.Did ever joyful mother seeSo bright, so brave a progeny!Daughters with so much beauty crowned,Or sons for valour so renowned!III.But oh, I gaze and seek in vainTo find, amidst this warlike train,My absent sons, that used to graceWith decent pride this joyous place:Unhappy youths! how do my sorrows rise,Swell my breast, and melt my eyes,While I your mighty loss deplore?Wild, and raging with distressI mourn, I mourn my own success,And boast my victories no more.Unhappy youths! far from their native sky,On Danube's banks interred they lie.Germania, give me back my slain,Give me my slaughtered sons again.Was it for this they ranged so far,To free thee from oppressive war?Germania, &c.IV.Tears of sorrow while I shedO'er the manes of my dead,Lasting altars let me raiseTo my living heroes' praise;Heaven give them a longer stay,As glorious actions to display,Or perish on as great a day.
SirHarry Gubbin, brother-in-law to Mr.Tipkin.
Humphry Gubbin, son of SirHarry Gubbin, and suitor toBiddy Tipkin, his cousin.
Mr.Tipkin, a banker,Biddy Tipkin'suncle.
Clerimont, Sen.
Capt.Clerimont, brother ofClerimont, Sen.
Mr.Pounce, a lawyer,Fainlove'sbrother.
Mrs.Clerimont.
Aunt(Mrs.Tipkin).
Niece(Biddy Tipkin), Mr.Tipkin'sniece.
Fainlove, mistress toClerimont, Sen.
Jenny, maid to Mrs.Clerimont.
SCENE.—London.
SCENE I.—Clerimont, Sen.'sHouse.
EnterClerimont, Sen.andFainlove.
EnterClerimont, Sen.andFainlove.
Cler. Sen.Well, Mr. Fainlove, how do you go on in your amour with my wife?
Fain.I am very civil and very distant; if she smiles or speaks, I bow and gaze at her; then throw down my eyes, as if oppressed by fear of offence, then steal a look again till she again sees me. This is my general method.
Cler. Sen.And it is right. For such a fine lady has no guard to her virtue but her pride; therefore you must constantly apply yourself to that. But, dear Lucy, as you have been a very faithful but a very costly wench to me, so my spouse also has been constant to my bed, but careless of my fortune.
Fain.Ah! my dear, how could you leave your poorLucy, and run into France to see sights, and show your gallantry with a wife? Was not that unnatural?
Cler. Sen.She brought me a noble fortune, and I thought she had a right to share it; therefore carried her to see the world, forsooth, and make the tour of France and Italy, where she learned to lose her money gracefully, to admire every vanity in our sex, and contemn every virtue in her own, which, with ten thousand other perfections, are the ordinary improvements of a travelled lady. Now I can neither mortify her vanity, that I may live at ease with her, or quite discard her, till I have catched her a little enlarging her innocent freedoms, as she calls 'em. For this end I am content to be a French husband, though now and then with the secret pangs of an Italian one; and therefore, sir, or madam, you are thus equipped to attend and accost her ladyship. It concerns you to be diligent. If we wholly part—I need say no more. If we do not—I'll see thee well provided for.
Fain.I'll do all I can, I warrant you, but you are not to expect I'll go much among the men.
Cler. Sen.No, no; you must not go near men; you are only (when my wife goes to a play) to sit in a side box with pretty fellows. I don't design you to personate a real man, you are only to be a pretty gentleman; not to be of any use or consequence in the world, as to yourself, but merely as a property to others; such as you see now and then have a life in the entail of a great estate, that seem to have come into the world only to be tags in the pedigree of a wealthy house. You must have seen many of that species.
Fain.I apprehend you; such as stand in assemblies, with an indolent softness and contempt of all around them; who make a figure in public and are scorned in private; I have seen such a one with a pocket glass to see his own face, and an effective perspective to know others. [Imitates each.
Cler. Sen.Ay, ay, that's my man—thou dear rogue.
Fain.Let me alone; I'll lay my life I'll horn you—that is, I'll make it appear I might if I could.
Cler. Sen.Ay, that will please me quite as well.
Fain.To show you the progress I have made, I last night won of her five hundred pounds, which I have brought you safe. [Giving him bills.
Cler. Sen.Oh the damned vice! That women can imagine all household care, regard to posterity, and fear of poverty, must be sacrificed to a game at cards! Suppose she had not had it to pay, and you had been capable of finding your account another way?
Fain.That's but a suppose—
Cler. Sen.I say, she must have complied with everything you asked.
Fain.But she knows you never limit her expenses.—I'll gain him from her for ever if I can. [Aside.
Cler. Sen.With this you have repaid me two thousand pounds, and if you did not refund thus honestly, I could not have supplied her. We must have parted.
Fain.Then you shall part—if t'other way fails—[Aside.]—However, I can't blame your fondness of her, she has so many entertaining qualities with her vanity. Then she has such a pretty unthinking air, while she saunters round a room, and prattles sentences.
Cler. Sen.That was her turn from her infancy; she always had a great genius for knowing everything but what it was necessary she should. The wits of the age, the great beauties, and short-lived people of vogue, were always her discourse and imitation. Thus the case stood when she went to France; but her fine follies improved so daily, that though I was then proud of her being called Mr. Clerimont's wife, I am now as much out of countenance to hear myself called Mrs. Clerimont's husband, so much is the superiority of her side.
Fain.I am sure if ever I gave myself a little liberty, I never found you so indulgent.
Cler. Sen.I should have the whole sex on my back, should I pretend to retrench a lady so well visited as mine is. Therefore I must bring it about that it shall appear her own act, if she reforms; or else I shall be pronounced jealous, and have my eyes pulled out for being open. But I hear my brother Jack coming, who, I hope, has brought yours with him—Hist, not a word.
EnterCaptain ClerimontandPounce.
EnterCaptain ClerimontandPounce.
Cler.I have found him out at last, brother, and brought you the obsequious Mr. Pounce; I saw him at a distance in a crowd, whispering in their turns with all about him. He is a gentleman so received, so courted, and so trusted——
Pounce.I am very glad if you saw anything like that, if the approbation of others can recommend me (where I much more desire it) to this company.
Cler.Oh, the civil person—But, dear Pounce, you know I am your professed admirer; I always celebrated you for your excellent skill and address, for that happy knowledge of the world, which makes you seem born for living with the persons you are with, wherever you come. Now my brother and I want your help in a business that requires a little more dexterity than we ourselves are masters of.
Pounce.You know, sir, my character is helping the distressed, which I do freely and without reserve; while others are for distinguishing rigidly on the justice of the occasion, and so lose the grace of the benefit. Now 'tis my profession to assist a free-hearted young fellow against an unnatural long-lived father; to disencumber men of pleasure of the vexation of unwieldy estates; to support a feeble title to an inheritance; to——
Cler. Sen.I have been well acquainted with your merits, ever since I saw you with so much compassionprompt a stammering witness in Westminster Hall, that wanted instruction. I love a man that can venture his ears with so much bravery for his friend.
Pounce.Dear sir, spare my modesty, and let me know to what all this panegyric tends.
Cler. Sen.Why, sir, what I would say is in behalf of my brother, the Captain, here, whose misfortune it is that I was born before him.
Pounce.I am confident he had rather you should have been so than any other man in England.
Cler.You do me justice, Mr. Pounce, but though 'tis to that gentleman, I am still a younger brother, and you know we that are so, are generally condemned to shops, colleges, or inns of court.
Pounce.But you, sir, have escaped 'em, you have been trading in the noble mart of glory.
Cler.That's true. But the general makes such haste to finish the war, that we red coats may be soon out of fashion; and then I am a fellow of the most easy indolent disposition in the world! I hate all manner of business.
Pounce.A composed temper, indeed!
Cler.In such a case I should have no way of livelihood, but calling over this gentleman's dogs in the country, drinking his stale beer to the neighbourhood, or marrying a fortune.
Cler. Sen.To be short, Pounce—I am putting Jack upon marriage, and you are so public an envoy, or rather plenipotentiary, from the very different nations of Cheapside, Covent Garden, and St. James's; you have, too, the mien and language of each place so naturally, that you are the properest instrument I know in the world, to help an honest young fellow to favour in one of 'em, by credit in the other.
Pounce.By what I understand of your many prefaces, gentlemen, the purpose of all this is, that it would notin the least discompose this gentleman's easy indolent disposition to fall into twenty thousand pounds, though it came upon him never so suddenly.
Cler.You are a very discerning man; how could you see so far through me, as to know I love a fine woman, pretty equipage, good company, and a clean habitation?
Pounce.Well, though I am so much a conjurer—what then?
Cler. Sen.You know a certain person, into whose hands you now and then recommend a young heir, to be relieved from the vexation of tenants, taxes, and so forth——
Pounce.What! My worthy friend and city patron Hezekiah Tipkin, banker in Lombard Street; would the noble Captain lay any sums in his hands?
Cler.No; but the noble Captain would have treasure out of his hands. You know his niece?
Pounce.To my knowledge ten thousand pounds in money.
Cler.Such a stature, such a blooming countenance, so easy a shape!
Pounce.In jewels of her grandmother's five thousand.
Cler.Her wit so lively, her mien so alluring!
Pounce.In land a thousand a year.
Cler.Her lips have that certain prominence, that swelling softness that they invite to a pressure; her eyes that languish, that they give pain, though they look only inclined to rest; her whole person that one charm——
Pounce.Raptures! Raptures!
Cler.How can it, so insensibly to itself, lead us through cares it knows not, through such a wilderness of hopes, fears, joys, sorrows, desires, despairs, ecstasies and torments, with so sweet, yet so anxious vicissitude!
Pounce.Why, I thought you had never seen her?
Cler.No more I han't.
Pounce.Who told you then of her inviting lips, her soft sleepy eyes?
Cler.You yourself.
Pounce.Sure you rave, I never spoke of her afore to you.
Cler.Why, you won't face me down—Did you not just now say she had ten thousand pounds in money, five in jewels, and a thousand a year?
Pounce.I confess my own stupidity and her charms. Why, if you were to meet, you would certainly please her, you have the cant of loving; but pray, may we be free—that young gentleman.
Cler.A very honest, modest gentleman of my acquaintance, one that has much more in him than he appears to have. You shall know him better, sir; this is Mr. Pounce; Mr. Pounce, this is Mr. Fainlove; I must desire you to let him be known to you and your friends.
Pounce.I shall be proud. Well then, since we may be free, you must understand, the young lady, by being kept from the world, has made a world of her own. She has spent all her solitude in reading romances, her head is full of shepherds, knights, flowery meads, groves, and streams, so that if you talk like a man of this world to her, you do nothing.
Cler.Oh, let me alone—I have been a great traveller in fairy-land myself, I know Oroondates; Cassandra, Astræa and Clelia[82]are my intimate acquaintance.
Go my heart's envoys, tender sighs make haste,And with your breath swell the soft zephyr's blast;Then near that fair one if you chance to fly,Tell her, in whispers, 'tis for her I die.
Pounce.That would do, that would do—her very language.
Cler. Sen.Why then, dear Pounce, I know thou art the only man living that can serve him.
Pounce.Gentlemen, you must pardon me, I am soliciting the marriage settlement between her and a country booby, her cousin, Humphry Gubbin, Sir Harry's heir, who is come to town to take possession of her.
Cler. Sen.Well, all that I can say to the matter is, that a thousand pounds on the day of Jack's marriage to her, is more than you'll get by the despatch of those deeds.
Pounce.Why, a thousand pounds is a pretty thing, especially when 'tis to take a lady fair out of the hands of an obstinate ill-bred clown, to give her to a gentle swain, a dying enamoured knight.
Cler. Sen.Ay, dear Pounce, consider but that—the justice of the thing.
Pounce.Besides, he is just come from the glorious Blenheim![83]Look ye, Captain, I hope you have learned an implicit obedience to your leaders.
Cler.'Tis all I know.
Pounce.Then, if I am to command, make not one step without me. And since we may be free, I am also to acquaint you, there will be more merit in bringing this matter to bear than you imagine. Yet right measures make all things possible.
Cler.We'll follow yours exactly.
Pounce.But the great matter against us is want of time, for the nymph's uncle, and 'squire's father, this morning met, and made an end of the matter. But thedifficulty of a thing, Captain, shall be no reason against attempting it.
Cler.I have so great an opinion of your conduct, that I warrant you we conquer all.
Pounce.I am so intimately employed by old Tipkin, and so necessary to him, that I may, perhaps, puzzle things yet.
Cler. Sen.I have seen thee cajole the knave very dexterously.
Pounce.Why, really, sir, generally speaking, 'tis but knowing what a man thinks of himself, and giving him that, to make him what else you please. Now Tipkin is an absolute Lombard Street wit, a fellow that drolls on the strength of fifty thousand pounds. He is called on 'change, Sly-boots, and by the force of a very good credit, and very bad conscience, he is a leading person. But we must be quick, or he'll sneer old Sir Harry out of his senses, and strike up the sale of his niece immediately.
Cler.But my rival, what's he?
Pounce.There's some hopes there, for I hear the booby is as averse as his father is inclined to it. One is as obstinate as the other is cruel.
Cler. Sen.He is, they say, a pert blockhead, and very lively out of his father's sight.
Pounce.He that gave me his character called him a docile dunce, a fellow rather absurd, than a direct fool. When his father's absent, he'll pursue anything he's put upon. But we must not lose time. Pray be you two brothers at home to wait for any notice from me, while that pretty gentleman and I, whose face I have known, take a walk and look about for 'em—So, so, young lady. [Aside toFainlove.] [Exeunt.
EnterSir Harry GubbinandTipkin.
EnterSir Harry GubbinandTipkin.
Sir Har.Look ye, brother Tipkin, as I told you before, my business in town is to dispose of an hundred head of cattle, and my son.
Tip.Brother Gubbin, as I signified to you in my last, bearing date September 13th, my niece has a thousand pounds per annum, and because I have found you a plain-dealing man (particularly in the easy pad you put into my hands last summer), I was willing you should have the refusal of my niece, provided that I have a discharge from all retrospects while her guardian, and one thousand pounds for my care.
Sir Har.Ay, but brother, you rate her too high, the war has fetched down the price of women; the whole nation is overrun with petticoats; our daughters lie upon our hands, Brother Tipkin; girls are drugs, sir, mere drugs.
Tip.Look ye, Sir Harry, let girls be what they will, a thousand pounds a year, is a thousand pounds a year; and a thousand pounds a year is neither girl nor boy.
Sir Har.Look ye, Mr. Tipkin, the main article with me is, that foundation of wive's rebellion, and husband's cuckoldom, that cursed pin-money. Five hundred pounds per annum pin-money!
Tip.The word pin-money, Sir Harry, is a term.
Sir Har.It is a term, brother, we never had in our family, nor ever will. Make her jointure in widowhood accordingly large, but four hundred pounds a year is enough to give no account of.
Tip.Well, Sir Harry, since you can't swallow these pins, I will abate to four hundred pounds.
Sir Har.And to mollify the article, as well as specify the uses, we'll put in the names of several female utensils, as needles, knitting-needles, tape, thread, scissors, bodkins, fans, play-books, with other toys of thatnature. And now, since we have as good as concluded on the marriage, it will not be improper that the young people see each other.
Tip.I don't think it prudent till the very instant of marriage, lest they should not like one another.
Sir Har.They shall meet—As for the young girl, she cannot dislike Numps; and for Numps, I never suffered him to have anything he liked in his life. He'll be here immediately; he has been trained up from his childhood under such a plant as this, in my hand—I have taken pains in his education.
Tip.Sir Harry, I approve your method; for since you have left off hunting you might otherwise want exercise, and this is a subtle expedient to preserve your own health and your son's good manners.
Sir Har.It has been the custom of the Gubbins to preserve severity and discipline in their families: I myself was caned the day before my wedding.
Tip.Ay, Sir Harry, had you not been well cudgelled in your youth, you had never been the man you are.
Sir Har.You say right, sir, now I feel the benefit of it. There's a crab-tree near your house which flourishes for the good of my posterity, and has brushed our jackets from father to son, for several generations.
Tip.I am glad to hear you have all things necessary for the family within yourselves.
Sir Har.Oh, yonder, I see Numps is coming—I have dressed him in the very suit I had on at my own wedding; 'tis a most becoming apparel.
EnterHumphry Gubbin.
EnterHumphry Gubbin.
Tip.Truly, the youth makes a good marriageable figure.
Sir Har.Come forward, Numps; this is your uncle Tipkin, your mother's brother, Numps, that is so kind as to bestow his niece upon you.—Don't be so glum, sirrah,don't bow to a man with a face as if you'd knock him down, don't, sirrah. [Apart.
Tip.I am glad to see you, cousin Humphry.—He is not talkative, I observe already.
Sir Har.He is very shrewd, sir, when he pleases.—Do you see this crab-stick, you dog? [Apart.]—Well, Numps, don't be out of humour.—Will you talk? [Apart.]—Come, we're your friends, Numps; come, lad.
Hump.You are a pure fellow for a father. This is always your tricks, to make a great fool of one before company. [Apart to his father.
Sir Har.Don't disgrace me, sirrah, you grim, graceless rogue—[Apart.]—Brother, he has been bred up to respect and silence before his parents. Yet did you but hear what a noise he makes sometimes in the kitchen, or the kennel—he's the loudest of 'em all.
Tip.Well, Sir Harry, since you assure me he can speak, I'll take your word for it.
Hump.I can speak when I see occasion, and I can hold my tongue when I see occasion.
Sir Har.Well said, Numps—Sirrah, I see you can do well, if you will. [Apart.
Tip.Pray walk up to me, cousin Humphry.
Sir Har.Ay, walk to and fro between us with your hat under your arm.—Clear up your countenance. [Apart.
Tip.I see, Sir Harry, you han't set him a-capering under a French dancing-master. He does not mince it. He has not learned to walk by a courant or a boree.[84]His paces are natural, Sir Harry.
Hump.I don't know, but 'tis so we walk in the West of England.
Sir Har.Ay, right, Numps, and so we do. Ha! ha! ha! Pray, brother, observe his make, none of your lath-backed wishy-washy breed. Come hither, Numps—Can't you stand still? [Apart.] [Measuring his shoulders.
Tip.I presume this is not the first time, Sir Harry, you have measured his shoulders with your cane.
Sir Mar.Look ye, brother, two foot and a-half in the shoulders.
Tip.Two foot and a-half? We must make some settlement on the younger children.
Sir Har.Not like him, quotha'!
Tip.He may see his cousin when he pleases.
Hump.But harkee, uncle, I have a scruple I had better mention before marriage than after.
Tip.What's that? What's that?
Hump.My cousin, you know, is akin to me, and I don't think it lawful for a young man to marry his own relations.[85]
Sir Har.Harkee, harkee, Numps, we have got a way to solve all that.—Sirrah! Consider this cudgel! Your cousin! suppose I'd have you marry your grandmother; what then? [Apart.
Tip.Well, has your father satisfied you in the point, Mr. Humphry?
Hump.Ay, ay, sir, very well. I have not the least scruple remaining; no, no—not in the least, sir.
Tip.Then harkee, brother, we'll go take a whet and settle the whole affair.
Sir Har.Come, we'll leave Numps here: he knows the way—Not marry your own relations, sirrah! [Apart.[Exeunt.
Hump.Very fine, very fine! How prettily this park is stocked with soldiers, and deer, and ducks, and ladies!—Ha! where are the old fellows gone? where can they be tro'——I'll ask these people.
EnterPounceandFainlove.
EnterPounceandFainlove.
Hump.Ha, you pretty young gentleman, did you see my father?
Fain.Your father, sir?
Hump.A weazel-faced cross old gentleman with spindle-shanks?
Fain.No, sir.
Hump.A crab-tree stick in his hand?
Pounce.We han't met anybody with these marks; but sure I have seen you before—Are not you Mr. Humphry Gubbin, son and heir to Sir Henry Gubbin?
Hump.I am his son and heir—but how long I shall be so I can't tell, for he talks every day of disinheriting me.
Pounce.Dear sir, let me embrace you—Nay, don't be offended if I take the liberty to kiss you. Mr. Fainlove, pray [Fainlovekisses] kiss the gentleman—Nay, dear sir, don't stare and be surprised, for I have had a desire to be better known to you ever since I saw you one day clinch your fist at your father when his back was turned upon you; for I must own I very much admire a young gentleman of spirit.
Hump.Why, sir, would it not vex a man to the heart to have an old fool snubbing a body every minute afore company?
Pounce.Oh fie, he uses you like a boy.
Hump.Like a boy! He lays me on now and then as if I were one of his hounds. You can't think what arage he was in this morning because I boggled a little at marrying my own cousin.
Pounce.A man can't be too scrupulous, Mr. Humphry—a man can't be too scrupulous.
Hump.Sir, I could as soon love my own flesh and blood; we should squabble like brother and sister; do you think we should not? Mr.——Pray, gentlemen, may I crave the favour of your names?
Pounce.Sir, I am the very person that has been employed to draw up the articles of marriage between you and your cousin.
Hump.Ay, say you so? Then you can inform me in some things concerning myself—Pray, sir, what estate am I heir to?
Pounce.To fifteen hundred pounds a year, an entailed estate.
Hump.I am glad to hear it with all my heart; and can you satisfy me in another question—Pray how old am I at present?
Pounce.Three-and-twenty last March.
Hump.Why, as sure as you are there, they have kept me back. I have been told by some of the neighbourhood that I was born the very year the pigeon-house was built, and everybody knows the pigeon-house is three-and-twenty. Why! I find there have been tricks played me. I have obeyed him all along, as if I had been obliged to it.
Pounce.Not at all, sir; your father can't cut you out of one acre of fifteen hundred pounds a year.
Hump.What a fool have I been to give him his head so long!
Pounce.A man of your beauty and fortune may find out ladies enough that are not akin to you.
Hump.Look ye, Mr. what d'ye call—as to my beauty, I don't know but they may take a liking to that. But, sir, mayn't I crave your name?
Pounce.My name, sir, is Pounce, at your service.
Hump.Pounce, with a P?
Pounce.Yes, sir, and Samuel, with an S.
Hump.Why, then, Mr. Samuel Pounce, do you know any gentlewoman that you think I could like? For, to tell you truly, I took an antipathy to my cousin ever since my father proposed her to me; and since everybody knows I came up to be married, I don't care to go down and look balked.
Pounce.I have a thought just come into my head—Do you see this young gentleman? He has a sister, a prodigious fortune. 'Faith, you two shall be acquainted.
Fain.I can't pretend to expect so accomplished a gentleman as Mr. Humphry for my sister, but being your friend, I'll be at his service in the affair.
Hump.If I had your sister, she and I should live like two turtles.
Pounce.Mr. Humphry, you shan't be fooled any longer; I'll carry you into company. Mr. Fainlove, you shall introduce him to Mrs. Clerimont's toilet.
Fain.She'll be highly taken with him; for she loves a gentleman whose manner is particular.
Pounce.What, sir, a person of your pretensions, a clear estate, no portions to pay! 'Tis barbarous, your treatment.—Mr. Humphry, I'm afraid you want money. There's for you—What, a man of your accomplishments! [Giving a purse.
Hump.And yet you see, sir, how they use me. Dear sir, you are the best friend I ever met with in all my life. Now I am flush of money, bring me to your sister, and I warrant you for my behaviour—A man's quite another thing with money in his pocket, you know.
Pounce.How little the oaf wonders why I should give him money! [Aside].—You shall never want, Mr. Humphry, while I have it, Mr. Humphry; but dear friend, I must take my leave of you; I have some extraordinarybusiness on my hands. I can't stay; but you must not say a word.
Fain.But you must be in the way half-an-hour hence, and I'll introduce you at Mrs. Clerimont's.
Pounce.Make 'em believe you are willing to have your cousin Bridget, till opportunity serves. Farewell, dear friend. [ExitPounceandFain.
Hump.Farewell, good Mr. Samuel Pounce.—But let's see my cash— 'tis very true, the old saying, a man meets with more friendship from strangers than his own relations—Let's see my cash: 1, 2, 3, 4, there on that side; 1, 2, 3, 4, on that side; 'tis a foolish thing to put all one's money in one pocket; 'tis like a man's whole estate in one county—These five in my fob—I'll keep these in my hand, lest I should have a present occasion.—But this town's full of pickpockets; I'll go home again. [Exit whistling.