Nov.Prithee, prithee, peace, old fool! I tell you, where there's mischief, there's wit. Don't we esteem the monkey a wit amongst beasts, only because he's mischievous? and, let me tell you, as good-nature is a sign of a fool, being mischievous is a sign of a wit.
Old.O rogue, rogue! pretend to be a wit, by doing mischief and railing!
Nov.Why, thou, old fool, hast no other pretence to the name of a wit, but by railing at new plays!
Old.Thou, by railing at that facetious noble way of wit, quibbling!
Nov.Thou callest thy dulness gravity; and thy dozing, thinking.
Old.You, sir, your dulness, spleen; and you talk much and say nothing.
Nov.Thou readest much, and understandest nothing, sir.
Old.You laugh loud, and break no jest.
Nov.You rail, and nobody hangs himself; and thou hast nothing of the satire but in thy face.
Old.And you have no jest, but your face, sir.
Nov.Thou art an illiterate pedant.
Old.Thou art a fool with a bad memory.
Man.Come, a pox on you both! you have done like wits now: for you wits, when you quarrel, never give over till ye prove one another fools.
Nov.And you fools have never any occasion of laughing at us wits but when we quarrel. Therefore let us be friends, Oldfox.
Man.They are such wits as thou art, who make the name of a wit as scandalous as that of bully: and signify a loud-laughing, talking, incorrigible, coxcomb, as bully a roaring hardened coward.
Free.And would have his noise and laughter pass for wit, as t'other his huffing and blustering for courage.
Re-enterVernish.
Man.Gentlemen, with your leave, here is one I would speak with; and I have nothing to say to you. [Puts all out of the room exceptVernish.
Ver.I told you 'twas in vain to think of getting money out of her. She says, if a shilling would do't, she would not save you from starving or hanging, or what you would think worse, begging or flattering; and rails so at you, one would not think you had lain with her.
Man.O, friend, never trust for that matter a woman's railing; for she is no less a dissembler in her hatred than her love; and as her fondness of her husband is a sign he's a cuckold, her railing at another man is a sign she lies with him.
Ver.He's in the right on't: I know not what to trust to. [Aside.
Man.But you did not take any notice of it to her, I hope?
Ver.So!—Sure he is afraid I should have disproved him by an inquiry of her: all may be well yet. [Aside.
Man.What hast thou in thy head that makes thee seem so unquiet?
Ver.Only this base impudent woman's falseness; I cannot put her out of my head.
Man.O, my dear friend, be not you too sensible of my wrongs; for then I shall feel 'em too with more pain, and think 'em unsufferable. Damn her, her money, and that ill-natured whore too, Fortune herself! But if thou wouldst ease a little my present trouble, prithee go borrow me somewhere else some money. I can trouble thee.
Ver.You trouble me, indeed, most sensibly, when you command me anything I cannot do. I have lately lost a great deal of money at play, more than I can yet pay; so that not only my money, but my credit too is gone, and know not where to borrow: but could rob a church for you.—[Aside.] Yet would rather end your wants by cutting your throat.
Man.Nay, then I doubly feel my poverty, since I'm incapable of supplying thee. [Embraces him.
Ver.But, methinks, she that granted you the last favour, (as they call it,) should not deny you anything.
Nov.[Looking in.] Hey, tarpaulin, have you done? [Retires again.
Ver.I understand not that point of kindness, I confess.
Man.No, thou dost not understand it, and I have not time to let you know all now; for these fools, you see, will interrupt us: but anon, at supper, we'll laugh at leisure together at Olivia's cuckold, who took a young fellow, that goes between his wife and me, for a woman.
Ver.Ha!
Man.Senseless, easy rascal! 'twas no wonder she chose him for a husband; but she thought him, I thank her, fitter than me, for that blind bearing office.
Ver.I could not be deceived in that long woman's hair tied up behind, nor those infallible proofs, her pouting swelling breasts: I have handled too many sure not to know 'em. [Aside.
Man.What, you wonder the fellow could be such a blind coxcomb?
Ver.Yes, yes—
Nov.[Looking in again.] Nay, prithee, come to us, Manly. Gad, all the fine things one says in their company, are lost without thee.
Man.Away, fop! I'm busy yet. [Novelretires.] You see we cannot talk here at our ease: besides, I must be gone immediately, in order to meeting with Olivia again to-night.
Ver.To-night! it cannot be, sure—
Man.I had an appointment just now from her.
Ver.For what time?
Man.At half an hour after seven precisely.
Ver.Don't you apprehend the husband?
Man.He! snivelling gull! he a thing to be feared! a husband! the tamest of creatures!
Ver.Very fine! [Aside.
Man.But, prithee, in the mean time, go try to get me some money. Though thou art too modest to borrow for thyself, thou canst do anything for me, I know. Go; for I must be gone to Olivia. Go, and meet me here, anon.—Freeman, where are you? [Exit.
Ver.Ay, I'll meet with you, I warrant; but it shall be at Olivia's. Sure, it cannot be: she denies it so calmly, and with that honest modest assurance, it cannot be true—and he does not use to lie—but belying a woman when she won't be kind, is the only lie a brave man will least scruple. But then the woman in man's clothes, whom he calls a man—well, but by her breasts I know her to be a woman—but then again, his appointment from her, to meet him again to-night! I am distracted more with doubt than jealousy. Well, I have no way to disabuse or revenge myself, but by going home immediately, putting on a riding-suit, and pretending to my wife the same business which carried me out of town last, requires me again to go post to Oxford to-night. Then, if the appointment he boasts of be true, it's sure to hold, and I shall have an opportunity either of clearing her, or revenging myself on both. Perhaps she is hiswench, of an old date, and I am his cully, whilst I think him mine; and he has seemed to make his wench rich, only that I might take her off his hands. Or if he has but lately lain with her, he must needs discover by her my treachery to him; which I'm sure he will revenge with my death, and which I must prevent with his, if it were only but for fear of his too just reproaches; for I must confess, I never had till now any excuse but that of interest, for doing ill to him. [Exit.
Re-enterManlyandFreeman.
Man.Come hither; only, I say, be sure you mistake not the time. You know the house exactly where Olivia lodges, 'tis just hard by.
Free.Yes, yes.
Man.Well then, bring 'em all, I say, thither, and all you know that may be then in the house; for the more witnesses I have of her infamy, the greater will be my revenge: and be sure you come straight up to her chamber without more ado. Here, take the watch; you see 'tis above a quarter past seven; be there in half an hour exactly.
Free.You need not doubt my diligence or dexterity; I am an old scourer, and can naturally beat up a wench's quarters that won't be civil. Shan't we break her windows too?
Man.No, no; be punctual only. [Exeunt.
EnterWidowBlackacre,and twoKnights of the Post,[126]aWaiterfollowing with wine.
Wid.Sweetheart, are you sure the door was shut close, that none of those roysters saw us come in?
Wait.Yes, mistress; and you shall have a privater room above, instantly. [Exit.
Wid.You are safe enough, gentlemen; for I have been private in this house ere now, upon other occasions, when I was something younger. Come, gentlemen; in short, I leave my business to your care and fidelity: and so here's to you.
1st Knight.We are ungrateful rogues if we should not be honest to you; for we have had a great deal of your money.
Wid.And you have done me many a good job for't; and so, here's to you again.
2nd Knight.Why, we have been perjured but six times for you.
1st Knight.Forged but four deeds, with your husband's last deed of gift.
2nd Knight.And but three wills.
1st Knight.And counterfeited hands and seals to some six bonds; I think that's all, brother?
Wid.Ay, that's all, gentlemen; and so, here's to you again.
2nd Knight.Nay, 'twould do one's heart good to be forsworn for you. You have a conscience in your ways, and pay us well.
1st Knight.You are in the right on't, brother; one would be damned for her with all one's heart.
2nd Knight.But there are rogues, who make us forsworn for 'em; and when we come to be paid, they'll be forsworn too, and not pay us our wages, which they promised with oaths sufficient.
1st Knight.Ay, a great lawyer that shall be nameless bilked me too.
Wid.That was hard, methinks, that a lawyer should use gentlemen witnesses no better.
2nd Knight.A lawyer! d'ye wonder a lawyer should do't? I was bilked by a reverend divine, that preachestwice on Sundays, and prays half an hour still before dinner.
Wid.How! a conscientious divine and not pay people for damning themselves! sure then, for all his talking, he does not believe damnation. But, come, to our business. Pray be sure to imitate exactly the flourish at the end of this name. [Pulls out a deed or two.
1st Knight.O, he's the best in England at untangling a flourish, madam.
Wid.And let not the seal be a jot bigger. Observe well the dash too, at the end of this name.
2nd Knight.I warrant you, madam.
Wid.Well, these and many other shifts, poor widows are put to sometimes; for everybody would be riding a widow, as they say, and breaking into her jointure. They think marrying a widow an easy business, like leaping the hedge where another has gone over before. A widow is a mere gap, a gap with them.
EnterMajorOldfox,with twoWaiters.TheKnights of the Posthuddle up the writings.
What, he here! Go then, go my hearts, you have your instructions. [ExeuntKnights of the Post.
Old.Come, madam, to be plain with you, I'll be fobbed off no longer.—[Aside.] I'll bind her and gag her but she shall hear me.—[To theWaiters.] Look you, friends, there's the money I promised you; and now do you what you promised me: here my garters, and here's a gag.—[To theWidow.] You shall be acquainted with my parts, lady, you shall.
Wid.Acquainted with your parts! A rape! a rape!—what, will you ravish me? [TheWaiterstie her to the chair, gag her, and exeunt.
Old.Yes, lady, I will ravish you: but it shall be through the ear, lady, the ear only, with my well-penned acrostics.
EnterFreeman, Jerry Blackacre,threeBailiffs,aConstable,and hisAssistantswith the twoKnights of the Post.
What, shall I never read my things undisturbed again?
Jer.O la! my mother bound hand and foot, and gaping as if she rose before her time to-day!
Free.What means this, Oldfox? But I'll release you from him; you shall be no man's prisoner but mine. Bailiffs, execute your writ. [Unties her.
Old.Nay, then, I'll be gone, for fear of being bail, and paying her debts without being her husband. [Exit.
1st Bail.We arrest you in the king's name, at the suit of Mr. Freeman, guardian to Jeremiah Blackacre, esquire, in an action of ten thousand pounds.
Wid.How, how, in a choke-bail action! What, and the pen and-ink gentlemen taken too!—Have you confessed, you rogues?
1st Knight.We needed not to confess; for the bailiffs have dogged us hither to the very door, and overheard all that you and we said.
Wid.Undone, undone then! no man was ever too hard for me till now. O Jerry, child, wilt thou vex again the womb that bore thee?
Jer.Ay, for bearing me before wedlock, as you say. But I'll teach you call a Blackacre bastard, though you were never so much my mother.
Wid.[Aside.] Well, I'm undone! not one trick left? no law-mesh imaginable?—[ToFreeman.] Cruel sir, a word with you, I pray.
Free.In vain, madam; for you have no other way to release yourself but by the bonds of matrimony.
Wid.How, sir, how! that were but to sue out a habeas-corpus, for a removal from one prison to another.—Matrimony!
Free.Well, bailiffs, away with her.
Wid.O stay, sir! can you be so cruel as to bring meunder covert-baron[127]again, and put it out of my power to sue in my own name? Matrimony to a woman is worse than excommunication, in depriving her of the benefit of the law; and I would rather be deprived of life. But hark you, sir, I am contented you should hold and enjoy my person by lease or patent, but not by the spiritual patent called a licence; that is, to have the privileges of a husband, without the dominion; that is,Durante beneplacito. In consideration of which, I will out of my jointure secure you an annuity of three hundred pounds a year, and pay your debts; and that's all you younger brothers desire to marry a widow for, I'm sure.
Free.Well, widow, if—
Jer.What! I hope, bully-guardian, you are not making agreements without me?
Free.No, no. First, widow, you must say no more that he is a son of a whore; have a care of that. And, then, he must have a settled exhibition of forty pounds a year, and a nag of assizes, kept by you, but not upon the common; and have free ingress, egress, and regress, to and from your maids' garret.
Wid.Well, I can grant all that too.
Jer.Ay, ay, fair words butter no cabbage: but guardian, make her sign, sign and seal; for otherwise, if you knew her as well as I, you would not trust her word for a farthing.
Free.I warrant thee, squire.—Well, widow, since thou art so generous, I will be generous too; and if you'll secure me four hundred pounds a year, but during your life, and pay my debts, not above a thousand pounds, I'll bate you your person, to dispose of as you please.
Wid.Have a care, sir, a settlement without a consideration is void in law; you must do something for't.
Free.Prithee, then let the settlement on me be called alimony; and the consideration, our separation. Come;my lawyer, with writings ready drawn, is within, and in haste. Come.
Wid.But, what, no other kind of consideration, Mr. Freeman? Well, a widow, I see, is a kind of sinecure, by custom of which the unconscionable incumbent enjoys the profits, without any duty, but does that still elsewhere. [Exeunt.
EnterOliviawith a candle in her hand.
Oliv.So, I am now prepared once more for my timorous young lover's reception. My husband is gone; and go thou out too, thou next interrupter of love.—[Puts out the candle.] Kind darkness, that frees us lovers from scandal and bashfulness, from the censure of our gallants and the world!—So, are you there?
EnterFidelia,followed softly byManly.
Come, my dear punctual lover, there is not such another in the world; thou hast beauty and youth to please a wife; address and wit, to amuse and fool a husband; nay, thou hast all things to be wished in a lover, but your fits. I hope, my dear, you won't have one to-night; and that you may not, I'll lock the door, though there be no need of it, but to lock out your fits: for my husband is just gone out of town again. Come, where are you? [Goes to the door and locks it.
Man.Well, thou hast impudence enough to give me fits too, and make revenge itself impotent; hinder me from making thee yet more infamous, if it can be. [Aside.
Oliv.Come, come, my soul, come.
Fid.Presently, my dear, we have time enough sure.
Oliv.How, time enough! True lovers can no morethink they ever have time enough, than love enough. You shall stay with me all night; but that is but a lover's moment. Come.
Fid.But won't you let me give you and myself the satisfaction of telling you how I abused your husband last night?
Oliv.Not when you can give me, and yourself too, the satisfaction of abusing him again to-night. Come.
Fid.Let me but tell you how your husband—
Oliv.O name not his, or Manly's more loathsome name, if you love me! I forbid 'em last night: and you know I mentioned my husband but once, and he came. No talking, pray, 'twas ominous to us.—[A noise at the door.] You make me fancy a noise at the door already, but I'm resolved not to be interrupted. Where are you? Come, for rather than lose my dear expectation now, though my husband were at the door, and the bloody ruffian Manly here in the room, with all his awful insolence, I would give myself to this dear hand, to be led away to heavens of joys, which none but thou canst give.—[The noise at the door increases.] But what's this noise at the door? So, I told you what talking would come to. Ha!—O Heavens, my husband's voice!—[Listens at the door.
Man.[Aside.] Freeman is come too soon.
Oliv.O, 'tis he!—Then here's the happiest minute lost that ever bashful boy or trifling woman fooled away! I'm undone! my husband's reconcilement too was false, as my joy all delusion. But come this way, here's a back door.—[Exit, and returns.] The officious jade has locked us in, instead of locking others out: but let us then escape your way, by the balcony; and whilst you pull down the curtains, I'll fetch from my closet what next will best secure our escape. I have left my key in the door, and 'twill not suddenly be broken open. [Exit.
[A noise as if people were forcing the door.
Man.Stir not, yet fear nothing.
Fid.Nothing but your life, sir.
Man.We shall know this happy man she calls husband.
Re-enterOlivia.
Oliv.Oh, where are you? What, idle with fear? Come, I'll tie the curtains, if you will hold. Here take this cabinet and purse, for it is thine, if we escape;—[Manlytakes them from her]—therefore let us make haste. [Exit.
Man.'Tis mine indeed now again, and it shall never escape more from me, to you at least. [The door is broke open, enterVernishwith a dark-lantern and a sword, running atManly,who draws, puts by the thrust, and defends himself, whilstFideliaruns atVernishbehind.
Ver.So, there I'm right, sure—[In a low voice.
Man.[Softly.] Sword and dark-lantern, villain, are some odds; but—
Ver.Odds! I'm sure I find more odds than I expected. What, has my insatiable two seconds at once? but—[In a low voice.
[Whilst they fight,Oliviare-enters, tying two curtains together.
Oliv.Where are you now?—What, is he entered then, and are they fighting? O do not kill one that can make no defence!—[ManlythrowsVernishdown and disarms him.] How! but I think he has the better on't. Here's his scarf, 'tis he. So, keep him down still: I hope thou hast no hurt, my dearest? [EmbracingManly.
EnterFreeman, LordPlausible, Novel, Jerry Blackacre,andWidowBlackacre,lighted by the twoSailorswith torches.
Ha!—what! Manly! and have I been thus concerned for him! embracing him! and has he his jewels again too! What means this? O, 'tis too sure, as well as my shame! which I'll go hide for ever. [Offers to go out,Manlystops her.
Man.No, my dearest; after so much kindness as has passed between us, I cannot part with you yet.—Freeman, let nobody stir out of the room; for notwithstanding your lights, we are yet in the dark, till this gentleman please to turn his face—[PullsVernishby the sleeve.] How, Vernish! art thou the happy man then? thou! thou! speak, I say; but thy guilty silence tells me all.—Well, I shall not upbraid thee; for my wonder is striking me as dumb as thy shame has made thee. But what? my little volunteer hurt, and fainting!
Fid.My wound, sir, is but a slight one in my arm; 'tis only my fear of your danger, sir, not yet well over.
Man.But what's here? more strange things—[ObservingFidelia'shair untied behind, and without a peruke, which she lost in the scuffle.] What means this long woman's hair, and face! now all of it appears too beautiful for a man; which I still thought womanish indeed! What, you have not deceived me too, my little volunteer?
Oliv.Me she has, I'm sure. [Aside.
Man.Speak!
EnterElizaandLettice.
Eliza.What, cousin, I am brought hither by your woman, I suppose, to be a witness of the second vindication of your honour?
Oliv.Insulting is not generous. You might spare me, I have you.
Eliza.Have a care, cousin, you'll confess anon too much; and I would not have your secrets.
Man.Come, your blushes answer me sufficiently, and you have been my volunteer in love. [ToFidelia.
Fid.I must confess I needed no compulsion to follow you all the world over; which I attempted in this habit, partly out of shame to own my love to you, and fear of a greater shame, your refusal of it; for I knew of your engagement to this lady, and the constancy of your nature; which nothing could have altered but herself.
Man.Dear madam, I desired you to bring me out of confusion, and you have given me more. I know not what to speak to you, or how to look upon you; the sense of my rough, hard, and ill usage of you, (though chiefly your own fault,) gives me more pain now 'tis over, than you had when you suffered it: and if my heart, the refusal of such a woman—[Pointing toOlivia]—were not a sacrifice to profane your love, and a greater wrong to you than ever yet I did you, I would beg of you to receive it, though you used it as she had done; for though it deserved not from her the treatment she gave it, it does from you.
Fid.Then it has had punishment sufficient from her already, and needs no more from me; and, I must confess, I would not be the only cause of making you break your last night's oath to me, of never parting with me; if you do not forget or repent it.
Man.Then take for ever my heart, and this with it;—[Gives her the cabinet] for 'twas given to you before, and my heart was before your due: I only beg leave to dispose of these few.—Here, madam, I never yet left my wench unpaid. [Takes some of the jewels, and offers them toOlivia;she strikes them down: LordPlausibleandNoveltake them up.
Oliv.So it seems, by giving her the cabinet.
L. Plau.These pendants appertain to your most faithful humble servant.
Nov.And this locket is mine; my earnest for love, which she never paid: therefore my own again.
Wid.By what law, sir, pray?—Cousin Olivia, a word. What, do they make a seizure on your goods and chattels,vi et armis? Make your demand, I say, and bring your trover, bring your trover. I'll follow the law for you.
Oliv.And I my revenge. [Exit.
Man.[ToVernish.] But 'tis, my friend, in your consideration most, that I would have returned part of yourwife's portion; for 'twere hard to take all from thee, since thou hast paid so dear for't, in being such a rascal. Yet thy wife is a fortune without a portion; and thou art a man of that extraordinary merit in villany, the world and fortune can never desert thee, though I do; therefore be not melancholy. Fare you well, sir.—[ExitVernishdoggedly.] Now, madam, I beg your pardon [Turning toFidelia] for lessening the present I made you; but my heart can never be lessened. This, I confess, was too small for you before; for you deserve the Indian world; and I would now go thither, out of covetousness for your sake only.
Fid.Your heart, sir, is a present of that value, I can never make any return to't.—[PullingManlyfrom the company.] But I can give you back such a present as this, which I got by the loss of my father, a gentleman of the north, of no mean extraction, whose only child I was, therefore left me in the present possession of two thousand pounds a-year; which I left, with multitudes of pretenders, to follow you, sir; having in several public places seen you, and observed your actions thoroughly, with admiration, when you were too much in love to take notice of mine, which yet was but too visible. The name of my family is Grey, my other Fidelia. The rest of my story you shall know when I have fewer auditors.
Man.Nay, now, madam, you have taken from me all power of making you any compliment on my part; for I was going to tell you, that for your sake only I would quit the unknown pleasure of a retirement; and rather stay in this ill world of ours still, though odious to me, than give you more frights again at sea, and make again too great a venture there, in you alone. But if I should tell you now all this, and that your virtue (since greater than I thought any was in the world) had now reconciled me to't, my friend here would say, 'tis your estate that hast made me friends with the world.
Free.I must confess I should; for I think most of ourquarrels to the world are just such as we have to a handsome woman; only because we cannot enjoy her as we would do.
Man.Nay, if thou art a plain dealer too, give me thy hand; for now I'll say, I am thy friend indeed; and for your two sakes, though I have been so lately deceived in friends of both sexes,—
I will believe there are now in the worldGood-natured friends, who are not prostitutes,And handsome women worthy to be friends;Yet, for my sake, let no one e'er confideIn tears, or oaths, in love, or friend untried.
[Exeunt.
To you the judges learned in stage-laws,Our poet now, by me, submits his cause;For with young judges, such as most of you,The men by women best their business do:And, truth on't is, if you did not sit here,To keep for us a term throughout the year,We could not live by'r tongues; nay, but for you,Our chamber-practice would be little too.And 'tis not only the stage-practiserWho by your meeting gets her living here:For as in Hall of WestminsterSleek sempstress vents amidst the courts her ware;So, while we bawl, and you in judgment sit,The visor-mask sells linen too i' th' pitO, many of your friends, besides us here,Do live by putting off their several ware.Here's daily done the great affairs o' th' nationLet love and us then ne'er have long-vacation.But hold; like other pleaders I have doneNot my poor client's business, but my own.Spare me a word then now for him. First know,Squires of the long robe, he does humbly show,He has a just right in abusing you,Because he is a Brother-Templar too:For at the bar you rally one another;Nay, fool and knave, is swallowed from a brother:If not the poet here, the Templar spare,And maul him when you catch him at the bar.From you, our common modish censurers,Your favour, not your judgment, 'tis he fears:Of all love begs you then to rail, find fault;For plays, like women, by the world are thought,When you speak kindly of 'em, very naught.
[1]Correspondence between Pope and Wycherley: Letter 26. See also Letter 15.
[1]Correspondence between Pope and Wycherley: Letter 26. See also Letter 15.
[2]I ought to have remembered that this maxim is Rochefoucauld's. It may stand, however, as an instance of the untrustworthiness of Wycherley's memory. See p.xxxvi.
[2]I ought to have remembered that this maxim is Rochefoucauld's. It may stand, however, as an instance of the untrustworthiness of Wycherley's memory. See p.xxxvi.
[3]Letters on several Occasions; published by John Dennis: London, 1696.
[3]Letters on several Occasions; published by John Dennis: London, 1696.
[4]Letters on several Occasions: p. 57.
[4]Letters on several Occasions: p. 57.
[5]An Essay against Pride and Ambition, in the Posthumous Works.
[5]An Essay against Pride and Ambition, in the Posthumous Works.
[6]Spence'sAnecdotes.
[6]Spence'sAnecdotes.
[7]From Macaulay's Essay onThe Comic Dramatists of the Restoration.
[7]From Macaulay's Essay onThe Comic Dramatists of the Restoration.
[8]Daniel Wycherley, Esq., of Clive or Cleve, in Shropshire, about seven miles north of Shrewsbury.—Ed.
[8]Daniel Wycherley, Esq., of Clive or Cleve, in Shropshire, about seven miles north of Shrewsbury.—Ed.
[9]The dates assigned by Macaulay to the first representations of Wycherley's plays are in every case incorrect. See the Introduction to each play.—Ed.
[9]The dates assigned by Macaulay to the first representations of Wycherley's plays are in every case incorrect. See the Introduction to each play.—Ed.
[10]Macaulay's version of the above story is derived from Spence'sAnecdotes.It differs entirely from Dennis's version, which is evidently the correct one, as the former totally misses the point, and makes the Duchess guilty merely of a piece of unmeaning rudeness. Dennis's account is as follows.—"The writing of that Play [Love in a Wood] was the Occasion of his becoming acquainted with one of King Charles's Mistresses after a very particular manner. As Mr. Wycherley was going thro'Pall MalltowardsSt. James'sin his Chariot, he met the foresaid lady in hers, who, thrusting half her Body out of the Chariot, cry'd out aloud to him, 'You, Wycherley, you are a Son of a Whore,' at the same time laughing aloud and heartily.... Mr. Wycherley was certainly very much surpriz'd at it, yet not so much but he soon apprehended it was spoke with Allusion to the latter End of a Song in the foremention'd Play—'Great Wits and great BravesHave always a Punk to their Mother.'As, during Mr. Wycherley's Surprize, the Chariots drove different ways, they were soon at a considerable Distance from each other, when Mr. Wycherley, recovering from his Surprize, ordered his Coachman to drive back, and to overtake the Lady. As soon as he got over-against her, he said to her, 'Madam, you have been pleased to bestow a title on me which generally belongs to the Fortunate. Will your Ladyship be at the Play to-night?' 'Well,' she reply'd, 'what if I am there?' 'Why, then I will be there to wait on your Ladyship, tho' I disappoint a very fine Woman who has made me an Assignation.' 'So,' said she, 'you are sure to disappoint a Woman who has favour'd you for one who has not.' 'Yes,' reply'd he, 'if she who has not favour'd me is the finer Woman of the two. But he who will be constant to your Ladyship, till he can find a finer Woman, is sure to die your Captive.' The Lady blush'd, and bade her Coachman drive away.... In short, she was that Night in the first Row of the King's Box in 'Drury Lane,' and Mr. Wycherley in the Pit under her, where he entertain'd her during the whole Play." Dennis'sFamiliar Letters, London, 1721.—Ed.
[10]Macaulay's version of the above story is derived from Spence'sAnecdotes.It differs entirely from Dennis's version, which is evidently the correct one, as the former totally misses the point, and makes the Duchess guilty merely of a piece of unmeaning rudeness. Dennis's account is as follows.—"The writing of that Play [Love in a Wood] was the Occasion of his becoming acquainted with one of King Charles's Mistresses after a very particular manner. As Mr. Wycherley was going thro'Pall MalltowardsSt. James'sin his Chariot, he met the foresaid lady in hers, who, thrusting half her Body out of the Chariot, cry'd out aloud to him, 'You, Wycherley, you are a Son of a Whore,' at the same time laughing aloud and heartily.... Mr. Wycherley was certainly very much surpriz'd at it, yet not so much but he soon apprehended it was spoke with Allusion to the latter End of a Song in the foremention'd Play—
'Great Wits and great BravesHave always a Punk to their Mother.'
As, during Mr. Wycherley's Surprize, the Chariots drove different ways, they were soon at a considerable Distance from each other, when Mr. Wycherley, recovering from his Surprize, ordered his Coachman to drive back, and to overtake the Lady. As soon as he got over-against her, he said to her, 'Madam, you have been pleased to bestow a title on me which generally belongs to the Fortunate. Will your Ladyship be at the Play to-night?' 'Well,' she reply'd, 'what if I am there?' 'Why, then I will be there to wait on your Ladyship, tho' I disappoint a very fine Woman who has made me an Assignation.' 'So,' said she, 'you are sure to disappoint a Woman who has favour'd you for one who has not.' 'Yes,' reply'd he, 'if she who has not favour'd me is the finer Woman of the two. But he who will be constant to your Ladyship, till he can find a finer Woman, is sure to die your Captive.' The Lady blush'd, and bade her Coachman drive away.... In short, she was that Night in the first Row of the King's Box in 'Drury Lane,' and Mr. Wycherley in the Pit under her, where he entertain'd her during the whole Play." Dennis'sFamiliar Letters, London, 1721.—Ed.
[11]This anecdote is given by Leigh Hunt on the authority of Voltaire'sLetters concerning the English Nation. But Leigh Hunt's memory appears to have played him false. The only allusion, in Voltaire'sLetters, to the connection between Wycherley and the Duchess, is contained in the following words:—"Mr. Wycherley, who was a long Time known publickly to be happy in the good Graces of the most celebrated Mistress of King Charles the Second."—Ed.
[11]This anecdote is given by Leigh Hunt on the authority of Voltaire'sLetters concerning the English Nation. But Leigh Hunt's memory appears to have played him false. The only allusion, in Voltaire'sLetters, to the connection between Wycherley and the Duchess, is contained in the following words:—"Mr. Wycherley, who was a long Time known publickly to be happy in the good Graces of the most celebrated Mistress of King Charles the Second."—Ed.
[12]Wycherley accordingly journeyed into France, about the beginning of the winter of 1678, and returned, entirely restored, at the end of the following spring. The King received him with the utmost favour, and made choice of him as governor to his son. It was immediately after this that Wycherley went down to Tunbridge (in the summer of 1679), where he met the Countess of Drogheda, whom he soon afterwards married.—Ed.
[12]Wycherley accordingly journeyed into France, about the beginning of the winter of 1678, and returned, entirely restored, at the end of the following spring. The King received him with the utmost favour, and made choice of him as governor to his son. It was immediately after this that Wycherley went down to Tunbridge (in the summer of 1679), where he met the Countess of Drogheda, whom he soon afterwards married.—Ed.
[13]Mr. Leigh Hunt supposes that the battle at which Wycherley was present was that which the Duke of York gained over Opdam, in 1665. We believe that it was one of the battles between Rupert and De Ruyter, in 1673.The point is of no importance; and there cannot be said to be much evidence either way. We offer, however, to Mr. Leigh Hunt's consideration three arguments—of no great weight certainly—yet such as ought, we think, to prevail in the absence of better. First, it is not very likely that a young Templar, quite unknown in the world—and Wycherley was such in 1665—should have quitted his chambers to go to sea. On the other hand, it would have been in the regular course of things that, when a courtier and an equerry, he should offer his services. Secondly, his verses appear to have been written after a drawn battle, like those of 1673, and not after a complete victory, like that of 1665. Thirdly, in the epilogue toThe Gentleman Dancing-Master, written in 1673, he says that "all gentlemen must pack to sea;" an expression which makes it probable that he did not himself mean to stay behind. The epilogue toThe Gentleman Dancing-Masterwas probably written about the end of 1671. See the Introduction to that play.—Ed.
[13]Mr. Leigh Hunt supposes that the battle at which Wycherley was present was that which the Duke of York gained over Opdam, in 1665. We believe that it was one of the battles between Rupert and De Ruyter, in 1673.
The point is of no importance; and there cannot be said to be much evidence either way. We offer, however, to Mr. Leigh Hunt's consideration three arguments—of no great weight certainly—yet such as ought, we think, to prevail in the absence of better. First, it is not very likely that a young Templar, quite unknown in the world—and Wycherley was such in 1665—should have quitted his chambers to go to sea. On the other hand, it would have been in the regular course of things that, when a courtier and an equerry, he should offer his services. Secondly, his verses appear to have been written after a drawn battle, like those of 1673, and not after a complete victory, like that of 1665. Thirdly, in the epilogue toThe Gentleman Dancing-Master, written in 1673, he says that "all gentlemen must pack to sea;" an expression which makes it probable that he did not himself mean to stay behind. The epilogue toThe Gentleman Dancing-Masterwas probably written about the end of 1671. See the Introduction to that play.—Ed.
[14]There are no grounds whatever for this surmise.—Ed.
[14]There are no grounds whatever for this surmise.—Ed.
[15]"He lost his memory (forty years before he died) by a fever, and would repeat the same thought, sometimes in the compass of ten lines, and did not dream of its being inserted but just before: when you pointed it out to him, he would say, 'Gads-so, so it is! I thank you very much: pray blot it out.'"—Pope, in Spence'sAnecdotes.Elsewhere Pope states that he was forty years of age when the illness occurred. It is possible that this illness may have been the fever before mentioned, from which he sought recovery by travel, in the winter of 1678; though Dennis certainly describes him as returning "entirely restored," both in body and mind.—Ed.
[15]"He lost his memory (forty years before he died) by a fever, and would repeat the same thought, sometimes in the compass of ten lines, and did not dream of its being inserted but just before: when you pointed it out to him, he would say, 'Gads-so, so it is! I thank you very much: pray blot it out.'"—Pope, in Spence'sAnecdotes.
Elsewhere Pope states that he was forty years of age when the illness occurred. It is possible that this illness may have been the fever before mentioned, from which he sought recovery by travel, in the winter of 1678; though Dennis certainly describes him as returning "entirely restored," both in body and mind.—Ed.
[16]This assertion is wholly without foundation.—Ed.
[16]This assertion is wholly without foundation.—Ed.