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 THE mET{m(iAm SE\IES. 
 
 The Best Plays of the Old Dramatlsts. 
 
 Richard Steele.
 
 THE MERMAID SERIES. 
 
 The Best PL a ys of the Old drama tists. 
 
 LITERAL REPRODUCTIONS OF THE OLD TEXT. 
 
 THE BERT PLAYS OF CHRIS- 
 TOPHER MARLOWE. Edited, 
 with Critical Memoir and Notes, 
 by Havei.ock Elms ; and con- 
 taining a General Introduction to 
 the Series by John Addington 
 
 SVMONDS. 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF THOMAS 
 OTWAY, Introduction and Notes 
 by the Hon. Roden Noel. 
 
 III. 
 THE REST PLAYS OF JOHN 
 FORD. Edited by Havelock 
 Ellis. 
 
 IV. & V. 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF PHILIP 
 MASSINGER. With Critical and 
 Biographical Essay and Notes, by 
 Arthur Symons. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF THOMAS 
 HEYWOOD. Edited by A. W. 
 Verity. With Introduction by 
 J. A. Symonds. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE COMPLETE PLAYS OF 
 WILLIAM WYCHERLEY. 
 Edited, with Introduction and 
 Notes, by W. C. Ward. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 NERO, AND OTHER PLAYS. 
 Edited by H. P. Horne, Arthur 
 Symons, A. W. Verity, and H. 
 Ellis. 
 
 IX. & X. 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF BEAU- 
 MONT AND FLETCHER. In- 
 troduction and Notes by J. .St. Loe 
 Strachey. 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE COMPLETE PLAYS OF 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. Edited 
 by Alkx. C. Ewald. 
 
 XII. 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF WEB- 
 STER AND TOURNEUR. With 
 an Introduction and Notes by John 
 Addington Symonds. 
 
 XIII. & XIV. 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF THOMAS 
 MIDDLETON. With an Intro- 
 duction by Algernon Charles 
 Swinburnk. 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF JAMES 
 SHIRLEY. With Introduction by 
 Edmund Gosse. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF THOMAS 
 DEKKER. Introductory Essay 
 and Notes by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF BEN 
 JONSON. Edited, with Intro- 
 duction and Notes, by Brinsley 
 Nicholson and C. H. Herford. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE COMPLETE PLAYS OF 
 RICHARD STEELE. Edited, 
 with Introduction and Notes, by G. 
 
 A. AlTKEN. 
 
 Post 8vo, each Volume containing about 500 pp. and an Etched Frontispiece, 
 bound in cloth. 
 
 London : T. FISHER UNWIN. 
 New York: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.
 
 The Best Plays of the Old Dramatists. 
 
 RICHARD STEELE 
 
 EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES, 
 
 By G. a. Aitken. 
 
 "I lie and dream of your full Mermaid wine." — Beaumont. 
 
 >t<Xo 
 
 LONDON : T. FISHER UNWIN. 
 
 NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS. 
 
 1894.
 
 " What things have we seen 
 Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been 
 So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
 As if that every one from whence they came 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 Of his dull hfe." 
 
 Master Francis, Beaumont to Ben Jonson. 
 
 " SoxJs of Poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern, 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? " 
 
 Keats.
 
 AT 
 \ 8 34 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Richard Steele vii 
 
 The Funeral i 
 
 The Lying Lover 97 
 
 The Tender Husband 189 
 
 The Conscious Lovers 265 
 
 The School of Action (A Fragment) . . . .361 
 
 The Gentleman (A Fragment) 399 
 
 Appendix 407
 
 T^CHqAT^ STEELE. 
 
 T is as an essayist rather than a 
 dramatist that men now think of 
 Steele ; and this is rightly so, for 
 his best work is to be found in 
 the periodical papers which he 
 edited. There is, however, in 
 his plays the same wit and humour that is to be 
 found in the Tatter and Spectator, and his four 
 comedies occupy an important position in the 
 history of the English drama. 
 
 In this Introduction it will be sufficient to give 
 a brief sketch of Steele's life, with especial 
 reference to his relations with the theatre, which 
 were intimate and varied.^ 
 
 ' Readers desirous of knowing more about Steele may be referred 
 to Forster's Essay, first printed in the Quarterly Review for 1855 ; 
 to Mr. Dobson's "Richard Steele," 1886, in the English Worthies 
 scries; and to the Life of Richard Steele, 2 vols., 1889, by the 
 present writer. From the last-mentioned work I have occasionally 
 borrowed a phrase or sentence in this Introduction.
 
 viii RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 Richard Steele was born in Dublin in 1672 ; 
 his father was an attorney who married a widow 
 named Elinor Symes, but both his parents died 
 while he was a child, and Steele passed into the 
 care of a kind uncle, Henry Gascoigne, private 
 secretary to the Duke of Ormond, and by his 
 influence was placed upon the foundation of the 
 Charterhouse in 1684. Two years later Joseph 
 Addison, who was only a few weeks younger than 
 Steele, entered that famous school, and the two 
 boys formed the closest of friendships. In 1689 
 Steele followed Addison to Oxford, entering at 
 Christ Church ; but in 1691 he was made a post- 
 master of Merton College. He would have many 
 introductions, for his uncle was well known at 
 the University, and his friend Addison was a 
 distinguished scholar at Magdalen. We are told 
 that he wrote a comedy while at college, but 
 burned it on being told by a friend that it was 
 worthless. When he left Oxford he took with 
 him the love of " the whole society." 
 
 Steele enlisted in 1694 as a private in the Duke 
 of Ormond's regiment of Guards. Private sol- 
 diers in the Guards were often gentlemen's sons, 
 and Steele was in reality a cadet, looking for- 
 ward to the position of ensign. When Queen 
 Mary died in the following year he published an 
 anonymous poem, The Procession^ the work of 
 *'a gentleman of the army," and dedicated it to 
 Lord Cutts, Colonel of the Coldstream Guards. 
 He was rewarded by being made a confidential
 
 RICHARD STEELE. ix 
 
 agent to Lord Cutts, who also obtained for him 
 an ensign's commission in his own regiment. 
 By 1700 we find Steele referred to as "Captain 
 Steele," and in friendly intercourse with Sir 
 Charles Sedley, Vanbrugh, Garth, Congreve, 
 and other wits. In that year, too, he fought a 
 duel with a Captain Kelly, '* one or two of his 
 acquaintances having," as he says, "thought lit 
 to misuse him, and try their valour upon him." 
 The event made a serious impression upon 
 Steele, who, much in advance of his age, never 
 ceased to remonstrate in his after writings 
 against the " barbarous custom of duelling." 
 
 The life of a soldier stationed at the Tower 
 was certain to lead a young man of Steele's soci- 
 able, hearty nature, into excesses. It was, as he 
 says, " a life exposed to much irregularity" ; and 
 as he often did things of which he repented, he 
 wrote, for his own use, a little book called The 
 Christian Hero ; and finding that this secret 
 admonition was too weak he published the 
 volume in 1701, with his name on the title-page. 
 It was "an argument proving that no principles 
 but those of religion are sufficient to make a 
 great man." A second edition was called for in 
 three months, but the only effect of the publica- 
 tion in the regiment was " that from being rec- 
 koned no undelightful companion he was soon 
 reckoned a disagreeable fellow." Under these 
 circumstances he says he felt it to be " incum- 
 bent upon him to enliven his character, for which
 
 X RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 reason he wrote the comedy called The Funeral, 
 in which (though full of incidents that move 
 laughter) virtue and vice appear just as they 
 ought to do. Nothing can make the town so 
 fond of a man as a successful play." Let us look 
 for a moment at the condition of the drama at 
 the opening of the eighteenth century. 
 
 II. 
 
 Dryden had died in 1700, and Congreve pro- 
 duced his last important play in that year. 
 Wicherley, though still living, had long ceased 
 to write, but Farquhar and Vanbrugh were busy 
 about this time with their best work. Of other 
 dramatists who were then writing there are none 
 more important than Rowe, Dennis, Gibber, 
 Gildon, D'Urfey, Mrs. Manley, and Mrs. Cent- 
 livre. The licentiousness of the Restoration 
 plays had been fully equalled by the coarseness 
 of many of those written under William III. ; 
 and at the end of the seventeenth century a 
 determined protest had been made by men who 
 realised the evil effect of what was acted for the 
 amusement of the people. Jeremy Collier, a 
 nonjuring clergyman, led the attack by pub- 
 lishing, in 1698, ^ Short Vzezo of the Profane- 
 ness and Immorality of the English Stage. Col- 
 lier was intemperate, and there were numer-
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xi 
 
 ous replies ; but his main position was not 
 shaken. In the meantime proclamations were 
 issued against the acting of anything immoral 
 or irreligious, and a Society for the Reforma- 
 tion of Manners was founded, which was soon 
 followed by similar societies in various parts 
 of the country. 
 
 In October, 1701, Steele, who says that he was 
 " a great admirer " of Collier's work, arranged 
 with Christopher Rich, of the Theatre Royal, 
 Drury Lane, for the production of his comedy, 
 The FtiJieral, or Grief d-la-Alode, as soon as they 
 could conveniently.^ The play was acted shortly 
 afterwards, and it was printed in December. 
 In the prologue Steele said that he knew 
 he had numerous friends present, and that they 
 would show it, " and for the fellow-soldier save 
 the poet." The very frankness of this half- 
 serious appeal shows that the play did not need 
 artificial support, and Cibber says that it met 
 with " more than expected success." It is very 
 sprightly, but Steele did not omit, by the legiti- 
 mate use of satire, to attack the mockery of 
 grief by his ridicule of the undertaker, and the 
 mockery of justice in the person of Puzzle, the 
 lawyer. As in all his writings, he shows, by the 
 characters of Lady Sharlot and Lady Harriot, 
 the respect he felt for true women. " He was," 
 says Thackeray, in words which are certainly 
 true of Steele's immediate predecessors, "the 
 
 1 See Appendix.
 
 xii RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 first of our writers who really seemed to admire 
 and respect them." The contrast between virtue 
 and vice, to the advantage of the former — an 
 object which had not usually been aimed at by 
 the preceding writers of comedies — was furnished 
 by the character of Lady Brumpton, the widow, 
 whose husband was not really dead. The de- 
 scription of her schemes, and her conversations 
 with her woman Tattleaid and her lady friends, 
 are admirable, and were not forgotten by Sheri- 
 dan when writing the School for Scandal. Tattle- 
 aid says to the widow, " I warrant you, madam, 
 I'll manage 'em all ; and indeed, madam, the men 
 are really very silly creatures, 'tis no such hard 
 matter. They rulers ! They governors ! I war- 
 rant you, indeed ! " Whereupon the widow 
 observes, " Ay, Tattleaid, they imagine them- 
 selves mighty things, but government founded 
 on force only is a brutal power. We rule them 
 by their affections, which blinds them into belief 
 that they rule us, or at least are in the govern- 
 ment with us. But in this nation our power is 
 absolute." The conversation in the last act, 
 when the widow is preparing for the funeral, and 
 Tattleaid has her mouth full of pins, is equally 
 clever. 
 
 It would be difficult to find better comedy than 
 the instructions of Sable, the undertaker, to his 
 men : " Let's have no laughing, now, on any 
 provocation [^/nakes faces']. Look yonder, that hale, 
 well-looking puppy ! You ungrateful scoundrel,
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xiii 
 
 did not I pity you, take you out of a great man's 
 service, and show you the pleasure of receiving 
 wages r Did not I give you ten, then fifteen, 
 now twenty shillings a week, to be sorrowful ? 
 and the more I give you, I think, the gladder you 
 are." And again, " Look you, now, you are all 
 upon the sneer ; let me have none but downright 
 
 stupid countenances Ye stupid rogues, 
 
 whom I have picked out of all the rubbish of 
 mankind, and fed for your eminent worthlessness, 
 attend, and know that I speak you this moment 
 stiff and immutable to all sense of noise, mirth, 
 or laughter \jnakes mouths at them as they pass by 
 him to bring them to a constant cou7itenance^. So, 
 they are pretty well — pretty well." Excellent, 
 too, is the talk of the lawyer and his clerk : " I 
 hope to see the day when the indenture shall be 
 the exact measure of the land that passes by it ; 
 for 'tis a discouragement to the gown that every 
 ignorant rogue of an heir should in a word or two 
 understand his father's meaning, and hold ten 
 acres of land by half an acre of parchment." 
 There is an admirable dialogue about their 
 lovers between Lady Sharlot and Lady Harriot, 
 in the second act, and in the fourth act Steele's 
 comrades would be delighted with the talk of the 
 soldiers, one of whom had saved an officer's life, 
 but had now been whipped from constable to 
 constable all the way from Cornwall to London. 
 " That's due by the courtesy of England to all 
 that want in red coats ; besides, there's an Act
 
 xiv RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 that makes us free of all Corporations, and that's 
 the ceremony of it." When Tatter says, '' In our 
 last clothing in the regiment I served in afore, 
 the colonel had one shirt afore, the agent one 
 behind, and every captain of the regiment a 
 button," Lord Hardy, smiling, replies, " Hush, 
 you rogue, you talk mutiny," and his Lordship's 
 man at once gives the soldier a blow on the 
 head : " Ay, sirrah, what have you to do with 
 more knowledge than that of your right hand 
 from your left \ " But later on Trim remarks that 
 " after all, 'tis upon the neck of such scoundrels 
 as these gentlemen that we great captains build 
 our renown." 
 
 There are obvious weak points in the plot, 
 notably the introduction of bigamy on Lady 
 Brumpton's part, in order to remove the difficulty 
 about the will made by Lord Brumpton in her 
 favour. There was, of course, nothing to pre- 
 vent the Earl executing a fresh will when he 
 again came to life, after finding out his wife's 
 true character. For the rest, we may refer to 
 an interesting contemporary criticism in Charles 
 Gildon's little book, A Comparison between the 
 Tzvo Stages, published in April, 1702, in the form 
 of a dialogue between Ramble, Sullen, and 
 Chagrin, a critic. When Ramble proposes to 
 speak of The Funeral^ Sullen says, " 'Tis a 
 dangerous matter to talk of this play; the Town 
 has given it such applause, 'twill be an ungrate- 
 ful undertaking to call their judgments in
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xv 
 
 question." He agrees that it is diverting, and 
 written with noble intentions. Ramble remarks, 
 " I hear the gentleman is a fine companion, and 
 passes for a wit of the first rank ; " but Sullen 
 and the Critic agree that The Funeral is not a 
 just comedy, the principle being much amiss. 
 They argue that Lord Brumpton could not, as 
 was supposed, have lain dead in the house so 
 long, and no one see him ; while intrigues and 
 amours were going on in the meantime in the 
 house of death. It is farce, not comedy. Look 
 at the manner of Lady Sharlot's escape in the 
 coflfin — a forced situation which was quite un- 
 necessary. Is it likely that a man of Cabinet's 
 wickedness would have been frightened into a 
 confession by a ghost ? The undertaker is not 
 adequately punished ; for he was paid anyhow. 
 Nevertheless, the satire on some widows, and on 
 undertakers, is happy. The Critic thinks the 
 language "too concise and stiff" for comedy; 
 see, for example, the scene between Lord 
 Brumpton and Trusty in Act I., and that be- 
 tween Trusty and Cabinet in Act IV. There 
 are difficult lines in the Preface, and long par- 
 entheses in the play. Ramble turns round and 
 asks, " Did you ever read The Christian Hero ? " 
 The Critic says, " Yes ; what do you mean by 
 asking me ? " Ramble replies, " Pray don't be 
 angry. Is it not an extraordinary thing ? " 
 The answer is, " Look ye, sir — to answer you 
 dogmatically, and in a few words — No." Critic
 
 xvi RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 gives reasons : " Thus, then, briefly : 'Tis a 
 chaos, 'tis a confusion of thoughts, rude and 
 undigested ; though he had the advice of an 
 ingenious man to put it into method. 'Tis 
 dated from the Tower-guard, as a present to his 
 Colonel, that his Colonel might think him, even 
 in time of duty, a very contemplative soldier, 
 and, I suppose, by the roughness of the style, 
 he writ it there, on the butt-end of a musket." 
 Sullen replies, " Hush ! no reproaches ; the 
 gentleman has done very well, and chose a 
 worthy subject," and Ramble adds, " It bore 
 two editions." The Critic rejoins, " It did not; 
 it was but once printed, nor is all that impres- 
 sion sold ; 'tis a trick of the booksellers to get it 
 off." ^ Ramble, however, maintains his good 
 opinion of the author. The discussion of The 
 Funeral is then resumed ; and Ramble suggests 
 that, in the opening of Act III., Mademoiselle's 
 "promises" is a mistake for "premises." The 
 Critic objects, among other things, to the use of 
 the word " bagatelle." And then Sullen turns 
 to the merits of the play — the characters, the 
 visiting scene, the incidents, all flowing natur- 
 ally, and the moral, which is the true result of 
 the piece. Ramble adds warm praises of the 
 author — who is described as " indued with sin- 
 gular honesty, a noble disposition, and a con- 
 formity of good manners " — and his works, and 
 
 1 This is not true. The second edition was corrected and en- 
 larged.
 
 RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 the Critic hopes, if he will divert the town with 
 another play, that it may be more "correct." 
 The author does not want understanding. 
 
 III. 
 
 Steele says that The Funeral^ " with some 
 particulars enlarged upon to his advantage," 
 had obtained for him the notice of the king, and 
 that "his name, to be provided for, was in the 
 last table-book ever worn by the glorious and 
 immortal William the Third." He was, how- 
 ever, disappointed, for King William died in 
 March, 1702. But about that time Steele was 
 made a Captain of Foot in a new regiment 
 whose Colonel was Lord Lucas, whom Steele 
 had known at the Tower. Each officer raised a 
 company, and Steele was sent to Landguard 
 Fort, opposite Harwich, where he did every- 
 thing in his power for the good of the men 
 under him. At the end of the year, or at the 
 beginning of 1703, he agreed to sell to Christo- 
 pher Rich a comedy, which was nearly finished, 
 called The Election of Gotham. Of that play 
 nothing further is known ; but Steele obtained 
 ■^72 from Rich, to be repaid in March. ^ Rich 
 said that Steele was in want of money and in 
 danger of arrest, and it is a fact that the first of 
 
 ' See Appendix. 
 Steele. A
 
 xviii RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 a long vSeries of actions for debt had some time 
 before been commenced against him. Steele, 
 however, said that the money was paid to induce 
 him to write more, and upon condition that he 
 should bring his next play to Rich, whom he 
 charged with oppression and extortion. We 
 shall hear more of this quarrel. 
 
 Complaints against the immorality of the 
 stage increased in number. In 1702 Queen 
 Anne directed that certain actors at Lincoln's 
 Inn Fields should be prosecuted, and they were 
 found guilty of " uttering impious, lewd, and 
 immoral expressions." Collier wrote A Dis- 
 suasive from the Play House, which was answered 
 by Dennis, and the Lord Chamberlain ordered 
 that all plays must be licensed by the Master of 
 the Revels, who was not to pass anything not 
 strictly agreeable to religion and good manners. 
 At that time, it should be remembered, the play 
 began about five, and ended at eight, " for the 
 convenience of the Qualities resorting to the 
 Park after." Such was the condition of affairs 
 when Steele's second comedy, The Lying Lover^ 
 or the Ladies Friendship, was produced, in 
 December, 1703, to run for six nights. 
 
 In his Apology Steele afterwards wrote of the 
 Lying Lover : — " Mr. Collier had, about the time 
 wherein this was published, written against the 
 immorality of the stage. I was (as far as I 
 durst for fear of witty men, upon whom he had 
 been too severe) a great admirer of his work,
 
 RICH A RDIS7EELE, xix 
 
 and took it into my head to write a comedy in 
 the severity he required. In this play I make 
 the spark or hero kill a man in his drink, and 
 finding himself in prison the next morning, I 
 give him the contrition which he ought to have 
 on that occasion. ... I can't tell, sir, what 
 they would have me do to prove me a Church- 
 man ; but I think I have appeared one even in 
 so trifling a thing as a comedy; and considering 
 me as a comic poet, I have been a martyr and 
 confessor for the Church; for this play was 
 damned for its piety." In the Dedication of the 
 play to the Duke of Ormond, he says, " The 
 design of it is to banish out of conversation all 
 entertainment which does not proceed from 
 simplicity of mind, good nature, friendship, and 
 honour ; " and in the Preface he again refers to 
 the manner in which the English stage had 
 offended against the laws of morals and reli- 
 gion ; " I thought, therefore, it would be an 
 honest ambition to attempt a comedy which 
 might be no improper entertainment in a Chris- 
 tian commonwealth." He admits that the an- 
 guish and sorrow in the prison scene " are, 
 perhaps, an injury to the rules of comedy ; but I 
 am sure they are a justice to those of morality." 
 It was to be hoped that wit would now recover 
 from its apostacy, for the Queen had '* taken the 
 stage under her consideration." 
 
 The 'play was based upon Corneille's Le 
 MenieuTy but the latter and more serious portion
 
 XX RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 is entirely Steele's. Alarcon, from whom Cor- 
 neille borrowed, made his liar marry a girl he 
 did not care for instead of the one he loved ; 
 Corneille made the liar's love change, so that 
 his marriage met his wishes ; while Steele 
 represents Bookwit's inveterate love of romanc- 
 ing, generally in self-glorification, as leading to 
 a duel with Penelope's lover, and to his own 
 imprisonment in Newgate. This trouble teaches 
 him the necessary lesson, and the hope is held 
 out to him, at the end, of the hand of Penelope's 
 friend, Victoria. "There is no gallantry in love 
 but truth," are his last words. 
 
 There are many amusing passages in the 
 Lying Lover, and young Bookwit is very enter- 
 taining in the earlier acts, especially !in his 
 boastful account to the ladies of his imaginary 
 campaigns: — "There's an intimate of mine, 
 a general officer, who has often said, 'Tom, 
 if thou would'st but stick to any one application, 
 thou might'st be anything.' 'Tis my misfortune, 
 madam, to have a mind too extensive." In the 
 second act there is a pleasant account of " the 
 pretty merchants and their dealers" at the New 
 Exchange, where Bookwit was bewildered by 
 the darts and glances against which he was not 
 impregnable ; and in the third act, Penelope 
 and Victoria, who are both fascinated by the 
 young liar, be-patch and be-powder each other 
 in the hope of making their rival ugly, while 
 they profess — like their maids — to be on the
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xx 
 
 closest terms of friendship. In the fourth act, 
 after the duel, the constable remarks, " Sir, what 
 were you running so fast for ? There's a man 
 killed in the garden, and you're a fine gentle- 
 man, and it must be you — for good honest 
 people only beat one another." And there is an 
 admirable scene in Newgate, where Bookwit is 
 received with respect by highwaymen and others 
 because he is supposed to have killed a man. 
 An alchemist — "the ignorant will needs call it 
 coining " — who is about to be hung, says, " Yet 
 let me tell you, sir, because by secret sympathy 
 I'm yours, I must acquaint you, if you can obtain 
 the favour of an opportunity and a crucible, I 
 can show projection — directly Sol, sir, Sol, sir, 
 more bright than that high luminary the Latins 
 called so — wealth shall be yours ; we'll turn 
 every bar about us into golden ingots. — Sir, can 
 you lend me half-a-crown r " 
 
 It is only in the last act that art is sacrificed 
 to the moral purpose that Steele had in his view. 
 The ladies repent of their mutual plottings ; and 
 Bookwit, who believes that he has killed his 
 opponent, looks forward to death, and makes 
 many solemn speeches, printed in blank verse, 
 which will to a great extent account for the 
 failure of the piece. Bookwit' s father is broken- 
 hearted ; and a friend heroically declares that 
 it was he, and not Bookwit, who killed Love- 
 more ; whereupon Lovemore says, " I can hold 
 out no longer," and brings matters to a hapjjy
 
 xxii RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 ending by explaining that he had in reality 
 been only slightly wounded. Ilazlitt's words 
 respecting Steele's plays are truer of the Lying 
 Lover than of the rest : " It is almost a mis- 
 nomer to call them comedies ; they are rather 
 homilies in dialogues." But even in this piece 
 there is, as we have seen, nothing that can pro- 
 perly be called homily except at the close. 
 Ward has described the play more accurately, 
 as "the first instance of sentimental comedy 
 proper. It is attempted to produce an effect, 
 not by making vice and folly ridiculous, but by 
 moving compassion." 
 
 It was Steele, rather than young Bookwit, who 
 says in the first scene, " I don't know how to ex- 
 press myself — but a woman, methinks, is a being 
 between us and angels. She has something in her 
 that at the same time gives awe and invitation ; 
 and I swear to you, I was never out in't yet, but 
 I always judged of men as I observed they judged 
 of women : there is nothing shows a man so 
 much as the object of his affections." 
 
 rv. 
 
 The battle of Blenheim was won in August, 
 1704, and in December Addison obtained fame 
 and office by his poem T]ic Cavipaign. Steele, 
 who was in constant intercourse with him, said 
 in after years that Addison, in spite of his bash-
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xxiii 
 
 fulness and modesty, " was above all men in 
 that talent we call humour." At the various 
 coffee-houses, and especially at the Kitcat Club, 
 the friends met all the famous wits of the day. 
 Steele endeavoured, in 1704, without success, 
 to increase his income by obtaining a troop in 
 a regiment of Dragoons, which the Duke of 
 Ormond was about to raise. Next year Lord 
 Lucas died, and Steele's connection with the 
 army appears to have been severed not long 
 afterwards. 
 
 In March, 1705, Steele's third play, The Te7ider 
 Husband ; or, the Accomplished Fools, was given 
 to Rich, and it was acted in April and published 
 in May. The early writers on the subject con- 
 stantly stated that The Tender Husband appeared 
 in 1703, and was followed by The Lying Lover, 
 and they then explained that the failure of the 
 latter piece caused Steele to abandon play- 
 writing for many years. In reality, however. 
 The Lying Lover was the earlier play of the two 
 by more than a year.^ 
 
 The Tender Htisband ran for five nights, but 
 was not a financial success. Addison wrote the 
 Prologue and assisted in the play itself, and to 
 Addison it was dedicated, though, as Steele 
 said, his friend would "be surprised, in the 
 midst of a daily and familiar conversation, with 
 an address which bears so distant an air as a 
 public Dedication." " My purpose in this appli- 
 
 1 AthencBum, Sep. 20, 1884, article by the present writer.
 
 XX iv RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 cation 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." The 
 reception given to the play was such " as to make 
 me think it no improper Memorial of an inviolable 
 friendship." In the last number of the original 
 series of the Spectator., Steele afterwards wrote : 
 — " I remember when I finished The Te^ider Hus- 
 band, I told him there was nothing I so ardently 
 wished as that we might sometime or other pub- 
 lish a work written by us both, which should 
 bear the name of The Monument., in memory of 
 our friendship. I heartily wish what I have done 
 here were as honorary to that sacred name, as 
 learning, wit, and humanity render those pieces 
 which I have taught the reader how to dis- 
 tinguish for his. When the play above-men- 
 tioned was last acted, there were so many 
 applauded strokes in it which I had from the 
 same hand, that I thought very meanly of my- 
 self that I had never publicly acknowledged 
 them." 
 
 Warned by the fate of The Lying Lover., 
 Steele seems to have determined that there 
 must be less sermonising in the new play. The 
 result is that The Tender Husband is, as a whole, 
 very amusing ; but unfortunately a second plot 
 — alluded to in the title — is woven into the 
 story which gives to the play its interest ; and 
 as this account of the manner in which the 
 " tender husband " tries the faithfulness of a
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xxv 
 
 foolish wife by means of his mistress, disguised 
 as a man, is unwholesome in tone and unnatural, 
 it spoils what would otherwise be an excellent 
 farcical comedy, and at the same time has no 
 real connection with the rest of the play. For- 
 tunately, however, Mrs. Clerimont's weaknesses 
 are hardly brought before the spectator except 
 in the first scene and the last act. The rest of 
 the piece describes the love affairs of Biddy 
 Tipkin, a banker's niece — acted by the charming 
 Mrs. Oldfield — whose head has been so com- 
 pletely filled with the romances which she has 
 read that she begs to be called Parthenissa : — 
 " If you ask my name, I must confess you put 
 me upon revealing what I always keep as the 
 greatest secret I have — for, would you believe 
 it, they have called me — I don't know how to 
 own it, but they have called me — Bridget." To 
 her aunt she says, "Do you think that I can 
 ever marry a man that's true and hearty r What 
 a peasant-like amour do these coarse words 
 impart ? . . . . Good madam, don't upbraid me 
 with my mother Bridget, and an excellent 
 housewife." She longs for a lover who will be 
 associated with disguise, serenade, and adven- 
 ture ; and as she is an heiress, Captain Clerimont 
 — the usual gentlemanly adventurer of seven- 
 teenth century comedy — is willing to humour 
 her whims, and he is so successful that, though 
 she is of opinion that " a lover should sigh in 
 private, and languish whole years before he
 
 xxvi RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 reveals his passion ; he should retire into some 
 solitary grove, and make the woods and wild 
 beasts his confidants," yet she is soon able to 
 admit " I am almost of opinion that had Oroon- 
 dates been as pressing as Clerimont, Cassandra 
 had been but a pocket-book : but it looks so ordi- 
 nary to go out at a door to be married — indeed 
 I ought to be taken out of a window, and run 
 away with." Biddy Tipkin is the direct proto- 
 type of Sheridan's Lydia Languish, and Gold- 
 smith was equally indebted to Biddy's cousin, 
 Humphry Gubbin, for the idea of Tony Lump- 
 kin. This booby son of an old-fashioned squire 
 — the forerunner of Fielding's Squire Western — 
 is as amusing as Biddy, whom his father wishes 
 him to marry. Humphry, however, had scru- 
 ples, and " boggled a little " at marrying so near 
 a relation as a cousin. His father had been in 
 the habit of beating him like a child, and it was 
 not till he came to town that he knew he was of 
 age, or what was his fortune. Mr. Pounce, a 
 lawyer, anxious to secure Biddy for Captain 
 Clerimont, advises Humphry not to be fooled 
 any longer ; and when Humphry remarks, 
 " 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 
 baulked," Pounce seizes the opportunity of pro- 
 viding for his sister Mrs. Fairlove, the mistress 
 of the elder Clerimont. Biddy and Humphry
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xxvii 
 
 having explained their feelings to each other, 
 Humphry says, " I'll lind out a way for us to 
 get rid of one another, and deceive the old folks 
 that would couple us ; " but when Biddy replies, 
 " This wears the face of an amour — there is 
 something in that thought which makes thy 
 presence less insupportable," he exclaims, 
 " Nay, nay, now you're growing fond ; if you 
 come with these maids' tricks to say you hate 
 at first and afterwards like me, you'll spoil the 
 whole design." 
 
 Other characters, such as Biddy's " Urganda 
 of an Aunt," who is not free from notions of 
 romance on her own account. Pounce the dis- 
 reputable lawyer. Sir Harry Gubbin, and Cap- 
 tain Clerimont, who obtains access to Biddy by 
 disguising himself as a painter — an idea bor- 
 rowed from Moliere's Le Sicilien — add to the 
 amusement of the piece ; and then there are 
 smart sayings in abundance, such as the elder 
 Clerimont's : "I don't design you to personate 
 a real man, but only a pretty gentleman;" or 
 Pounce's: "Oh, dear sir, a fine lady's clothes 
 are not old by being worn, but by being seen." 
 These merits render the weakness of the ending 
 the more regrettable. The moral is obvious : 
 wife or son should be restrained only by generous 
 bonds, for " wives to obey must love, children 
 revere." If any one, after reading the episode of 
 the elder Clerimont and his wife, is surprised at 
 Steele's statement that he had " been very care-
 
 xxviii RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 ful to avoid everything that might look ill- 
 natured, immoral, or prejudicial to what the 
 better part of mankind hold sacred and honour- 
 able," it should be remembered that in Steele's 
 play a repentant wife is forgiven by her husband, 
 whose own conduct was far from blameless, 
 while in the comedies of his predecessors it was 
 common for the wife to hoodwink her steady- 
 going husband triumphantly. Compared with 
 such plays Steele's work is harmless, and even 
 moral, in its intention. 
 
 It is impossible to say which were the " ap- 
 plauded strokes" contributed by Addison to 
 The Tender Husbatid. Some writers, bearing in 
 mind the Tory Foxhunter of the Freeholder, have 
 attributed to Addison the character of Sir Harry 
 Gubbin ; others, remembering the description of 
 a lady's library in the Spectator, have suggested 
 that his hand is to be found in the description of 
 Biddy Tipkin ; and some, again, have thought 
 that he was concerned rather in the serious 
 portions of the play. Perhaps Addison's help 
 consisted more in general hints given while the 
 piece was under revision than in the contribu- 
 tion of any special portion. But speculation is 
 vain in this matter. Addison and Steele were 
 friends who were wont to work together without 
 any jealous thought as to the exact share which 
 each of them contributed. 
 
 It will be convenient to notice here a Chancery 
 suit which arose out of Steele's arrangement
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xxix 
 
 with Christopher Rich, of the Drury Lane 
 Theatre, respecting the production of his plays. 
 Steele was the complainant, and in his bill, 
 dated 1707, he said that about December, 1702, 
 Rich paid him ^72 on the understanding that 
 Steele would write for him another play. Steele 
 gave a bond of ^^144; and in 1705 furnished 
 Rich with 21ie Tender Husband, which was acted 
 on the condition that the author was to have the 
 profits of two days' acting in the autumn. The 
 profits exceeded ^72, but Rich would not pay 
 over the balance, and commenced an action for 
 the ^144. Steele, therefore prayed that these 
 proceedings might be stayed by injunction. 
 
 Rich, in his reply, said that the terms of the 
 agreement for the production of The Funeral 
 having been carried out to Steele's satisfaction, 
 Steele agreed, in January, 1703, to give Rich 
 a new play, and at the same time borrowed ;,{^ 7 2, 
 to be repaid with interest in March, upon pain 
 of the forfeiture of ;^ 144. Steele did not pay; but 
 in 1705 he produced TJie Tender Husband. The 
 profits, however, were so small that ^10 8s. 2d. 
 was all that, according to the agreement. Rich 
 was called upon to pay as the result of the first 
 four days' acting. Steele agreed that this sum 
 should go to the use of the company, and that 
 the play should be acted for his benefit once in 
 the following winter. The performance took 
 place in November, though Steele at the last 
 objected that there would not be a sufficiently
 
 XXX R J CHARD STEELE. 
 
 good audience. The treasurer was told to give 
 Steele the balance ^2 17s. 6d., which resulted 
 from this performance, together with the 
 ^10 8s. 2d. already mentioned; but Steele 
 neglected or refused to take the money. Rich 
 added that the play had been acted several 
 times at the Haymarket Theatre without his 
 consent — which was quite true ; and he prayed 
 that this action might be dismissed, with costs. 
 
 There is no further record of the case until 
 April 29, 17 10, when Rich's counsel showed 
 that his client had submitted an answer to the 
 plaintiff's bill on January 27, 1708, and that 
 Steele had since then taken no action. The 
 Court thereupon ordered that the bill should be 
 dismissed, with costs, which were to be taxed. ^ 
 The pleadings, which contain much that is of 
 interest to the student of theatrical history, are 
 given in full in the Appendix. 
 
 V. 
 
 In the earlier part of 1705, probably soon 
 after the production of The Tender Husband., 
 Steele married a widow, Margaret Stretch, whose 
 maiden name was Ford. This lady belonged to 
 a good family in Barbados ; and her brother, 
 
 1 Public Record Office, Chancery Decree;-, 1709 B, p. 320, 
 ' Steele v. Rich."
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xxxi 
 
 Major Robert Ford, who made his will in De- 
 cember, 1704, left to her the residue of his 
 property. He was then about to sail for Eng- 
 land, and within a few weeks he was taken 
 prisoner by a French privateer, and died on the 
 high seas. In March, 1705, his sister took out 
 letters of administration, and soon afterwards 
 she was married to Steele, who subsequently 
 wrote to the mother of the lady who was to be 
 his second wife : " My late wife had so extreme 
 a value for me that she, by fine, conveyed to me 
 her whole estate situate in Barbados, which, 
 with the stock and slaves (proper security being 
 given for the rent), is let at ^850 per annum, at 
 half yearly payments, that is to say, ^425 each 
 first of May, and ^425 each first of December. 
 This estate came to her encumbered with a debt 
 of ^3,000, by legacies and debts of her brother, 
 whose executrix she was as well as heiress." 
 
 In January, 1707, we find Steele administering 
 to the property of his wife, who had died in 
 December. Mary Scurlock, of whom we shall 
 hear immediately, was at the funeral. There is 
 no source of information respecting the deceased 
 lady, except the writings of the scandalous Mrs. 
 Manley, who had quarrelled with Steele, but 
 certainly knew something of the facts, if she 
 chose to speak the truth. Her statement is that 
 Steele had embarked in alchemy, and had been 
 ruined by a rogue who cheated him, when he 
 found an opportunity of repairing his fortunes
 
 xxxii RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 by marrying a rich but elderly lady. Hints are 
 thrown out that an odd misfortune, occasioned 
 by Steele's sister, was the cause of his wife's 
 death ; and that he found consolation in *' a 
 younger wife, and a cry'd up beauty." It is true 
 that Steele had a sister who was mad ; but his 
 second wife, who knew the facts, was willing to 
 marry him in a few months, which she would 
 hardly have done if there had been any suspi- 
 cious circumstances connected with her friend's 
 death. Possibly, however, the end was acce- 
 lerated by some fright. There can be no doubt 
 that Steele's sanguine nature had led him, at a 
 period not exactly defined, to experiment with 
 the crucible, in the hope of discovering the oft- 
 sought-for aiirum potabile. When he wrote the 
 scene in the Lying Lovei\ in which Charcoal 
 appears, he would seem to have discovered the 
 absurdity of his study of occult science. 
 
 In a prologue to Vanbrugh's The Misiake, 
 acted at the new theatre in the Haymarket on 
 December 27, 1705, Steele satirised the popular 
 demand for dresses, music, and dancing : " If 
 'tis a comedy, you ask — Who dance?" In 
 August, 1706, he was appointed gentleman- 
 writer to Prince George of Denmark, with a 
 salary of ;{,' 1 00 a year, "not subject to taxes." 
 In the course of the following year he contributed 
 verses to a new monthly paper called The Muses" 
 Mercury^ and the first number (January, 1707) 
 contained a reference to Mrs. Steele : — " Had not
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xxxiii 
 
 the death of a dear friend hindered Captain 
 Steele from finishing a comedy of his, it would 
 also have been acted this season." We shall see 
 that in the years that followed Steele often con- 
 templated the production of another play, but 
 was no doubt prevented by his numerous other 
 occupations. He was appointed Gazetteer by 
 Robert Harley, on Arthur Maynwaring's re- 
 commendation, in April or May, with a salary of 
 ;^3oo, liable to a tax of ^{^45, and he endeavoured 
 to obey " the rule observed by all Ministries, to 
 keep that paper very innocent and very insipid " ; 
 but, inevitably, there were often complaints either 
 about what was inserted or what was omitted. 
 
 TJie ATuses' Mercury for September contained 
 the following paragraph: — "As for comedies, 
 there's no great expectation of anything of that 
 kind since Mr. Farquhar's death : the two gen- 
 tlemen who could probably always succeed in 
 the comic vein, Mr. Congreve and Captain Steele, 
 having affairs of much greater importance to 
 take up their time and thoughts." In that 
 month Steele married Mary Scurlock, a lady of 
 twenty-eight years of age, and heiress to the 
 late Jonathan Scurlock, of Carmarthen, who was 
 descended from an ancient Irish family. Her 
 estate was worth ^400 a year, but there was a 
 demand upon it of ^ 1,400. Mary Scurlock had, 
 as we have seen, known her husband's first wife, 
 but the courtship does not seem to have begun 
 until August. The lady saved all Steele's 
 
 Steele. f
 
 xxxiv RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 letters, both then and during her married life. 
 He begged that they might be shown to no man, 
 as others could not judge of " so delicate a cir- 
 cumstance as the commerce between man and 
 wife " ; but half a century after his death the 
 whole were published, and these letters form one 
 of the most interesting studies in existence. The 
 charming notes to "dear Prue" — often sent daily, 
 and sometimes more frequently, from wherever 
 he might happen to be engaged — show us the 
 writer's inmost feelings, and in spite of his 
 obvious weaknesses he comes well out of the 
 ordeal. He loved his wife and children to the 
 end, and if he was careless and constantly in 
 debt, "Prue" was somewhat strait-laced and 
 exacting. It should never be forgotten that we 
 have but two or three of her replies. The letters 
 written during the love-making are delightful, 
 and Steele himself printed some of them in the 
 Tatler and Spectator. The young lady was not 
 without experience, for three years earlier a 
 " wretched impudence," named Henry Owen, 
 had brought an unsuccessful suit against her for 
 breach of contract of marriage. That she was 
 much in love with Steele is evident from a letter 
 of hers to her mother, in which she praised his 
 richly-endowed mind, his person, his temper, his 
 understanding, and his morals. It was her " first 
 and only inclination," and she was sure that she 
 should " never meet with a prospect of happiness 
 if this should vanish." Miss Scurlock, who had
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xxxv 
 
 something of the prude in her, desired that 
 the marriage should be secret, and would not 
 have it known until her mother's consent had 
 been received. Before the end of the year Steele 
 had taken a house in Bury Street, which was 
 conveniently near to St. James's church, whither 
 his wife frequently resorted. Steele's own pray- 
 ers, written before and after marriage for his 
 private use, show the manly religion which was 
 the foundation of his character. 
 
 Apologies for absence from home were soon 
 necessitated by engagements of one kind or 
 another. This was the kind of note which Steele 
 often sent to his " absolute governess " : — 
 
 " De\il Tavern, Temple Bar, 
 
 Jan. id, 1708. 
 
 " Dear Prue, 
 
 " I have partly succeeded in my business 
 to-day, and enclose two guineas as an earnest of 
 more. Dear Prue, I can't come home to dinner. 
 I languish for your welfare, and will never be a 
 moment careless more. 
 
 " Your faithful husband, 
 
 " R. Steele. 
 " Send me word you have received this." 
 
 The Barbados property, which was necessarily 
 left to the care of an agent, gave much trouble, and 
 it is clear that Steele's views as to the probable 
 income to be derived from that and other sources 
 was very rose-coloured. He was frequently
 
 xxxvi RICHARD S7EELE. 
 
 embarrassed, but one debt usually arose from a 
 habit of borrowing money to pay off another 
 creditor, and the actual amount owing at any 
 time seems never to have been very large. Mrs. 
 Steele was not always on good terms with her 
 mother, and on one occasion that lady proposed 
 to settle a portion of her property on Steele and 
 his wife jointly, and to make the whole estate 
 liable to a charge in his favour in case he out- 
 lived his wife without issue. This Steele declined, 
 begging that the whole of whatever was left to 
 them might be fixed on his wife and her posterity. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Swift returned to England in November, 1707, 
 and was soon in frequent intercourse with Steele 
 and Addison. In March, 1708, he published his 
 famous "Predictions for the year 1708, by Isaac 
 Bickerstaff, Esq.," an attack on an astrologer 
 and almanack-maker, John Partridge. In this 
 pamphlet Swift declared that he, unlike others, 
 was a real astrologer, and prophesied that Par- 
 tridge would die on March 29. On the 30th of 
 that month another pamphlet appeared, giving a 
 circumstantial account of Partridge's death. The 
 almanack-maker protested that he was as well 
 as ever; but Swift replied that it was evident 
 that the man was dead, because no man living
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xxxvii 
 
 could write such rubbish as was contained in the 
 new almanack for 1709. Other wits joined in the 
 controversy, and when Steele began The Tatler 
 he adopted the name of " Isaac Bickerstaff," 
 which, he said. Swift had made famous through 
 all parts of Europe. 
 
 Steele obtained a house at Hampton Wick, 
 and there his *' dear ruler" was established in 
 1708, with a chariot and two or four horses, a 
 saddle-horse, a footman, a gardener, a boy Will, 
 her own woman, and a boy who could speak 
 Welsh. '* I shall make it the business of my life," 
 wrote Steele, " to make you easy and happy : 
 consult your cool thoughts and you'll know that 
 'tis the glory of a woman to be her husband's 
 friend and companion,*and not his sovereign 
 director." In another letter he said, " It is not 
 in your power to make me otherwise than your 
 affectionate, faithful, and tender husband." With 
 yet another note he sent " seven pen'orth of 
 walnuts at five a penny, which is the greatest 
 proof I can give you at present of my being, 
 with my whole heart, yours," &c. Outside the 
 letter he added, below the address, "There are 
 but 29 walnuts." In October he lost a place 
 through the death of Prince George, but the 
 Queen gave him a pension of ^100 a-year. Debts, 
 however, were numerous, and an execution was 
 put in on account of arrears of rent for the house 
 in Bury Street. When Addison was made 
 Secretary to Lord Wharton, the new Viceroy of
 
 xxxviii RICHARD SIEELE. 
 
 Ireland, Steele hoped to get an Under- secretary- 
 ship, but was disappointed. In March, 1709, his 
 eldest daughter, Elizabeth, was born, and had 
 for godfathers Addison and Mr. Wortley Mon- 
 tagu. In the following month Steele began the 
 great work of his life. 
 
 The periodical literature of the day was of little 
 value. The few papers that existed were either 
 brief news-sheets, or were repositories for ques- 
 tions and answers, supplied by the readers, and 
 of feeble verse. The only periodical which was in 
 any sense a forerunner of the Tatler was Defoe's 
 Review^ in which part of the space was set apart 
 for " Advice from the Scandalous Club," where 
 men, not parties, and things rather than persons, 
 were censured. When the quantity of matter 
 was too great for the available space, a monthly 
 " Supplementary Journal " was published. After- 
 wards Defoe gave a friendly greeting to Steele's 
 new work, which dealt with the social questions 
 and follies of the day in a style that was more 
 thorough, and at the same time more genial, than 
 his own. 
 
 The first number of the Taflcr was published 
 on April 22^ 1709, and it appeared three times a 
 week. It was a single folio sheet, price one 
 penny, and four numbers were given away 
 gratuitously. The reader found there items of 
 news, accounts of popular entertainments, poetry, 
 and learning. As time went on the news articles 
 were dropped, and each number was gradually
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xxxix 
 
 confined to one subject. Isaac Bickerstaff was 
 described as " an old man, a philosopher, a 
 humourist, an astrologer, and a censor." The 
 other characters described from time to time are 
 not essential to the general plan of the paper. 
 " The general purpose of the whole," as Steele 
 wrote at the close, "has been to recommend 
 truth, innocence, honour, and virtue, as the chief 
 ornaments of life." He was satisfied if one vice 
 had been destroyed, or a morning's cheerfulness 
 given to an honest mind. As censor he thought 
 fit to speak under a mask, because he knew that 
 his own life was " at best but pardonable." 
 
 Addison rendered much valuable aid, which 
 Steele acknowledged in such generous terms that 
 some writers have represented that all that was 
 valuable in the paper was by his friend. The fact, 
 however, is that of the 271 numbers that appeared 
 about 188 were by Steele, and only 42 by Addi- 
 son, while 36 were written by them jointly. 
 Steele started the paper, and Addison knew 
 nothing of the authorship until six numbers had 
 appeared, and did not render any material assist- 
 ance during the early months of publication. 
 The aid given by Swift and others is too slight 
 to need mention. Steele had to write, whether he 
 was prepared or not, whenever he had no paper 
 by anyone else ready ; but his most careless 
 contributions are interesting, because he wrote 
 from the heart, and was a man full of kindly 
 impulse. It is sufficient to remark here that in
 
 xl RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 the articles on public amusements he provided 
 admirable criticisms, and was always ready to 
 assist a good actor. Years afterwards Gibber 
 wrote that during a season of depression excel- 
 lent audiences had often been drawn together at 
 a day's notice by the influence of a single Tatler. 
 Steele was much in advance of his time in the 
 way in which he quoted and appreciated Shakes- 
 peare and Milton. As Gay said, he rescued 
 learning " out of the hands of pedants and fools, 
 and discovered the true method of making it 
 amiable and lovely to all mankind." 
 
 Steele's income was increased by ^300 a year 
 in January, 17 10, when he was appointed a 
 Commissioner of the Stamp Office. At that time 
 there was great excitement about the pending 
 trial of the Tory, Dr. Sacheverell, two of whose 
 sermons were condemned as seditious libels, 
 reflecting on the Queen, the Revolution, and the 
 Protestant succession. Sacheverell was found 
 guilty in March and forbidden to preach for 
 three years, but the sentence was nominal, and 
 the Tories were in reality triumphant. In June 
 Sunderland, the Duke of Marlborough's son-in- 
 law, was dismissed, and in August Godolphin 
 was called upon to give up the seals, and Harley 
 became Chancellor of the Exchequer, and prac- 
 tically head of the Government. Papers satir- 
 ising Harley had appeared in the Tatler in July, 
 and on September 10 Swift, who had just returned 
 to England, wrote to Esther Johnson, *' Steele
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xli 
 
 will certainly loose his Gazetteer's place, all the 
 world detesting his engaging in politics." A 
 few days later Whig statesmen were turned out 
 in favour of the Earl of Rochester, the Duke of 
 Buckingham, and Henry St. John, and in Octo- 
 ber Steele was deprived of his place, or, as Swift 
 afterwards stated, resigned to avoid being dis- 
 carded. 
 
 The Tory Examiner had been established in 
 August; in November Swift contributed his 
 first paper. He still met Addison and Steele as 
 friends, but not so often as formerly, and he says 
 he intervened with Harley in favour of Steele's 
 retention of his office of Commissioner. The 
 Ministry were by no means desirous of quarrel- 
 ling with a popular writer, and Steele kept this 
 post until 1 7 13. The Tatler came to a sudden 
 end on January 2, 171 1, perhaps as the result of 
 a compact with the Government. Even Addison 
 appears not to have been consulted when this 
 step was taken. 
 
 VII. 
 
 It was commonly said that Steele had given 
 up the Tatler through want of matter. How 
 entirely erroneous this statement was is shown 
 by the appearance, two months later (March i, 
 171 ij, of the first number of the Spectator y which 
 was issued daily until December 6, 17 12. Addi-
 
 xlii RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 son commenced it with a description of the 
 Spectator himself; in the second number Steele 
 gave an account of the club where the plan of 
 the work was supposed to be arranged, and drew 
 the first sketch of its members — Sir Roger de 
 Coverley, the country gentleman ; Sir Andrew 
 Freeport, the merchant ; Captain Sentry, the 
 soldier; Will Honeycomb, the fine gentleman 
 about town ; and the clergyman. The most 
 important of the papers relating to Sir Roger de 
 Coverley are by Addison, who was at his best 
 in the Spectator, of which he wrote 274 numbers, 
 while Steele was responsible for 236. The world, 
 however, owes Addison to Steele, who rightly 
 said, *'I claim to myself the merit of having ex- 
 torted excellent productions from a person of the 
 greatest abilities, who would not have let them 
 appear by any other means." Even Swift wrote 
 that Steele seemed to have gathered new life, and 
 to have a new fund of wit. Until the passing of 
 the Stamp Act in August, 17 12, when the price 
 was necessarily raised, the circulation seems to 
 have been nearly 4,000. 
 
 Among many other subjects Steele again wrote 
 numerous excellent papers on the stage. There 
 is the well-known account of Estcourt's death, 
 and there are admirable criticisms. Of Ethe- 
 rege's popular play, Sir Foppliiig Fhtttcr, he said 
 that it was " a perfect contradiction to good 
 manners, good sense, and common honesty " ; 
 and of Beaumont and Fletcher's Scor7iful Lady,
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xliii 
 
 that no beauty would atone for the meanness of 
 giving '* a scandalous representation of what is 
 reputable among men, that is to say, what is 
 sacred." Elsewhere he remarked that " it is not 
 to be imagined what effect a well-regulated stage 
 would have upon men's manners," and that it is 
 in the people themselves " to raise this entertain- 
 ment to the greatest height." 
 
 Swift was now quite estranged from Addison 
 and Steele, though of course they were civil 
 when they met. In June, 471 1, Steele appears to 
 have become acquainted with Pope, and Addi- 
 son wrote a flattering notice of the young 
 poet's Art of Crittctsni in the Spectator. Party 
 pamphleteering was now being carried to a 
 hitherto unprecedented extent, and Swift wrote 
 constantly himself, and supplied hints to others. 
 Marlborough w^as dismissed, and the object of 
 the Government was to bring the war to an end 
 by persuading the people to agree to a treaty 
 whose terms were less satisfactory than might 
 have been expected. At the same time some of 
 the party were secretly plotting for the restora- 
 tion of the Stuarts, and among these appears to 
 to have been Harley, now Earl of Oxford. Steele 
 wrote a pamphlet in praise of Marlborough, for 
 whom he always showed great admiration. 
 
 A son, Eug'ene, was born in March, 17 12; 
 Steele was then living in Brownlow Street, Hol- 
 born. In June he had a cottage on Ilaverstock 
 Hill, and there the members of the Kitcat Club
 
 xliv RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 called for him on their way to the Upper Flask at 
 Hampstead, where they met in the summer. In 
 July he had taken a house in Bloomsbury 
 Square, and next month he felt relieved by the 
 renewal of his employments, and lived " in the 
 handsomest manner." But all the time actions 
 for debt were hanging over him, and he had 
 hastily to withdraw a scheme which was found 
 to be illegal, for "getting money" by means of a 
 " Multiplication Table," to be worked in connec- 
 tion with the State Lottery. 
 
 The Spectator was brought to a close in Decem- 
 ber, 1 7 12, and in the following month George 
 Berkeley, afterwards Bishop of Cloyne, but then 
 a young man just arrived in London, wrote that 
 Steele, who had been among the first to welcome 
 him, was ill with gout, but was, " as I am in- 
 formed, writing a play, since he gave over the 
 Spectators." Steele was very hospitable to the 
 young philosopher, and Berkeley remarks that 
 there appeared " in his natural temper something 
 very generous, and a great benevolence to man- 
 kind." By the death of Mrs. Scurlock, Steele had 
 come into ;^500 a year, which made it more 
 justifiable for him to maintain his " handsome 
 and neatly furnished house," where the table, 
 servants, coach, &c., were "very genteel." 
 
 A new periodical, The Guardian, was begun 
 on March 12, 17 13, and was issued daily until 
 October. Steele wrote 82 of the 175 numbers, 
 and Addison, Berkeley and Pope were among
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xlv 
 
 the contributors. The periodical was written on 
 the same lines as the Spectator, and many of 
 the papers are excellent, but with the fortieth 
 number Steele was drawn into a political quarrel 
 with the Examiner, and the Guardian lost its value 
 as literature. Politics ran so high that the repre- 
 sentatives of each party applied to themselves 
 the noble sentiments in Addison's tragedy, Cato, 
 which was produced on April 14, and thus united 
 in applauding the piece. Steele had undertaken 
 to fill the house, and he wrote verses, afterwards 
 prefixed to the play, in which he alluded to the 
 fact that he had once inscribed Addison's name 
 to his own " light scenes " ; they, however, would 
 soon die, and he therefore wished to *' live, joined 
 to a work of thine." 
 
 Attacks in the Examiner led Steele to com- 
 plain of articles by " an estranged friend or an 
 exasperated mistress," i.e. Swift or Mrs. Manley. 
 Swift denied that he had at this time any hand 
 in the Examiner^ and a bitter quarrel arose 
 between the two men. In June Steele resigned 
 his position as Commissioner of the Stamp 
 Office, and soon afterwards gave up his pension 
 as a servant of the late Prince. On August 25 
 he was elected M.P. for the borough of Stock- 
 bridge, Hampshire. In the Guardian Steele had 
 insisted that as one of the conditions of the 
 peace the nation expected the demolition of 
 Dunkirk ; and this was dwelt upon at greater 
 length in a pamphlet called The Importance of
 
 xlvi RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 Dunkirk considered. A storm of controversial 
 literature followed these declarations, and, in 
 October the Guardian gave place to the EnglisJi- 
 man, which was devoted almost entirely to 
 politics. Addison said he was " in a thousand 
 troubles for poor Dick," and hoped that his zeal 
 for the public would not be ruinous to himself. 
 Swift wrote bitter attacks — The Importance of the 
 Gnardia?i considered and The First Ode of the 
 Second Book of Horace Paraphrased and addressed 
 
 to Richard St le, Esq., in the latter of which 
 
 he suggested that when Steele had settled the 
 affairs of Europe he might turn to Drury Lane, 
 and produce the play with which he had long 
 threatened the town, and which had for plot — 
 
 " To make a pair of jolly fellows, 
 The son and father, join to tell us 
 How sons may safely disobey, 
 And fathers never should say nay ; 
 By which wise conduct they grow friends 
 At last — and so the story ends." 
 
 In January, 17 14, Steele brought out The 
 Crisisy a widely read pamphlet which set forth 
 the facts relating to the Hanoverian Succession, 
 and among the replies was Swift's The Pubtic 
 Spirit of the Whigs. Steele defended himself in 
 the last number of the Englishman, and next 
 day Parliament met, and Steele spoke in sup- 
 port of the motion that Sir Thomas Hanmer 
 should be Speaker. Complaint was soon made 
 that his writings were seditious, and, in spite 
 of the aid of Walpole, Stanhope, Addison, and
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xlvii 
 
 Others, a motion for his expulsion was carried 
 by the Tory House, on March i8, after several 
 debates. In the meantime, the Whig House of 
 Lords had taken measures against the printer 
 and publisher of Swift's Public Spirit of the 
 Wliigs, and had insisted upon a reward being 
 offered for the discovery of the author. 
 
 About this time Steele produced short-lived 
 periodicals called The Lover and The Reader., 
 and several political pamphlets. Although 
 ^3,000 had been given him by some unknown 
 friends, he was involved in money difficulties, 
 and the house in Bloomsbury Square was given 
 up. But with the end of July came the serious 
 illness of Queen Anne, who died on August ist. 
 The hopes of Bolingbroke and others were 
 thrown to the ground, and George I. was peace- 
 fully proclaimed king. Bothmar at once ac- 
 quainted his royal master with Steele's services, 
 and soon after the king's arrival in England 
 Steele was made Deputy-Lieutenant for the 
 County of Middlesex, Surveyor of the Royal 
 Stables at Hampton Court, a Justice of the 
 Peace, and Supervisor of the Theatre Royal. 
 He found time to publish, in October, an impor- 
 tant pamphlet, Mr. Steele's Apology for Himself 
 and his Writings, and The Ladies' Library., a 
 compilation which he had revised, and which 
 contained an admirable Dedication to his wife, 
 concluding thus : "But I offend ; and forget that 
 what I say to you is to appear in public. You
 
 xlviii RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 are so great a lover of home, that I know it will 
 be irksome to you to go into the world even in 
 an applause. I will end this without so much 
 as mentioning your little flock, or your own 
 amiable figure at the head of it. That I think 
 them preferable to all other children, I know is 
 the effect of passion and instinct. That I believe 
 you to be the best of wives, I know proceeds from 
 experience and reason." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Until the death of the Queen, William Collier, 
 M.P., who held a licence to act, in conjunction 
 with Wilks, Gibber, Doggett, and Booth, had 
 received a pension from those actors of £ 700 a 
 year. At the accession of King George, as the 
 pension could not be wholly got rid of, the four 
 actors, as Colley Gibber tells us in his Apology., 
 " imagined the merit of a Whig might now have 
 as good a chance of getting into it, as that of a 
 Tory had for being continued in it : having no 
 obligations, therefore, to Gollier, who had made 
 the last penny of them, they applied them- 
 selves " to Steele, who had many pretensions 1:0 
 favour at Gourt. "We knew, too, the obliga- 
 tions the stage had to his writings ; there being 
 scarce a comedian of merit, in our whole com- 
 pany, whom his Tatlers had not made better by
 
 RICHARD STEELE. xlix 
 
 his public recommendation of them. And many 
 days had our House been particularly filled 
 by the influence and credit of his pen. . . . We 
 therefore begged him to use his interest for the 
 renewal of our licence, and that he would do us 
 the honour of getting our names to stand with 
 his, in the same Commission. This, we told 
 him, would put it still further into his power of 
 supporting the stage in that reputation to which 
 his Lucubrations had already so much contri- 
 buted ; and that therefore we thought no man 
 had better pretences to partake of its success." 
 Steele was, of course, delighted at the offer. 
 " It surprised him into an acknowledgment, 
 that people, who are shy of obligations, are 
 cautious of confessing. His spirits took such a 
 lively turn upon it, that had we been all his own 
 sons, no unexpected act of filial duty could have 
 more endeared us to him." A new licence, 
 upon the first mention of it, was obtained by 
 Steele of the King, through the Duke of Marl- 
 borough, " the hero of his heart," who was now 
 again Captain-General. According to a memo- 
 randum of Steele's he received a message from 
 the King, "to know whether I was in earnest in 
 desiring the Playhouse or that others thought of 
 it for me. If I liked it I should have it as an 
 earnest of His future favour." 
 
 The prosperity of the early part of the seasor. 
 of 1 7 14 — 5 was checked by a renewal of the 
 licence to the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields 
 
 Steele. d
 
 1 RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 and by the desertion to that house of seven or 
 eight actors. The other managers of Drury Lane 
 Theatre found it necessary to point out to Steele 
 that he stood in the same position as Collier, 
 and that his pension of ^700 was liable to the 
 same conditions as Collier's, namely, that it was 
 to be paid only so long as there was but one 
 company allowed to act, and that if a second 
 company were set up, the pension was to be 
 changed from a fixed payment to an equal share 
 of the profits. To this Steele at once agreed. 
 "While we were offering to proceed," says 
 Gibber, " Sir Richard stopped us short by assur- 
 ing us, that as he came among us by our own 
 invitation, he should always think himself 
 obliged to come into any measures for our ease 
 and service ; that to be a burden to our industry 
 would be more disagreeable to him than it could 
 be to us, and as he had always taken a delight 
 in his endeavours for our prosperity, he should 
 be still ready, on our own terms, to continue 
 them." Every one who knew Steele in his pros- 
 perity, Cibber remarks, " knew that this was his 
 manner of dealing with his friends in business." 
 Steele, however, told Cibber and the others that 
 he was advised to get their licence during plea- 
 sure enlarged into a more durable authority, 
 an] with this object he proposed that he should 
 obtain a Patent for himself, for his life and three 
 years after, which he would then assign over to 
 them. To this the managers were only too glad
 
 RICHARD STEELE. li 
 
 to agree, for, among other benefits, it would free 
 them from too great a dependency upon the 
 Lord Chamberlain, or the officers under him, 
 who, not having "the hearts of noblemen," often 
 showed that insolence of office to which narrow 
 minds are liable. Steele accordingly applied 
 for a Patent, and his request was complied with 
 on January 19, 17 15. A week earlier he had 
 received a gift of ;^500 from the King. 
 
 On the 20th of January, Steele left London for 
 Boroughbridge, a place for which he was to be 
 elected Member of Parliament on the 2nd of 
 the following month. The Patent was only 
 received on the 19 th of January, and, therefore, 
 as Gibber says, "We were forced that very night 
 to draw up in a hurry (till our counsel might 
 more advisably perfect it) his assignment to us 
 of equal shares in the Patent, with farther con- 
 ditions of partnership. . . . This assignment 
 (which I had myself the hasty penning of) was 
 so worded, that it gave Sir Richard as equal a 
 title to our property as it had given us to his 
 authority in the Patent. But Sir Richard, not- 
 withstanding, when he returned to town, took no 
 advantage of the mistake." Gibber adds that 
 Steele's equity and honour proved as advanta- 
 geous to himself as to them, for instead of p^yoo, 
 his income from the theatre, by his accepting a 
 share instead of the fixed pension, was about 
 ;^ 1,000 a year. 
 
 Steele was knighted, in company with two
 
 Hi RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 other Deputy-Lieutenants, in April, and in May 
 he celebrated the King's birthday by a grand 
 entertainment in the great room at York Build- 
 ings. This room he called the " Censorium," 
 and it was intended for select assemblies of two 
 hundred persons, " leaders in politeness, wit, and 
 learning." The undertaking appears to have 
 been successful, and it was carried on for some 
 time. 
 
 The Englishman was revived in July, with the 
 object of making good the accusations which 
 had been levelled long before against Oxford, 
 Bolingbroke, and other members of the late 
 Government. Steele appears to have asked for 
 /^ 1,000 a year before undertaking this work,^ 
 and from the fact that he continued the paper 
 after threatening to drop it when the third 
 number had been published, it would seem that 
 he was paid at least ;^50o by Walpole. Soon 
 afterwards he applied, but without success, for 
 the vacant Mastership of the Charterhouse. Of 
 Steele's various publications in 17 15 — 6 it is 
 impossible to speak here ; it will be enough to 
 notice that Addison's comedy, The Drummer^ 
 was published by Steele on March 21, 17 16, 
 with a preface in which he said that the play had 
 for some years been in the hands of the author, 
 who had been persuaded by him to allow of its 
 representation on the stage. In June he was 
 
 ' See a paper by the present writer in the Athenanni for Dec. 27, 
 1890, and the Life of Steele, ii. 72-3.
 
 RICHARD STEELE. liii 
 
 appointed one of the thirteen Commissioners who 
 were to deal with the estates forfeited by noble- 
 men and gentlemen, chiefly Scottish, who had 
 taken up arms on the side of the Pretender during 
 the late rising. The salary was ;^ i,ooo a year. 
 
 Money difficulties made it necessary, in July, 
 1716, for Steele to mortgage his interest in the 
 theatre to an Edward Minshull, M.P., who had 
 on previous occasions lent him money. In 
 January, 1717, further money was raised upon 
 Steele's share of the scenery, clothes, and profits. 
 This led to much trouble, and ultimately to a 
 Chancery action, in 1722, which is described in 
 the Appendix. In that same year, Minshull, 
 who was a gambler, was found guilty of fraud, 
 but he succeeded in escaping to Holland. 
 
 Lady Steele went to Carmarthenshire in No- 
 vember, 1 7 16, and remained there till the end 
 of the following year. When she left London 
 one of her children was sickening for the small- 
 pox, and, according to her husband, there was 
 not " an inch of candle, a pound of coal, or a bit 
 of meat in the house." The little girl recovered, 
 however, and money came in ; and, during the 
 following weeks, Steele wrote some charming 
 letters about his " dear innocents," full of good 
 resolves for the future, which did not meet with 
 any very hearty response from his ailing wife. 
 In one letter he spoke of turning all his thoughts 
 to finish his comedy, but he also had greiit hopes 
 from a "Fish-pool scheme," the object of which
 
 liv RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 was to bring- fish alive to London. When his 
 "dear little peevish, beautiful, wise governess" 
 called him " good Dick," he said he was so 
 enraptured that he could forget his miserable 
 lameness — he was suffering from gout — and walk 
 down to Wales. 
 
 After many delays, Steele set out, in October, 
 to attend the meetings of the Forfeited Estates 
 Commission at Edinburgh, where he was very 
 well received. He was, however, soon back in 
 London, and, in June, 17 18, obtained Letters 
 Patent for the Fish-pool, which was followed by 
 much litigation on the part of a man named 
 Sansome, who said he had rendered valuable aid 
 in developing the scheme. In the autumn, 
 Steele was again in Scotland, and in December 
 he lost his " dear and honoured wife." She was 
 buried in the south transept of Westminster 
 Abbey. 
 
 The Peerage Bill was introduced by the 
 Government in 17 19, with a view of limiting the 
 power of creating new peers. The real object 
 was to prevent a growth of the influence either 
 of king or people, in both of wliich the aristo- 
 cratic Whigs saw danger to themselves. Steele 
 did not agree on this question with the party 
 leaders, and he was honest and bold enough to 
 oppose their bill in a paper called the Plebeian. 
 Addison replied in the Old Whig^ and unfortu- 
 nately the controversy led to the estrangement 
 of the two friends. There was no opportunity
 
 RICHARD S2EELE. Iv 
 
 for reconciliation, for Addison died shortly after 
 the appearance of these pamphlets. The Peerage 
 Bill was revived in November, but was thrown 
 out in December, immediately after the publica- 
 tion of another pamphlet by Steele. 
 
 The Government at once took steps to punish 
 their candid friend. As early as 1 7 1 7, the Duke of 
 Newcastle, who then became Lord Chamberlain, 
 had requested the managers of the theatre to 
 accept a licence in place of their patent. This 
 Steele declined to do, and the matter dropped ; 
 but in the following year there was further fric- 
 tion, owing to the claim of the managers that 
 they were exempt from the Duke's authority. 
 The Attorney-General was consulted on this 
 point, and upon the question whether Steele had 
 power to sell or alienate his interest in the 
 patent ; but the result is not recorded. The first 
 act of revenge was an order, on December ig, 
 1 7 19, forbidding Gibber — who had dedicated his 
 Ximena to Steele — to act or take part in the 
 management of the theatre. Steele remonstrated, 
 and commenced an interesting periodical called 
 the TJieatrey in vindication of himself and his 
 fellow-managers. On January 23, 1720, the 
 licence was revoked, and the Lord Chamberlain 
 threatened to obtain a sign manual to silence 
 the theatre. Steele petitioned the King, but on 
 the 25th a warrant was issued forbidding any 
 acting at Drury Lane until further order. On 
 the 27th a licence, to be held during pleasure,
 
 Ivi RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 was granted to Wilks, Cibber, and Booth ; and 
 on March 4, in spite of every effort of Steele's 
 to obtain justice, the King's Company of Come- 
 dians were sworn at the office of the Lord Cham- 
 berlain, to whom they agreed to be subservient. 
 Next month, in the last number of the Theatre^ 
 Steele alluded to the loss he had sustained in 
 not being able to produce his own pieces advan- 
 tageously, and stated that he would forthwith 
 publish a new comedy, called Sir John Edgar. 
 This agrees with letters from Dr. Rundle, who 
 wrote that it was said that a most excellent 
 comedy of Steele's was prevented being acted 
 at the Haymarket Theatre, lest its wit and sense 
 should spoil the relish for operas. This comedy, 
 however, never saw the light. 
 
 Throughout 1720 the country was occupied 
 with the fortunes of the South Sea Company and 
 other schemes, by which people hoped to make 
 rapid fortunes. Steele, both in and out of the 
 House, again opposed the action of ministers, 
 and his conduct was justified in the autumn, 
 when the bubble burst. Aislabie, the elder 
 Craggs, the Stanhopes, and Sunderland were all 
 compromised ; and Walpole became First Lord 
 of the Treasury. Steele, as in the case of the 
 1 7 15 Rebellion, advocated mercy towards the 
 directors of the company as individuals, though 
 he had fearlessly condemned their action while 
 they had the power of doing harm. On the 2nd 
 of May, 1 72 1, through Walpole's influence, the
 
 RICHARD STEELE. Ivii 
 
 Lord Chamberlain issued a warrant, ordering 
 the managers of the theatre to account to Steele 
 for his share of the proiits, past and future. In 
 the autumn he was again in Scotland. 
 
 Articles quadrupartite were entered into on 
 September ig, between Steele, Wilks, Gibber, 
 and Booth, by which it was agreed that Steele's 
 executors should, for three years after his death, 
 receive one-fourth part of the profits of the 
 theatre, and should also have, at his death, 
 ^1,200 for his share in the patent, clothes, 
 scenery, &c. Further articles were also signed, 
 which had for their object the protection of the 
 actors in case Steele were again deprived by 
 order of the King or Lord Chamberlain of his 
 interest in the theatre. These agreements did 
 not prevent Steele having difficulty in getting 
 from the other managers his share of the profits, 
 though he had already given them ;^400 each, in 
 consideration, as they said, of a fourth part of 
 the scenery, &c., which belonged to them. At 
 the close of the year Steele republished The 
 DninimeTy which had not been included by 
 Tickell in the collected edition of Addison's 
 works, and prefixed to it a vindication of himself 
 from charges made by the editor. In March, 
 1722, he became Member of Parliament for 
 Wendover.
 
 Iviii RICHARD S2EELE. 
 
 IX. 
 
 As early as 1720 Steele spoke in the Theatre 
 of "a friend of mine" who was lately preparing 
 a comedy according to the just laws of the stage, 
 and had introduced a scene in which the first 
 character bore unprovoked wrong, denied a duel, 
 and still appeared a man of honour and courage. 
 This was clearly an allusion to the play eventu- 
 ally to be published as The Conscious Lovers. 
 And in a paragraph in Mist's Weekly Journal 
 for November 18, 172 1, printed a year before 
 the play appeared, readers were informed that 
 " Sir Richard Steele proposes to represent a 
 character upon the stage this season that was 
 never seen there yet : His Gentleman has been 
 two years a dressing, and we wish he may make 
 a good appearance at last." In June, 1722, 
 Vanbrugh, in a letter to Tonson, lamented the 
 absence of new plays of any value. " Steele, 
 however," he said, " has one to come on at 
 winter, which they much commend." On Sep- 
 tember 22 the British Jour )ial stated, that a con- 
 siderable number of new plays were promised 
 at Drury Lane that season, and that Steele's 
 new comedy would be set up immediately after 
 Mrs. Centlivre's The Artifice. In October the 
 newspapers announced that Steele's play would 
 be called The Unfashionable Lovers, or as 
 others said. The Fine Gentleman. When the
 
 RICHARD STEELE. lix 
 
 play was produced, on November 7th, the title 
 chosen was The Conscious Lovers. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs. Younger, Booth, Wilks, 
 and Gibber took the principal parts in what was, 
 in many respects, Steele's best play, and Ben- 
 jamin Victor says that the author, with whom 
 he sat at the first performance, was charmed 
 with all the actors except Griffin, who repre- 
 sented Cimberton, a very ungrateful part. The 
 play ran for eighteen nights, which at that time 
 meant a great success, and there were eight 
 further performances during the season. It was 
 published in December,^ with a dedication to 
 the King, for which Steele appears to have 
 received five hundred guineas. 
 
 In the Preface the success of the play was 
 attributed to the excellent manner in which every 
 part was acted ; for a play is meant to be seen, 
 not read. " The chief design of this was to be 
 an innocent performance, and the audience have 
 abundantly showed how ready they are to sup- 
 port what is visibly intended that way ; nor do I 
 make any difficulty to acknowledge that the 
 whole was writ for the sake of the scene of the 
 fourth act, wherein Mr Bevil evades the quarrel 
 with his friend ; and hope it may have some 
 effect upon the Goths and Vandals that frequent 
 
 ' Tonsoii paid for the copyrij^lit £,\o, "and other valuable con- 
 siderations " ; and lie had to institute proceedings to prevent the j^lay 
 being pirated (Athenaum, Dec. 5, 1891). As early as March i, 1772, 
 Lintot has agreed to give Tonson £']o for a half share of Steele's 
 comedy that was to be publishetl.
 
 Ix RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 the theatres, or a more polite audience may sup- 
 ply their absence." The general idea of the play 
 was taken from Terence's Andria, but after the 
 first two acts Steele's indebtedness to Terence is 
 very slight. Gibber, however, rendered valuable 
 assistance. "Mr. Gibber's zeal for the work," 
 wrote Steele, " his care and application in in- 
 structing the actors, and altering the dispositions 
 of the scenes, when I was, through sickness, 
 unable to cultivate such things myself, has been 
 a very obliging favour and friendship to me." 
 Theophilus Gibber, who had a part in the 
 original cast, says that when Steele finished the 
 comedy, the parts of Tom and Phillis were not 
 in it, and that Golley Gibber, when he heard it 
 read, said he liked it upon the whole, but that it 
 was rather too grave for an English audience, 
 who think the end of a comedy is to make them 
 laugh. Steele thereupon agreed to the introduc- 
 tion of some comic characters, and at his request 
 the play received many additions by Gibber. The 
 piece was, as Victor says, " the last blaze of Sir 
 Richard's glory " ; and it is probable that Gibber 
 deserves all the thanks Steele gave him for pre- 
 paring for the stage the manuscript which had 
 for so long been in preparation, and which, 
 without assistance, might never have been com- 
 pleted. It is difficult, however, to accept Theo- 
 philus Gibber's account in its entirety, because 
 the germ of the delightful scene in which Tom, 
 the gentleman's gentleman, describes how he
 
 RICHARD SIEELE. Ixi 
 
 fell in love with Phillis, is to be found in No. 87 
 of the Guardian, where Steele says he had in 
 mind a scene which he had recently observed 
 while passing a house. This is the form which 
 the story ultimately took : — 
 
 Tom. Ah ! Too well I remember when, and how, and on what 
 occasion I was first smprised. It was on the first of April, one 
 thousand seven hmidred and fifteen, I came into Mr. Sealand's 
 service ; I was then a hobbledehoy, and you a pretty little tight 
 girl, a favourite handmaid of the housekeeper. At that time we 
 neither of us knew what was in us : I remember I was ordered to 
 get out of the window, one pair of stairs, to rub the sashes clean ; 
 the person employed on the inner side was your charming self, whom 
 I had never seen before. 
 
 Phillis. I think I remember the silly accident : What made ye, 
 you oaf, ready to fall down into the street .'' 
 
 Tom. You loiow not, J warrant you — You could not guess what 
 surprised me. You took no delight, when you immediately grew 
 wanton, in your conquest, and put your lips close, and breathed 
 upon the glass, and when my lips approached, a dirty cloth you 
 rubbed against my face, and hid your beauteous form ; when I again 
 diew near, you spit, and rubbed, and smiled at my undoing. 
 
 Phillis. What silly thoughts you men have ! 
 
 Tom Oh, Phillis ! Phillis ! shorten my toniient and declare 
 
 you pity me. 
 
 Phillis. I beheve it's very sufferable ; the pain is not so exquisite 
 but that you may bear it a little longer. 
 
 " If I were rich," said Phillis in another place, 
 I could twire and loll as well as the best of them. 
 Oh, Tom ! Tom ! Is it not a pity that you should 
 be so great a coxcomb, and I so great a coquette, 
 and yet be such poor devils as we are ? " 
 
 The names of some of the characters recall 
 earlier writings, for Lucinda and her father, Mr. 
 Sealand, Mr. Charles Myrtle, and Humphrey, the 
 servant, had all appeared in the Theatre, while 
 there was another Myrtle in the Lover. There are,
 
 Ixii RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 too, passages which at once remind us of the 
 style of the earlier periodicals ; thus Bevil, after 
 escorting a music-master to the door, says to 
 Indiana, " You smile, madam, to see me so com- 
 plaisant to one whom I pay for his visit : Now, 
 I own, I think it is not enough barely to pay 
 those whose talents are superior to our own (I 
 mean such talents as would become our condi- 
 tion, if we had them). Methinks we ought to do 
 something more than barely gratify them for 
 what they do at our command, only because 
 their fortune is below us"; to which Indiana 
 replies, "You said, I smile ; I assure you it was 
 a smile of approbation ; for, indeed, I cannot but 
 think it the distinguishing part of a gentleman 
 to make his superiority of fortune as easy to his 
 inferiors as he can." Or, to take another pas- 
 sage in the conversation of these same " con- 
 scious lovers," Bevil remarks, " If pleasure be 
 worth purchasing, how great a pleasure is it to 
 him, who has a true taste of life, to ease an 
 achinof heart, to see the human countenance 
 lighted up with smiles of joy on receipt of a bit 
 of ore which is superfluous and otherwise useless 
 in a man's own pocket." He even remembers 
 to praise Addison : " The moral writers practise 
 virtue after death : This charming Vision of 
 Mirza ! Such an author consulted in a morn- 
 ing sets the spirit for the vicissitudes of the day 
 better than the glass does a man's person." And 
 when Sir John Bevil observes that, " What
 
 RICHARD STEELE. Ixiii 
 
 might injure a citizen's credit may be no strain 
 to a gentleman's honour," ]\Ir, Sealand says, 
 " Sir John, the honour of a gentleman is liable 
 to be tainted by as small a matter as the credit 
 of a trader." Much the same lesson is taught, 
 less sententiously, when Phillis exclaims, " Oh, 
 Tom ! Tom ! thou art as false and as base as the 
 best gentleman of them all." 
 
 Parson Adams said that he thought The Con- 
 scious Lovers the only play fit for a Christian to 
 see ; indeed," he added, " it contains some 
 things almost solemn enough for a sermon." In 
 this kindly satire Fielding indicated the weak- 
 ness of the play. The chief interest of the piece is 
 sentimental, and the hero is not always free from 
 priggishness. Yet the duelling scene, for which, 
 as Steele says, the whole was written, has much 
 dramatic interest, and the protest against false 
 ideas of honour — " decisions a tyrant custom has 
 introduced, to the breach of all laws both divine 
 and human " — was at that time courageous, and 
 much needed. If some of the things expressed 
 in this play are more suited for a paper in the 
 Spectator., there is nothing in true comedy which 
 makes it incongruous to convey, in a manner 
 suited to that form of art, s serious lesson of life. 
 If, again, as some say, there is more pathos than 
 is allowable in the scene in which Sealand 
 recovers his long-lost daughter and sister, the 
 end is that of true comedy ; the " pedantic cox- 
 comb " Cimberton no longer wants Sealand's
 
 Ixiv RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 daughter when he finds that, by the discovery of 
 Indiana, Lucinda's fortune will be halved ; Bevil 
 is able, in marrying Indiana, the lady he loves, 
 to comply with his father's wish that he should 
 be united to Sealand's daughter ; and Bevil's 
 friend, Myrtle, the true lover whose affection is 
 not lessened by change in the lady's dowry, is 
 rewarded with the hand of Lucinda. The friends, 
 formerly supposed by one of them to be rivals, 
 thus become brothers. 
 
 Steele alluded to current criticism when he 
 said, in his Preface, that the incident of the 
 threatened duel and the case of the father and 
 daughter were thought by some to be no sub- 
 jects of comedy; " but I cannot," he continued, 
 " be of their mind, for anything" that has its 
 foundation in happiness and success must be 
 allowed to be the object of comedy." His object, 
 as Welsted said in the Prologue, was to 
 
 " please by \\'it tbat scorns the aid of vice ; 
 The praise he seeks, from worthier motives springs, 
 Such praise, as praise to those that give, it brings." 
 
 It was for the audience 
 
 " To chasten wit, and moraUse the stage." 
 
 If success is to be measured by the amount of 
 discussion caused by a work. The Conscioiis Lovers 
 w^as, indeed, fortunate. Dennis began the attack 
 in a pamphlet before the play was publicly acted, 
 and afterwards returned to the charge. Much of 
 what he said was personal abuse, but some of 
 his remarks are interesting, and show what were
 
 RICHARD STEELE. Ixv 
 
 then held to be the weak points in the piece. He 
 complained that Bevil was given the qualities of 
 an old man, and maintained that the characters 
 were not just images of their contemporaries, 
 that patterns for imitation were set up instead of 
 follies and vices being made ridiculous, and that 
 the subject of the comedy was not by its consti- 
 tution comical. Bevil's filial piety, he said, was 
 carried too far, and his behaviour to Indiana was 
 still more unaccountable, for though he had in 
 one sense concealed his passion, there was no 
 retreat with honour for him, because by his gene- 
 rosity and constant visits he had raised a passion 
 for him in Indiana, and had compromised her. 
 The catastrophe, he confessed, was very moving, 
 but it might have been more surprising, if handled 
 differently. The action in Terence's play was 
 natural, as, for example, the conduct of Gly- 
 cerium at the funeral of Chrysis ; but the scene 
 at the masquerade between Bevil and Indiana 
 was an absurd imitation, for Indiana did not 
 know that her affection was returned. As for 
 Bevil, " this man of conscience and of religion is 
 as arrant an hypocrite as a certain author," and 
 was constantly dissimulating. Dennis concluded 
 by saying that the sentiments were often frivo- 
 lous, false, and absurd ; the dialogue awkward, 
 clumsy, and spiritless ; the diction affected, bar- 
 barous, and too often Hibernian. 
 
 There were other pamphlets for and against 
 the play, and the newspapers contained many 
 
 Steele. g
 
 Ixvi RICHARD S2EELE. 
 
 articles on the subject. One writer remarked 
 that a great part of Squire Cimberton's conver- 
 sation, " some of which has since been omitted," 
 could not be reconciled with rules often laid 
 down by Steele. "He [Steele] must always be 
 agreeable, till he ceases to be at all ; and yet 
 ... it has been always fashionable to use him 
 ill : Blockheads of quality, who are scarce capa- 
 ble of reading his works, have affected a sort of 
 ill-bred merit in despising 'em ; and they who 
 have no taste for his writings, have pretended to 
 a displeasure at his conduct," 
 
 X. 
 
 The remaining years of Steele's life need not 
 detain us long. In 1723 he wrote to his eldest 
 daughter, Betty, " I have taken a great deal of 
 pains to serve the world, and hope God will allow 
 me some time to serve my own family. My good 
 girl, employ yourself always in some good work, 
 that you may be as good a woman as your 
 mother." A few days later Vanbrugh wrote, 
 *' Happening to meet with Sir Richard Steele 
 t'other day at Mr. Walpole's in town, he seemed 
 to me to be (at least) in the declining way I had 
 heard he was." The complications arising from 
 the mortgage of Steele's interest in the theatre 
 still troubled him, and from the 18th of June the
 
 RICHARD STEELE. Ixvii 
 
 Other managers each took, for his own use, 
 £\ 13s. 4d. for every day upon which a play was 
 acted, an arrangement from which Steele was 
 excluded. 
 
 The success of TJie Conscioii,s Lovers encou- 
 raged Steele to endeavour to finish another 
 play ; and the newspapers reported that it would 
 be acted that winter. This was The School of 
 Action, which has for its scene a theatre, mistaken 
 by a lady's guardian for an inn ; but the piece 
 was left in a very incomplete condition. There 
 is also a fragment of another play, The Genile- 
 man ; it was a dramatised version of a paper in 
 the Spectator upon high life below stairs. In 
 September illness forced Steele to go to Bath, 
 and a few weeks later his only surviving son, 
 Eugene, died. " Lord, grant me patience ; pray 
 write to me constantly," the father wrote to Betty: 
 ** Why don't you mention Molly ? Is she dead, 
 too?" In the spring of 1724 he was again in 
 London, and in April a proposal for the payment 
 of his debts was drawn up, from which it appears 
 that, as he lived for more than five years after- 
 \\ ards, his liabilities were probably all met before 
 his death. There was again reference to " a 
 new play, which Sir Richard may produce next 
 winter." In June an indenture quadrupartite 
 was made between Steele, of the first part ; Wilks, 
 Gibber, and Booth, of the second part ; a number 
 of creditors, of the third part ; and the Rev. David 
 Scurlock, of the fourth part, to provide for the
 
 Ixviii RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 payment of debts out of Steele's share of tlie 
 profits of the theatre. For this purpose ]\Ir. 
 vScurlock — Lady Steele's cousin — was appointed 
 trustee. 
 
 The autumn of 1724 was spent at Carm.arthen. 
 In February, 1725, Steele was at Hereford, where 
 he received ^100 from the King's bounty; and 
 in July he was again at Carmarthen. He retired 
 to the country from " a principle of doing justice 
 to his creditors," and not, as Swift said after his 
 death, because of the "perils of a hundred gaols." 
 In December, 1724, the other managers urged 
 him to return to town at 'once ; the audiences 
 decreased daily, and it was impossible to contend 
 against other forms of entertainment ; the profits 
 had fallen by more than a half. Nothing came 
 of this application, and in September, 1725, pro- 
 tracted law proceedings were instituted in the 
 Court of Chancery, by Steele and Scurlock, 
 against Wilks, Cibber, Booth, Castleman, and 
 Woolley. An abstract of the pleadings will be 
 found in the Appendix. The Court gave judg- 
 ment in February, 1728, confirming the allow- 
 ance of /' I 13s. 4d. a day to each of the three 
 managers ; but the case was not brought to a close 
 until July, when, as Cibber says, " Sir Richard 
 not being advised to appeal to the Lord Chan- 
 cellor, both parties paid their- own costs, and 
 thought it their mutual int erest to let this be the 
 last of their law suits," 
 
 During the remaining three years of his life
 
 RICHARD STEELE. Ixix 
 
 Steele lived chiefly at Tygwyn, a farm-house 
 overlooking the Towy, and within sight of Car- 
 marthen. There he had a stroke of paralysis, 
 which was accompanied by a partial loss of 
 speech, but he kept his sweetness of temper and 
 kindliness towards others to the last. There is a 
 pleasant anecdote, told by Victor, and fully con- 
 firmed elsewhere, that he " would often be carried 
 out on a summer's evening, where the country 
 lads and lasses were assembled at their rural 
 sports, and, with his pencil, give an order on his 
 agent, the mercer, for a new gown to the best 
 dancer." By his will, made in 1727, and wit- 
 nessed by John Dyer, the poet, he left the residue 
 of his small property, after certain legacies, to 
 his " dear and well-beloved daughters, Elizabeth 
 and Mary." Elizabeth, who had many admirers, 
 afterwards married Lord Trevor ; Mary died 
 shortly after her father. Before his death Steele 
 was moved to a house in King Street, Carmar- 
 then, where he passed away on September i, 
 1729. On the 4th he was privately buried in the 
 vault of the Scurlocks, in St. Peter's Church. 
 This vault was accidentally opened in 1876, and 
 Steele's remains exposed to view ; but they were 
 carefully re-interred, and the skull enclosed in 
 a small lead coffin. 
 
 vSteele's faults are apparent, and they have not 
 been allowed to be forgotten by writers of his 
 own day or of later times. That he was thrift- 
 less is manifest, but his income, though it came
 
 Ixx RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 from various sources, was uncertain and irregular,, 
 and he had passed the prime of life before he had 
 anything like handsome means. Many of his 
 debts, too, are to be accounted for by the gene- 
 rosity and open-handedness which are a charac- 
 teristic of the nation in which he was born. 
 That he sometimes drank more than was wise is 
 equally well known, but that fault does not strike 
 us so much when we remember that hard drink- 
 ing was then the common practice, and that 
 many could consume, with impunity, an amount 
 which would undoubtedly have upset Steele 
 entirely. 
 
 Against these defects, and a certain general 
 weakness of character to which they were due, 
 we have to set his unselfish patriotism, the high 
 aims of his writings, which had a most beneficial 
 effect upon his own and future generations, his 
 affection for wife and children, and his loyalty to 
 his friends. Whatever there is to forgive is more 
 than made up for by these qualities, which have 
 made him, to this day, one of the best- loved 
 characters of his time. 
 
 Steele's comedies were often reprinted in 
 separate form during the century following their 
 production, and there were about a dozen edi- 
 tions in which these separate plays were col- 
 lected together, with a general title-page. The 
 last of these bears the date 1761. In 1809 
 Nichols published the fragments of two un- 
 finished comedies in his edition of Steele's Cor-
 
 RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 Ixxi 
 
 Tespondence. In the present volume all Steele's 
 dramatic works have for the first time been 
 gathered together, and an attempt has been made 
 to provide such annotation as seemed necessary. 
 Changes of scene, sometimes not noticed in the 
 old copies, have been indicated, and modern con- 
 ventions respecting spelling and the like have 
 been adopted, while punctuation, which was very 
 erratic in the early issues, has, where necessary, 
 been modified. The text has been collated with 
 the first and later editions of each play. 
 
 G. A. AlTKEN.
 
 THE FU^E\qAL: 
 
 OR 
 
 G\IEF cJ-LA-^OVE. 
 
 Ut qui conducti plorant in funere, dicunt, 
 
 Et faciunt prop6 plura dolentibus ex animo, sic 
 
 Derisor vero plus laudatore movetur." ' 
 
 Horace, Ars. Poet, 431 — 3. 
 
 Steele, 
 
 Hired mourners ;it a funeral say and do 
 A little more than tliey whose grief is true; 
 'Tis just so here : false flattery displays 
 More show of sympathy than honest praise." 
 
 CONINGTON. 
 
 B
 
 ^rl^lJ^^? HE Funeral : or, Grief et- la -Mode, a 
 «x^^| Comedy, was written in the summer of 
 
 1 701, and given to Christopher Rich, 
 of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in 
 October. Soon afterwards it was acted, 
 and it was pubhshed by Jacob Tonson 
 between December 18 and 20, with 
 the date 1702 on the title-page. The music to the songs, 
 by William Croft, appeared between December 16 and 
 18. The original cast included Cibber (Lord Hardy), 
 Wilks (Campley), Mills (Trusty), Pinkethman (Trim), 
 Norris (Mrs. Fardingale), and Bullock (Kate Match- 
 lock) ; with Mrs. Verbruggen (Lady Brumpton), Mrs. 
 Rogers (Lady Harriot), and Mrs. Oldfield (Lady Shar- 
 lot). The play was revived occasionally in most of 
 the years between 1703 and 1734, and from time to 
 time during the following half- century, the last date, 
 apparently, being April 17, 1799. The plot is entirely 
 original.
 
 To the A'i\;/ii Honourable iJie 
 
 COUNTESS OF ALBEiMARLK/ 
 
 Madam, 
 
 MONG the many novelties with which 
 your ladyship, a stranger in our nation, 
 is daily entertained, you have not yet 
 been made acquainted with the poeti- 
 cal English liberty, the right of dedica- 
 tion ; which entitles us to a privilege 
 of celebrating whatever for its native 
 excellence is the just object of praise, and is an ancient 
 charter, by which the Muses have always a free access to 
 the habitation of the Graces. 
 
 Hence it is that this Comedy waits on your Ladyship, 
 and presumes to welcome you amongst us ; though in- 
 deed, madam, we are surprised to see you bring with 
 you, what we thought was of our own growth only, an 
 agreeable beauty ; nay, we must assure you, that we can- 
 not give up so dear an article of our glory, but assert it 
 by our right in you : for if 't is a maxim founded on the 
 noblest human law, that of hospitality, that every soil is 
 a brave man's country, England has a very just pretence 
 of claiming as a native a daughter of Mr, Scravenmore. 
 
 1 Isabella, second daughlcr of the Lord of St. Gravcmocr, General 
 of the Forces to the States General, and wife of Arnold Joost van 
 Keppel, Earl of Albemarle, and Colonel of tiie first troop of Horse 
 Guards.
 
 4 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 But your Ladyship is not only endeared to us by the 
 great services of your father, but also by the kind offices 
 of your husband, whose frank carriage falls in with our 
 genius, which is free, open, and unreserved. In this the 
 generosity of your tempers makes you both excel in so 
 peculiar a manner, that your good actions are their own 
 reward ; nor can they be returned with ingratitude, for 
 none can forget the benefits you confer so soon as you 
 do yourselves. 
 
 But ye have a more indisputable title to a dramatic 
 performance than all these advantages ; for you are your- 
 selves, in a degenerate low age, the noblest characters 
 which that fine passion that supports the stage has in- 
 spired ; and as you have practised as generous a fidelity 
 as the fancies of poets have ever drawn in their expecting 
 lovers, so may you enjoy as high a prosperity as ever they 
 have bestowed on their rewarded. This you may possess 
 in an happy security, for your fortunes cannot move so 
 much envy as your persons love. 
 I am. Madam, 
 
 Your Ladyship's most devoted 
 Humble Servant, 
 
 Richard Steele.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 HE rehearsal of this Comedy was 
 honoured with the presence of the 
 Duke of Devonshire/ who is as dis- 
 tinguished by his fine understanding 
 as high quahty. The innocence of it 
 moved him to the humanity of ex- 
 pressing himself in its favour. 'Tis 
 his manner to be pleased where he is not offended ; a 
 condescension which delicate spirits are obliged to for 
 their own ease, for they would have but a very ill time of 
 it if they suffered themselves to be diverted with nothing 
 but what could bear their judgment. 
 
 That elegant and illustrious person will, I hope, pardon 
 my gratitude to the town, which obliges me to report so 
 substantial a reason for their approbation of this play, as 
 that he permitted it. But I know not in what words to 
 thank my fellow-soldiers for their warmth and zeal in my 
 behalf, nor to what to attribute their undeserved favour, 
 except it be that 'tis habitual to 'em to run to the 
 succour of those they see in danger. 
 
 The subject of the drama 'tis hoped will be acceptable 
 to all lovers ot mankind, since ridicule is partly levelled 
 
 1 William Cavendish, fourth Earl of DLVonshite ; created in 1694 
 Marquis of Hartington and Dukt; of Devonshire. The Duke was 
 a Knitjht of the Garter, and Lord Steward of the Household. He 
 married Mary, stcond daughter of the first Duke of Oiraond, and 
 he died in 1707.
 
 6 THE FUNERAL : 
 
 at a set of people who live in impatient hopes to see us 
 out of the world, a flock of ravens that attend this 
 numerous city for their carcases; but, indeed, 'tis not in 
 the power of any pen to speak 'em better than they do 
 themselves. As, for example, on a door I just now 
 passed by, a great artist thus informs us of his cures upon 
 the dead : — 
 
 W. W., known and approved for his art of embalming, having 
 preserved the corpse of a gentlewoman, sweet and entire, thirteen 
 years, without embowelling, and has leduced the bodies of several 
 persons of quality to sweetness, in Flanders and Ireland, after nine 
 months' putrefaction in the ground, and they were known by their 
 friends in England. No man peiformeth the like. 
 
 He must needs be strangely in love with this life who 
 is not touched with this kind invitation to be pickled ; 
 and the noble operator must be allowed a very useful 
 person for bringing old friends together; nor would it be 
 unworthy his labour to give us an account at large of the 
 sweet conversation that arose upon meeting such an 
 entire friend as he mentions. 
 
 But to be serious: Is there anything, but its being 
 downright fact, could make a rational creature believe 
 't were possible to arrive at this fantastic posthumous 
 folly ? Not at the same time but that it were buffoonery 
 rather than satire to explode all funeral honours ; but 
 then it is certainly necessary to make 'em such that the 
 mourners should be in earnest, and the lamented worthy 
 of our sorrow. But this puri:)ose is so far from being 
 served, that it is utterly destroyed by the manner of pro- 
 ceeding among us, where the obsequies, which are due 
 only to the best and highest of human race (to admonish 
 their short survivors that neither wit, nor valour, nor 
 wisdom, nor glory can suspend our fate), are prostituted 
 and bestowed upon such as have nothing in common 
 with men but their mortality. 
 
 But the dead man is not to pass off so easily, for his 
 last thoughts are also to suffer dissection, and it seems 
 there is an art to be earned to speak our own sense in
 
 OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 7 
 
 other men's words, and a man in a gown that never saw his 
 face shall tell you immediately the design of the deceased, 
 better than all his old acquaintance; which is so perfect 
 an hocus-pocus that, without you can repeat such and 
 such words, you cannot convey what is in your hands 
 into another's ; but far be it from any man's thought to 
 say there are not men of strict integrity of the long robe, 
 though it is not everybody's good fortune to meet 
 with 'em. 
 
 However, the daily legal villanies we see committed 
 will also be esteemed things proper to be prosecuted by 
 satire, nor could our ensuing Legislative do their country 
 a more seasonable office than to look into the distresses 
 of an unhappy people, who groan perhaps in as much 
 misery under entangled as they could do under broken 
 laws ; nor could there be a reward high enough assigned 
 for a great genius, if such may be found, who has capa- 
 city sufficient to glance through the false colours that are 
 put upon us, and propose to the English world a method 
 of making justice flow in an uninterrupted stream ; there 
 is so clear a mind in being, whom we will name in words 
 that of all men breathing can be only said of him ; 'tis 
 he ^ that is excellent — 
 
 " Seu linguam cau^is acuit, seu civica juia 
 
 Responsare parat, seu condit amabile carmen." ' 
 
 Other enemies that may arise against this poor play 
 are indeed less terrible, but much more powerful than 
 these, and they are the ladies; but if there is anything 
 that argues a soured man, who lashes all for Lady 
 Brumpton, we may hope there will be seen also a devoted 
 heart that esteems all for Lady Sharlot. 
 
 1 Perhaps the reference is to Charles Montagu, Lord Halifax, 
 who, as Pope says, was "fed with dedications." 
 
 2 " Whether he trains for pleading, or essavs 
 
 To practise law, or frame some graceful lays." 
 (Conington's Hvrace, Ep. I. iii. 23 — 4, adapted to suit Steele's 
 modification of the original.)
 
 spoken by Mr. Wilks.' 
 
 Nature's deserted, and dramatic art, 
 To dazzle now the eye, has left the heart ; " 
 Gay lights and dresses, long extended scenes, 
 Demons and angels moving in machines. 
 All that can now, or please, or fright the fair, 
 May be performed without a writer's care, 
 And is the skill of carpenter, not player. 
 
 1 Wilks was Campley. In the Tatler (No. 182), Steele says : 
 "To beseech gracefully, to approach respectfully, to pity, to 
 mourn, to love, are the places wherein Wilks may be said to shine 
 with the utmost beauty!" He had "a singular talent in repre- 
 senting the graces of nature " and " the easy frankness of a gentle- 
 man." 
 
 * Contemporary writers loudly complained of the neglect of 
 ordinary plays at this time, owing to the importation of French 
 tumi)lers and rope-danceis, performing animals, and Italian singers. 
 "Th-'town ran mad," says Gildon [Comparison beliveen the two 
 Stagis), after some of these entettainments. The theatres in Drury 
 Lane and Lincoln's Inn Fields tried to outdo each other in every 
 new attempt made by either of them. The " Celebrated Virgin," 
 in a machine, shining in a full zodiac, and "Harlequin and Scara- 
 mouch,'' with plenty of grimaces and table-jumping, were favourite 
 amusements. The cleverest plays would rarely secure a reasonable 
 an iience unless they were accompanied by dances, songs, and 
 clowns. CoUey Cibber [Apology, chap, x), says that Rich paid 
 " extraoriliniry prices to singers, dancers, and other exotic per- 
 form-rs, wnich were as constantly deducted out of the sinking 
 salaries of his actors." The majority of the people " could more 
 easily appiehend anything they saiv, than the daintiest things that 
 could be said to them." Rich was oidy prevented bringing an 
 elephant on to the stage by " the jealousy which so foimidable a 
 rival iiad raised in his dancers," and by the bricklayers assuring him 
 thit the safety of the budding would be imperiled. The complaint 
 tnat wh it please^ is " the >kiil of carpenter, not player," is exactly 
 what we hear continually at the present day.
 
 THE FUNERAL. 9 
 
 Old Shakespeare's days could not thus far advance ; 
 
 But what's his buskin to our ladder dance ? ' 
 
 In the mid region a silk youth to stand, 
 
 With that unwieldly engine at command ! 
 
 Gorged with intemperate meals while here you sit, 
 
 Well may you take activity for wit : 
 
 Fie, let confusion on such duhiess seize ; 
 
 Blush, you're so pleased, as we that so we please. 
 
 But we, still kind to your inverted sense, 
 
 Do most unnatural things once more dispense. 
 
 For since you're still preposterous in delight. 
 
 Our Author made, a full house to invite, 
 
 A funeral a Comedy to night. 
 
 Nor does he fear that you will take the hint, 
 
 And let the funeral his own be meant ; 
 
 No, in old England nothing can be won 
 
 Without a faction, good or ill be done ; 
 
 To own this our frank Author does not fear ; 
 
 But hopes for a prevailing party here ; 
 
 He knows he 's numerous friends \ nay, knows they'll 
 
 show it, 
 And for the fellow-soldier, save the poet. 
 
 1 An Order of the Lord Chamberlain to the Managers of the 
 Haymarket and Drury Lane Theatres, dated 24 Dec, 1 709, directed 
 that all agreements with actors, &c., were to be submitted to the 
 Lord Chamberlain ; that all players were to be sworn in ; that all 
 new playri, &c., were to be re-licensed by the Master of the Revels ; 
 and " that from and after the first day of January next no new 
 Representations be brought upon the Stage which are not Neces- 
 sary to the belter performance of Comedy or Opera, such as ladder- 
 dancing, antic postures, &c., without my leave and a|iprobation 
 first had." (Lord Chamberlain's Records, Warrant Book No. 22, 
 end). See Taller, Nos. 12, 99. The author of a book called 
 The Antient and Modern Stages surveyed (1699), attributed to 
 Dr. James Drake, and written in reply to CoHier's Short View, 
 says (p. 99) : " As for the dancing, which he calls bold, it may in 
 one sense be allowed hiai ; for it must be granttd that he that 
 ventures his neck to dance upon the top of a ladder is a very bold 
 fellow."
 
 ~ DRAMA TIS PERSONS. 
 
 Lord BrUxMpton. 
 
 Lord Hardy, Son to Lord Brumpton, in love with 
 
 Lady Sharlot. 
 Mr. Campley, in love with Lady Harriot. 
 Mr. Trusty, Steward to Lord Brumpjon. 
 Cabinet. 
 
 Mr. Sadle, an Undertaker. 
 Puzzle, a Lawyer. 
 Trim, Servant to Lord Hardy. 
 Tom, the Lawyer's Clerk. 
 Lady Brumpton. 
 
 Lady Sharlot ) Orphan Sisters, left in ward to Lord 
 Lady Harriot > Brumpton. 
 
 Madamoiselle D'Epingle. 
 Tattleaid, Lady Brumpton's Woman. 
 Mrs. Fardingale. 
 Kate Matchlock. 
 
 Visitant Ladies, Sable's Servants, Recruits, &c. 
 
 SCENE. — Covent Garden.
 
 THE FUVXET{(ylL: 
 
 OR 
 
 G\IEF zA-LA-mOVE. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE — Cbycv^/ Garden. 
 
 Fjiter Cabinet, Sable, rt'//^ Campley. 
 
 "" :' ■ -^ AB. I burst into laughter, I can't bear to 
 see writ over an undertaker's door, 
 " Dresses for the Dead, and Neces- 
 saries for Funerals ! " Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sab. Well, gentlemen, 'tis very 
 well ; I know you are of the laugh- 
 ers, the wits that take the liberty to 
 deride all things that are magnificent and solemn. 
 
 Cam. Nay, but after all, I can't but admire Sable's 
 nice discerning on the superiluous cares of mankind, that 
 could lead them to the thought of raising an estate by 
 ])roviding horses, equipage, and furniture, for those that 
 no longer need 'em. 
 
 Cab. But is it not strangely contradictory, that men
 
 12 THE FUNERAL : [act I. 
 
 can come to so open, so apparent an hypocrisy, as in the 
 face of all the world, to hire professed mourners to grieve, 
 lament, and follow in their stead their nearest relations, 
 and suborn others to do by art what they themselves 
 should be prompted to by nature ? 
 
 Sab. That's reasonably enough said, but they regard 
 themselves only in all they act for the deceased, and the 
 poor dead are delivered to my custody, to be embalmed, 
 slashed, cut, and dragged about, not to do them honour, 
 but to satisfy the vanity or interest of their survivors. 
 
 Ca7n. This fellow's every way an undertaker ! How 
 well and luckily he talks ! His prating so aptly has 
 methinks something more ridiculous in it than if he were 
 absurd. \Aside to Cabinet. 
 
 Cab. But, as Mr. Campley says, how could you dream 
 of making a fortune from so chimerical a foundation as 
 the provision of things wholly needless and insignificant.'* 
 
 Sab. Alas, gentlemen, the value of all things under the 
 sun is merely fantastic. We run, we strive, and purchase 
 things with our blood and money, quite foreign to our 
 intrinsic real happiness, and which have a being in imagi- 
 nation only, as you may see by the pudder^ that is made 
 about precedence, titles, court favour, maidenheads, and 
 china-ware. 
 
 Cam. Ay, Mr. Sable, but all thoae are objects that pro- 
 mote our joy, are bright to the eye, or stamp upon our 
 minds pleasure and self-satisfaction. 
 
 Sab. You are extremely mistaken, sir; for one would 
 wonder to consider that after all our outcries against sel!"- 
 interested men, there are few, very few, in the whole world 
 that live to themselves, but sacrifice their bosom-bliss to 
 enjoy a vain show, and appearance of prosperity in the 
 eyes of others; and there is often nothing more inwardly 
 distressed than a young bride in her glittering retinue, or 
 deeply joyful than a young widow in her weeds and black 
 1 Pother.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 13 
 
 train ; of both which, the lady of this house may be an 
 instance, for she has been the one, and is, I'll be sworn, 
 the other. 
 
 Cab. You talk, Mr. Sable, most learnedly ! 
 
 Sab. I have the deepest learning, sir, experience. 
 Remember your widow cousin that married last month. 
 
 Cab. Ay ! But how could you imagine she was in all 
 that grief an hypocrite ? Could all those shrieks, those 
 swoonings, that rising, falling bosom be constrained ? 
 
 You're uncharitable, Sable, to believe it What 
 
 colour, what reason had you for it ? 
 
 Sab. First, sir, her carriage in her concerns with me, 
 for I never yet could meet with a sorrowful relict, but 
 was herself enough to make an hard bargain with me.' — 
 Yet I must confess they have frequent interruptions of 
 grief and sorrow when they read my bill — but as for her, 
 nothing, she resolved, that looked bright or joyous should 
 after her love's death approach her. All her servants 
 that were not coal black must turn out ; a fair complexion 
 made her eyes and heart ache, she'd none but downright 
 jet, and to exceed all example she hired my mourning 
 furniture by the year, and in case of my mortality tied 
 my son to the same article ; so in six weeks' time ran 
 
 away with a young fellow Prithee push on briskly, 
 
 Mr. Cabinet, now is your time to have this widow, for 
 Tattleaid tells me she always said she'd never marry 
 
 Cab. As you say, that's generally the most hopeful sign. 
 
 Sab. I tell you, sir, 'tis an infallible one ; you know 
 
 1 In a letter written in Au<,'ust, 17 10, to her future husband, 
 Mr. E. Wortley Montayu, Lady Mary Pierrepoint says: "People 
 talk of beinj,^ in love just as widows do of affliction. Mr. Steele has 
 observed in one of his plays, ' the most passionate among tliem have 
 always calmness enough to drive a hard bargain with the upholders.' 
 I never knew a lover tliat would not willingly secure his interest as 
 well as his mistress ; or, if one must bo abandoned, had not the 
 prudence (among all his distractions) to consider that a woman was 
 but a woman, and money was a thing of more real merit than the 
 whole sex put together."
 
 14 THE FUNERAL: [act i. 
 
 those professions are only to introduce discourse of matri- 
 mony and young fellows. 
 
 Cab. But I swear I could not have confidence even 
 after all our long acquaintance, and the mutual love 
 which his lordship (who indeed has now been so kind 
 as to leave us) has so long interrupted, to mention a 
 thing of such a nature so unseasonably ■ 
 
 Sab. Unseasonably! Why, I tell )0U 'tis the only 
 season (granting her sorrow unfeigned) : When would you 
 speak of passion, but in the midst of passions ? There's 
 a what d'ye call, a crisis^ — the lucky minute that's so 
 talked of, is a moment between joy and grief, which you 
 
 must take hold of and push your fortune But get 
 
 you in, and you'll best read your fate in the reception 
 Mrs. Tattleaid gives you. All she says, and all she does, 
 nay, her very love and hatred are mere repetition of her 
 ladyship's passions. I'll say that for her, she's a true 
 lady's woman, and is herself as much a second-hand 
 thing as her clothes. But I must beg your pardon, gentle- 
 men, my people are come I see 
 
 \_Excuiit Cab. ami Camp. 
 
 Enter Sable's Men. 
 
 Where in the name of goodness have you all been ? 
 Have you brought the sawdust and tar for embalming? 
 Have you the hangings and the sixpenny nails, and my 
 lord's coat-of-arms? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Yes, sir, and had come sooner, but I went to the 
 Herald's for a coat for Alderman Gathergrease that died 
 
 last night He has promised to invent one against 
 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Sab. Ah ! Pox take some of our cits, the first thing 
 
 after their death is to take care of their birth Pox, 
 
 1 See p. 91, note.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-AIODE. 15 
 
 let him bear a pair of stockings, he's the first of his family 
 that ever wore one. Well, come you that are to be 
 mourners in this house, put on your sad looks, and walk 
 by me that I may sort you. Ha, you ! a little more upon 
 the dismal \forniiiig their countena7ices\ ; this fellow has a 
 good mortal look — place him near the corpse. That 
 wainscot face must be o'top of the stairs ; that fellow's 
 almost in a fright (that looks as if he were full of some 
 strange misery) at the entrance of the hall — so — but 
 
 I'll fix you all myself Let's have no laughing now on 
 
 any provocation \inakes faces\. Look yonder, that hale, 
 well-looking puppy ! You ungrateful scoundrel, did not 
 I pity you, take you out of a great man's service, and 
 show you the pleasure of receiving wages? Did not I 
 give you ten, then fifteen, now twenty shillings a week, to 
 be sorrowful? and the more I give you, I think, the 
 gladder you are. : 
 
 Ente7' a Boy. 
 
 Boy. Sir, the graved igger of St. Timothy 's-in-the- 
 Fields would speak with you. 
 Sab. Let him come in. 
 
 Enter Gkavkdigger. 
 
 Grav. I carried home to your house the shroud the 
 gentleman was buried in last night. I could not get his ring 
 off very easily, therefore I brought the finger and all ; and 
 sir, the sexton gives his service to you, and desires to 
 know whether you'd have any bodies removed or not. 
 If not, he'll let 'em lie in their graves a week longer. 
 
 Sab. Give him my service, I can't tell readily ; but our 
 friend, tell him, Dr. Passeport, with the powder, has pro- 
 mised me six or seven funerals this week. I'll send to 
 our country-farm at Kensington Gravel Pits, and our City- 
 house in Warwick Lane lor news ; you shall know time 
 enough. Piarkee, be sure there's care taken to give my
 
 i6 THE FUNERAL : [ACT I. 
 
 Lady Languishe's woman a fee to keep out that young 
 fellow came last from Oxford ; he'll ruin us all. 
 
 E7iter Goody Trash. 
 
 I wonder, Goody Trash, you could not be more punc- 
 tual, when I told you I wanted you, and your two 
 daughters, to be three virgins to-night to stand in white 
 about my Lady Katherine Grissel's body; and you know 
 you were privately to bring her home from the man- 
 midwife's, where she died in childbirth, to be buried like 
 a maid ; but there is nothing minded. Well, I have put 
 off that till to-morrow ; go and get your bag of brick-dust 
 and your whiting. Go and sell to the cook-maids ; know 
 who has surfeited about town. Bring me no bad news, 
 none of your recoveries again. And you, Mr. Blockhead, 
 I warrant you have not called at Mr. Pestle's, the apothe- 
 cary : Will that fellow never pay me? I stand bound 
 for all the poison in that starving murderer's shop. He 
 serves me just as Dr. Quibus did, who promised to write 
 a treatise against water-gruel, a damned healthy slop, that 
 has done me more injury than all the faculty. Look you 
 now, you are all upon the sneer ; let me have none but 
 
 downright stupid countenances I've a good mind to 
 
 turn you all off, and take people out of the play-house ; 
 but, hang 'em, they are as ignorant of their parts as you 
 are of yours, they never act but when they speak ; when 
 the chief indication of the mind is in the gesture, or 
 indeed in case of sorrow in no gesture, except you were 
 
 to act a widow, or so But yours, you dolts, is all 
 
 in dumb show ; dumb show ? I mean expressive eloquent 
 show : As who can see such an horrid ugly phiz as that 
 fellow's and not be shocked, offended, and killed of all 
 
 joy while he beholds it ? But we must not loiter Ye 
 
 stupid rogues, whom I have picked out of all the rubbish 
 of mankind, and fed for your eminent worthlessness, 
 attend, and know that I speak you this moment stiff
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 17 
 
 and immutable to all sense of noise, mirth, or laughter 
 ^Makes mouths at them as they pass by him to bring them 
 to a constant countenance\ So, they are pretty well- 
 pretty well 
 
 Enter Trusty and Lord Brumpton. 
 
 Trji. 'Twas fondness, sir, and tender duty to you, who 
 have been so worthy and so just a master to me, made 
 me stay near you ; they left me so, and there I found you 
 wake from your lethargic slumber ; on which I will assume 
 an authority to beseech you, sir, to make just use of your 
 revived life, in seeing who are your true friends, and 
 knowing her who has so wrought upon your noble nature 
 as to make it act against itself in disinheriting your brave 
 son. 
 
 Ld. B. Sure 'tis impossible she should be such a 
 
 creature as you tell me My mind reflects upon ten 
 
 thousand endearments that plead unanswerably for her. 
 Her chaste reluctant love, her easy observance of all my 
 wayward humours, to which she would accommodate 
 herself with so much ease, I could scarce observe it was a 
 virtue in her ; she hid her very patience. 
 
 Tru. It was all art, sir, or indifference to you, for what 
 I say is downright matter of fact. 
 
 Ld. B. Why didst thou ever tell me it ? or why not 
 in my Hfetime, for I must call it so, nor can I date a 
 minute mine, after her being false ; all past that moment 
 is death and darkness : Why didst thou not tell me 
 then, I say ? 
 
 Tru. Because you were too much in love with her to 
 be informed ; nor did I ever know a man that touched 
 on conjugal affairs could ever reconcile the jarring 
 humours but in a common hatred of the intermeddler. 
 But on this most extraordinary occasion, which seems 
 pointed out by Heaven itself to disengage you from your 
 cruelty and banishment of an innocent child, I must, I 
 
 Steele. (J
 
 i8 THE FUNERAL: [ACT I. 
 
 will conjure you to be concealed, and but contain your- 
 self, in hearing one discourse with that cursed instrument 
 of all her secrets, that Tattleaid, and you'll see what I 
 tell you ; you'll call me then your guardian and good 
 genius. 
 
 Ld. B. Well, you shall govern me, but would I had 
 died in earnest ere I'd known it ; my head swims, as it 
 
 did when I fell into my fit, at the thoughts of it 
 
 How dizzy a place is this world you live in ! All human 
 life's a mere vertigo ! 
 
 Tru. Ay, ay, my lord, fine reflections — fine reflections, 
 — but that does no business. Thus, sir, we'll stand con- 
 cealed, and hear, 1 doubt not, a much sincerer dialogue 
 than usual between vicious persons ; for a late accident 
 has given a little jealousy, which makes. 'em over-act 
 their love and confidence in each other. \They retire. 
 
 Enter Widow and Tattleaid meeting, and rtinning to 
 each other. 
 
 Wid. O, Tattleaid ! His and our hour is come ! 
 
 Tat. I always said, by his churchyard cough, you'd 
 bury him, but still you were impatient 
 
 Wid. Nay, thou hast ever been my comfort, my confi- 
 dant, my friend, and my servant ; and now I'll reward thy 
 pains ; for though I scorn the whole sex of fellows, I'll 
 give 'em hopes for thy sake ; every smile, every frown, 
 every gesture, humour, caprice and whimsey of mine shall 
 be gold to thee, girl ; thou shalt feel all the sweet and 
 wealth of being a fine rich widow's woman. Oh 1 how 
 my head runs my first year out, and jumps to all the joys 
 of widowhood ! If thirteen months hence a friend should 
 haul one to a play one has a mind to see, what pleasure 
 'twill be when my Lady Brampton's footman's called (who 
 kept a place for that very purpose) to make a sudden 
 insurrection of fine wigs in the pit and side-boxes. Then, 
 with a pretty sorrow in one's face and a willing blush for
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-AIODE. 19 
 
 being stared at, one ventures to look round and bow to one 
 of one's own quality. Thus \yery directly] to a smug pre- 
 tending fellow of no fortune : Thus \as scarce seemg him] 
 to one that writes lampoons : Thus \f£arfully\ to one 
 one really loves : Thus \lookmg doivii\ to one's woman- 
 acquaintance ; from box to box thus \iuith looks differetitly 
 familiar] : And when one has done one's part, observe 
 the actors do their's, but with my mind fixed not on those 
 
 I look at, but those that look at me Then the 
 
 serenades ! The lovers ! 
 
 Taf. O, madam, you make my heart bound within 
 me. I'll warrant you, madam, I'll manage 'em all; and 
 indeed, madam, the men are really very silly creatures, 
 'tis no such hard matter They rulers ! They gover- 
 nors ! I warrant you indeed ! 
 
 Wid. Ay, Tattleaid, they imagine themselves mighty 
 things, but government founded on force only is a brutal 
 power. We rule them by their affections, which blinds 
 them into belief that they rule us, or at least are in the 
 
 government with us But in this nation our power 
 
 is absolute. Thus, thus, we sway — \playing her faii\. 
 A fan is both the standard and the flag of England. I 
 laugh to see the men go on our errands ; strut in great 
 offices; live in cares, hazards, and scandals; to come home 
 and be fools to us in brags of their dispatches, negotia- 
 tions, and their wisdom — as my good, dear deceased used 
 to entertain me; which I, to relieve myself from, would 
 
 lisp some silly request, pat him on the face He 
 
 shakes his head at my pretty folly, calls me simpleton, 
 gives me a jewel, then goes to bed so wise, so satisfied, 
 and so deceived ! 
 
 Tat. But I protest, madam, I've always wondered how 
 you could accomplish my young lord's being disinherited. 
 
 Wid. Why, Tatty, you must know my late lord — how 
 prettily that sounds, my late lord ! But I say, my late 
 Lord Frible was generosity — I pressed him there, and
 
 20 THE FUNERAL : [act i. 
 
 whenever you, by my order, had told him stories to my 
 son-in-law's disadvantage, in his rage and resentment I 
 (whose interest lay otherwise) always fell on my knees to 
 implore his pardon, and with tears, sighs, and importuni- 
 ties for him, prevailed against him ; besides this, you 
 know, I had, when I pleased, fits — fits are a mighty help 
 in the government of a good-natured man ; but in an ill- 
 natured fellow have a care of 'em — he'll hate you for 
 natural infirmities, will remember your face in its distor- 
 tion, and not value your return of beauty. 
 
 Tat O rare madam ! your ladyship's a great head- 
 piece ; but now, dear madam, is the hard task, if I 
 may take the liberty to say it — to enjoy all freedoms, 
 and seem to abstain, to manage the number of pretenders, 
 and keep the disobliged from prating 
 
 JVtti. Never fear, Tattleaid ; while you have riches, 
 if you affront one to abuse, you can give hopes to 
 another to defend you. These maxims I have been 
 laying up all my husband's life-time, for we must provide 
 against calamities. 
 
 Taf. But now, madam, a fine young gentleman with a 
 red coat, that dances 
 
 JVid. You may be sure the happy man (if it 
 be in fate that there is an happy man to make me an 
 unhappy woman) shall not be an old one again. Age 
 and youth married, is the cruelty in Dryden's Virgil, 
 where Mezentius ties the dead and living together. 
 I'm sure I was tied to a dead man many a long 
 
 day before I durst bury him But the day is now my 
 
 own. Yet now I think on't, Tattleaid, be sure to 
 keep an obstinate shyness to all our old acquaintance. 
 Let 'em talk of favours if they please ; if we grant 'em, 
 still they'll grow tyrants to us ; if we discard 'em, the 
 chaste and innocent will not believe we could have 
 confidence to do it, were it so ; and the wise, if they 
 believe it, will applaud our prudence.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 21 
 
 Tat. Ay, madam — I believe, madam — I speak, 
 madam, but my humble sense — Mr. Cabinet would 
 marry you. 
 
 Wid. Marry me ! No, Tattleaid. He that is so 
 mean as to marry a woman after an affair with her, 
 will be so base as to upbraid that very weakness. He 
 that marries his wench will use her like his wench. — 
 Such a pair must sure live in a secret mutual scorn of 
 each other ; and wedlock is hell if at least one side 
 does not love, as it would be Heaven if both did ; and 
 I believe it so much Heaven, as to think it was never 
 enjoyed in this world. 
 
 Enter a Woman. 
 
 Worn, A gentleman to Mrs. Tattleaid 
 
 \_Exit Tattleaid. 
 
 Wid. Go to him. — Bless me, how careless and open 
 have I been to this subtle creature in the case of Cabinet ; 
 
 she's certainly in his interests We people of condition 
 
 are never guarded enough against those about us. They 
 watch when our minds boil over with joy or grief, to 
 come in upon us. How miserable it is to have one one 
 hates always about one, and when one can't endure one's 
 own reflection upon some actions, who can bear the 
 thoughts of another upon 'em ? But she has me by deep, 
 deep secrets. — The Italians, they say, can readily remove 
 
 the too much intrusted Oh ! their pretty scented 
 
 gloves ! This wench I know has played me false and 
 horned me in my gallants. O Italy, I could resign all 
 my female English liberty to thee, for thy much dearer 
 female pleasure, revenge ! 
 
 Etiter Tattleaid. 
 
 Well, what's the matter, dear Tatty ? 
 
 Tat. The matter, madam ? why, madam, Counsellor 
 Puzzle is come to wait on your ladyship about the will.
 
 22 THE FUNERAL : [act i. 
 
 and the conveyance of the estate. There must, it seems, 
 be no time lost for fear of things. Fie, fie, madam, you 
 a widow these three hours and not looked on a parch- 
 ment yet Oh, impious, to neglect the will of the 
 
 dead ! 
 
 Wid. As you say, indeed, there is no will of an hus- 
 band's so willingly obeyed as his last. But I must go in 
 and receive him in my formalities, leaning on a couch, as 
 necessary a posture as his going behind his desk when he 
 
 speaks to a client But do you bring him in hither till 
 
 I am ready. \Exit. 
 
 Tat. Mr. Counsellor, Mr. Counsellor {Calling. 
 
 Enter Puzzle and Clerk. 
 
 Piiz. 'Servant, good madam Tattleaid ; my ancient 
 friend is gone, but business must be minded 
 
 Tat. I told my lady twice or thrice, as she lies in 
 dumb grief on the couch within, that you were here, but 
 she regarded me not ; however, since you say 'tis of such 
 moment, I'll venture to introduce you. Please but to 
 repose here a little while I step in ; for methinks I would 
 a little prepare her. 
 
 Fuz. Alas ! alas ! Poor lady ! [Exit Tattleaid. 
 
 Damned hypocrites ! Well, this noble's death is a little 
 sudden. Therefore, pray, let me recollect. Open the 
 bag, good Tom. Now, Tom, thou art my nephew, my 
 dear sister Kate's only son and my heir, therefore I will 
 conceal from thee on no occasion anything, for I would 
 enter thee into business as soon as possible. Know 
 then, child, that the lord of this house was one of your 
 men of honour and sense who lose the latter in the 
 former, and are apt to take all men to be like themselves. 
 Now this gentleman entirely trusted me, and I made 
 the only use a man of business can of a trust — I cheated 
 him. For I, imperceptibly, before his face, made his 
 whole estate liable to an hundred per annum for myself,
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 23 
 
 for good services, &c. As for legacies, they are good or 
 not as I please ; for, let me tell you, a man must take 
 pen, ink, and paper, sit down by an old fellow, and pre- 
 tend to take directions ; but a true lawyer never makes 
 any man's will but his own ; and as the priest of old 
 among us got near the dying man and gave all to the 
 churcla, so now the lawyer gives all to the law. 
 
 Clerk. Ay, sir ; but priests then cheated the nation by 
 doing their offices in an unknown language. 
 
 Puz. True ; but ours is a way much surer, for we 
 cheat in no language at all, but loll in our own coaches, 
 
 eloquent in gibberish, and learned in juggle Pull out 
 
 the parchment ; there's the deed, I made it as long as I 
 could. Well, I hope to see the day when the indenture 
 shall be the exact measure of the land that passes by it ; 
 for 'tis a discouragement to the gown that every ignorant 
 rogue of an heir should, in a word or two, understand his 
 father's meaning, and hold ten acres of land by half-an- 
 acre of parchment. Nay, I hope to see the time when 
 that there is, indeed, some progress made in, shall be 
 wholly effected, and by the improvement of the noble 
 art of tautology every inn in Holborn an inn of court. 
 Let others think of logic, rhetoric and I know not what 
 impertinence, but mind thou tautology. What's the first 
 excellence in a lawyer ? Tautology. What the second ? 
 Tautology. What the third? Tautology — as an old 
 pleader said of action. But turn to the deed epulis out 
 an immeasurable parchment], for the will is of no force if 
 I please, for he was not capable of making one after the 
 former — as I managed it ; upon which account I now 
 wait upon my lady. By the way, do you know the true 
 meaning of the word, a deed ? 
 
 Clerk. Ay, sir ; a deed is as if a man should say the 
 deed. 
 
 Fuz. Right. 'Tis emphatically so-called because after 
 it all deeds and actions are of no eftect, and you have
 
 24 THE FUNERAL: [act 1. 
 
 nothing to do but hang yourself, the only obliging thing 
 
 you can then do But I was telling you the use of 
 
 tautology. Read toward the middle of that instrument. 
 
 Clerk [reads]. " I, the said Earl of Brumpton, do 
 give, bestow, grant, and bequeath, over and above the 
 said premises, all the site and capital messuage called by 
 the name of Oatham, and all out-houses, barns, stables, 
 and other edifices and buildings, yards, orchards, gardens, 
 fields, arbours, trees, lands, earths, meadows, greens, 
 pastures, feedings, woods, underwoods, ways, waters, 
 watercourses, fishings, ponds, pools, commons, common 
 of pasture, paths, heath-thickets, profits, commodities 
 and emoluments, with their and every of their appur- 
 tenances [Puzzle nods and sneers as the synonimous words 
 are repeating, whom Lord B. scornfully mimics'] whatso- 
 ever, to the said capital messuage and site belonging, or 
 in any wise appertaining, or with the same heretofore 
 used, occupied or enjoyed, accepted, executed, known, or 
 taken as part, parcel, or member of the same ; containing 
 in the whole, by estimation, four hundred acres of the 
 large measure, or thereabouts, be the same more or less ; 
 all and singular, which the said site, capital messuage, and 
 other the premises, with their and every of their 
 appurtenances are situate, lying, and being " 
 
 Fiiz. Hold, hold, good Tom ; you do come on indeed 
 in business, but don't use your nose enough in reading. 
 \Reads in a ridiculous law-tone until out of breath.] ^Vhy, 
 you're quite out — You read to be understood. Let me 
 see it. — " I, the said Earl." — Now again, suppose this 
 were to be in Latin. \_Runs into Latin terminations.] 
 Making Latin is only making it no English — " Ego 
 predict — Comes de Brumpton — tolas meas barnos — out- 
 housas et stabulas — yardos " — But there needs no further 
 perusal — I now recollect the whole. My lord, by this 
 instrument, disinherits his son utterly, gives all to my 
 lady, and moreover, grants the wards of two fortune-
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 25 
 
 wards to her — id est, to be sold by her, which is the 
 subject of my business to her ladyship, who, methinks, a 
 Httle overdoes the affair of grief, in letting me wait thus 
 long on such welcome articles. But here 
 
 Enter Tattleaid, wiping her eyes. 
 
 Tat. 1 have in vain done all I can to make her regard 
 me. Pray, Mr. Puzzle — you're a man of sense — come 
 in yourself, and speak reason, to bring her to some 
 consideration of herself, if possible. 
 
 Puz. Tom, I'll come down to the hall to you; dear 
 madam, lead on. 
 
 \^Ex. Clerk one way, Puzzle and Tattleaid another. 
 Lord Brumpton aJid Trusty advance from their con- 
 cealment, after a long pause, and staring at each other. 
 Ld. B. Trusty, on thy sincerity, on thy fidelity to me, 
 thy friend, thy patron, and thy master, answer me directly 
 to one question : am I really alive ? Am I that identi- 
 cal, that numerical, that very same Lord Brumpton, 
 
 that 
 
 Tru. That very lord — that very Lord Brumpton, the 
 very generous, honest, and good Lord Brumpton, who 
 spent his strong and riper years with honour and repu- 
 tation ; but in his age of decay declined from virtue also. 
 That very Lord Brumpton, who buried a fine lady who 
 brought him a fine son, who is a fine gentleman ; but in 
 his age, that very man, unreasonably captivated with youth 
 and beauty, married a very fine young lady, who has dis- 
 honoured his bed, disinherited his brave son, and dances 
 o'er his grave. 
 
 Ld. B. Oh ! that damned tautologist, too — that 
 Puzzle and his irrevocable deed ! \_Pausing?\ Well, I 
 know I do not really live, but wander o'er the place 
 where once I liad a treasure. I'll haunt lier. Trusty, gaze 
 in that false beauteous face, till she trembles — till she 
 looks pale — nay, till she blushes
 
 26 
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 [ACT I. 
 
 Tru. Ay, ay, my lord, you speak a ghost very much ; 
 there's flesh and blood in that expression, that false 
 beauteous face ! 
 
 Ld. B. Then since you see my weakness, be a friend, 
 and arm me with all your care and all your reason 
 
 Tru. If you'll condescend to let me direct you — you 
 shall cut off this rotten limb, your false disloyal wife, and 
 save your noble parts, your son, your family, your 
 honour. 
 
 Short is the date in which ill acts prevail, 
 But honesty's a rock can never fail.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. — Lord Hardy's Lodgings. 
 Enter Lord Hardy. 
 
 '¥^^^^^ D. H. Now, indeed, I am utterly un- 
 tfe-l f-L^is^/h done; but to expect an evil softens 
 
 
 the weight of it when it happens, and 
 pain no more than pleasure is in 
 reality so great as in expectation. 
 But what will become of me ? How 
 shall I keep myself even above 
 worldly want ? Shall I live at home a stiff, melancholy, 
 poor man of quality, grow uneasy to my acquaintance as 
 well as myself, by fancying I'm slighted where I am not; 
 with all the thousand particularities which attend those 
 whom low fortune and high spirit make malcontents? 
 No ! We've a brave prince on the throne, whose com- 
 mission I bear, and a glorious -war in an honest cause 
 approaching [clapping his hand on his szcord] , in which 
 this shall cut bread for me, and may perhaps equal tliat 
 estate to which my birth entitled me. But what to do 
 in present pressures — Ha ! Trim. [Calling. 
 
 Elder Trim. 
 
 Trim. My lord.
 
 28 THE FUNERAL; [act li. 
 
 Ld. H. How do the poor rogues that are to recruit 
 my Company ? 
 
 Trim. Do, sir ! They've ate you to your last guinea. 
 
 Ld. H. Were you at the agent's ? 
 
 Trim. Yes. 
 
 Ld.H. Well? And how? 
 
 Trim. Why, sir, for your arrears, you may have eleven 
 shillings in the pound ; but he'll not touch your growing 
 subsistence under three shillings in the pound interest ; 
 besides which you must let his clerk, Jonathan Item, 
 swear the peace against you to keep you from duelling — 
 or insure your life, which you may do for eight per cent. 
 On these terms he'll oblige you, which he would not do 
 for anybody else in the regiment ; but he has a friendship 
 for you. 
 
 Ld. H, Oh, I'm his humble servant ; but he must have 
 his own terms. We can't starve, nor must my fellows 
 want. But rnethinks this is a calm midnight, I've heard 
 no duns to day 
 
 Trim. Duns, my lord ? Why now your father's dead, 
 and they can't arrest you. I shall grow a little less upon 
 the smooth with 'em than I have been. Why, friend, 
 says I; how often must I tell you my lord is not stirring : 
 His lordship has not slept well, you must come some 
 other time ; your lordship will send for him when you are 
 at leisure to look upon money-affairs ; or if they are so 
 saucy, so impertinent as to press to a man of your quality 
 for their own — there are canes, there's Bridewell, there's 
 the stocks for your ordinary tradesmen. But to an 
 haughty, thriving Covent Garden mercer, silk or lace- 
 man, your lordship gives your most humble service to 
 him, hopes his wife's well. You have letters to write, or 
 you'd see him yourself, but you desire he would be with 
 you punctually such a day, that is to say the day after 
 you are gone out of town. 
 
 Ld. H. Go, sirrah, you're scurrilous \ I won't believe
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 29 
 
 there are such men of quality. D'ye hear, give my 
 service this afternoon to Mr. Cutpurse, the agent, and 
 tell him Tm obliged to him for his readiness to serve me, 
 for I'm resolved to pay my debts forthwith 
 
 \A voice without. I don't know whether he is within 
 or not. Mr. Trim, is my lord within ?] 
 
 Ld. H. Trim, see who it is. I ain't within, you 
 know. \jE,xit Trim. 
 
 Trim. [ Wit /tout.'] Yes, sir, my lord's above ; pray 
 Avalk up 
 
 Ld. H. Who can it be ? he owns me, too. 
 
 Enter Campley and Trim. 
 
 Dear Tom Campley, this is kind ! You are an extra- 
 ordinary man indeed, who in the sudden accession of a 
 noble fortune can be still yourself, and visit your less 
 happy friends. 
 
 Cam. No ; you are, my lord, the extraordinary man, 
 who, on the loss of an almost princely fortune, can be 
 master of a temper that makes you the envy, rather 
 than pity, of your more fortunate, not more happy 
 friends. 
 
 Ld. H. O, sir, your servant — but let me gaze on 
 thee a little, I han't seen thee since I came home into 
 England — most exactly, negligently, genteelly dressed ! 
 I know there's more than ordinary in this [beating Cam- 
 pley's breast]. Come, confess, who shares with me 
 here? I must have her real and poetical name. Come ; 
 she's in sonnet, Cynthia ; in prose, mistress. 
 
 Cam. One you little dream of, though she is in a 
 manner of your placing there. 
 
 Ld. H. My placing there ? 
 
 Cam. Why, my lord, all the fine things you've said to 
 me in the camp of my Lady Sharlot, your father's ward, 
 ran in my head so very much, that I made it my business
 
 30 7 HE FUNERAL; [act ii. 
 
 to become acquainted in that family, which I did by 
 Mr. Cabinet's means, and am now in love in the same 
 place with your lordship. 
 
 Ld. H. How? in love in the same place with me, Mr. 
 Campley ? 
 
 Cam. Ay, my lord, with t'other sister — with t'other 
 sister. 
 
 Ld. H. What a dunce was I, not to know which, with- 
 out your naming her ! Why, thou art the only man 
 breathing fit to deal with her. But my Lady Sharlot, 
 there's a woman — so easily virtuous ! So agreeably 
 severe ! Her motion so unaffected, yet so composed ! 
 Her lips breathe nothing but truth, good sense, and 
 flowing wit. 
 
 Cam. Lady Harriot ! there's the woman ; such life, 
 such spirit, such warmth in her eyes ; such a lively com- 
 manding air in her glances ; so spritely a mien, that 
 carries in it the triumph of conscious beauty ; her lips 
 are made of gum and balm. There's something in that 
 dear girl that fires my blood above — above — above 
 
 Ld. H. Above what ? 
 
 Cam. A grenadier's march. 
 
 Ld. H. A soft simile, I must confess ! but oh that 
 Sharlot ! to recline this aching head, full of care, on that 
 tender, snowy — faithful bosom ! 
 
 Cam. O that Harriot ! to embrace that beaute- 
 ous ' 
 
 Ld. H. Ay, Tom ; but methinks your head runs too 
 much on the wedding night only, to make your happi- 
 ness lasting ; mine is fixed on the married state. I 
 expect my felicity from Lady Sharlot, in her friendship, 
 her constancy, her piety, her household cares, her 
 
 1 In the first edition this speech reads, " Oh that Harriot ! To 
 fold these arms about the waist of that beauteous struggling — and 
 at last yielding fair!" In the Spectator (No. 51), Steele con- 
 demned the passage as an ofltnce to delicacy and modesty.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 31 
 
 maternal tenderness. You think not of any excellence 
 of your mistress that is more than skin-deep 
 
 Cam. When I know her further than skin-deep I'll 
 tell you more of my mind. 
 
 Ld. H. O fie, Tom, how can you talk so lightly of 
 a woman you love with honour. — But tell me, I wonder 
 how you make your approaches in besieging such a sort 
 of creature — she that loves addresses, gallantry, fiddles ; 
 that reigns and delights in a crowd of admirers. If I 
 know her, she is one of those you may easily have a 
 general acquaintance with, but hard to make particular. 
 
 Cam. You understand her very well. You must 
 know I put her out of all her play by carrying it in a 
 humourous manner. I took care in all my actions, 
 before I discovered the lover, that she should in general 
 have a good opinion of me ; and have ever since behaved 
 myself with all the good humour and ease I was able ; 
 so that she is now extremely at a loss how to throw me 
 from the familiarity of an acquaintance into the distance 
 of a lover ; but I laugh her out of it. When she begins 
 to frown and look grave at my mirth, I mimic her till 
 she bursts out a-laughing. 
 
 Ld. H. That's ridiculous enough. 
 
 Cam. By Cabinet's interest over my Lady Brumpton, 
 with gold and flattery to Mrs. Fardingale, an old maid 
 her ladyship has placed about the young ladies, I have 
 easy access at all times, and am this very day to be 
 admitted by her into their apartment. I have found, 
 you must know, that she is my relation. 
 
 Ld. H. Her ladyship has chose an odd companion 
 for young ladies. 
 
 Cam. Oh, my lady's a politician. She told Tattleaid 
 one day, that an old maid was the best guard for young 
 ones, for they, like eunuchs in a seraglio, are vigilant out 
 of envy of enjoyments they cannot themselves arrive at. 
 But, as I was saying, I've sent my cousin Fardingale a
 
 32 THE FUNERAL; [act ii. 
 
 song, which she and I are to practise to the spinet. The 
 , young ladies will be by ; and I am to be left alone with 
 Lady Harriot ; then I design to make my grand attack, 
 and to-day win or lose her. I know, sir, this is an 
 opportunity you want. If you'll meet me at Tom's, ^ have 
 a letter ready, I'll myself deliver it to your mistress, con- 
 duct you into the house, and tell her you are there — and 
 tind means to place you together. You must march 
 under my command to-day, as I have many a one under 
 yours. 
 
 Ld. H. But 'faith, Tom, I shall not behave myself 
 with half the resolution you have under mine, for to con- 
 fess my weakness, though I know she loves me, though 
 I know she is as steadfastly mine as her heart can make 
 her ; I know not how, I have so sublime an idea of her 
 high value, and such a melting tenderness dissolves my 
 whole frame when I am near her, that my tongue falters, 
 my nerves shake, and my heart so alternately sinks 
 and rises, that my premeditated resolves vanish into con- 
 fusion, down-cast eyes, and broken utterance 
 
 Cam. Ha ! ha ! ha ! this in a campaigner too ! Why, 
 my lord, that's the condition Harriot would have me in, 
 and then she thinks she could have me; but I, that 
 know her better than she does herself, know she'd insult 
 me, and lead me a two years' dance longer, and perhaps 
 in the end turn me into the herd of the many neglected 
 men of better sense, who have been ridiculous for her 
 sake. But I shall make her no such sacrifice. 'Tis well 
 my Lady Sharlot's a woman of so solid an understanding ; 
 I don't know another that would not use you ill for your 
 high value. 
 
 Ld. H. But, Tom, I must see your song you've sent 
 your cousin Fardingale, as you call her. 
 
 Cam. This is lucky enough [Aside]. No; hang it, my 
 
 Tom's Coffee House, 17, Great Russell Street, Covent Garden, 
 on the north side, over against Button's. See Guardian, No. 71.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 33 
 
 lord, a man makes so silly a figure when his verses are 
 reading. Trim — thou hast not left off thy loving and 
 thy rhyming ; Trim's a critic, I remember him a servitor 
 at Oxon \_Gives a paper to Trim]. I give myself into his 
 hands, because you shan't see 'em till I'm gone. My 
 lord, your servant, you shan't stir. 
 
 Ld. H. Nor you neither then. \Struggling?^ 
 
 Cam. You will be obeyed. 
 
 {Exeunt. Lord Hardy waits on him down. ' 
 
 Trim. What's in this song? Ha ! don't my eyes deceive 
 me — a bill of three hundred pounds 
 
 "Mr. Cash, 
 
 " Pray pay to Mr. William Trim, or bearer, the sum of 
 three hundred pounds, and place it to the account of, 
 
 "Sir, 
 " Your humble servant, 
 
 " Thomas Campley." 
 
 {Pulling off his hat and bowing?^ Your very humble 
 servant, good Mr. Campley. Ay, this is poetry — this is 
 a song indeed ! Faith, I'll set it, and sing it myself. 
 Pray pay to Mr. William Trim — so far in recitativo — 
 three hundred \singing ridiculously\ — hun — dred — hun- 
 dred — hundred thrice repeated, because 'tis three hundred 
 pounds — I love repetitions in music, when there's a 
 good reason for it, — po — unds after the Italian manner. 
 If they'd bring me such sensible words as these, I'd out- 
 strip all your composers for the music prize. This was 
 honestly done of Mr. Campley, though I have carried 
 him many a purse from my master when he was ensign 
 to our Company in Flanders 
 
 Enter Lord Hardy. 
 My lord, I am your lordship's humble servant. 
 j Ld. H. Sir, your humble servant. But pray, my good 
 
 i Steele. D 
 
 \
 
 34 THE FUNERA L : [ACT II. 
 
 familiar friend, how come you to be so very much my 
 humble servant all of a sudden ? 
 
 Trim. I beg pardon, dear sir, my lord, I am not your 
 humble servant. 
 
 Ld. H. No ! 
 
 Trhn. Yes, my lord, I am, but not as you mean ; but 
 I am — I am, my lord — in short, I'm overjoyed. 
 
 Ld. H. Overjoyed ! thou'rt distracted, what ails the 
 fellow? Where's Campley's song? 
 
 Trim. Oh ! my lord, one would not think 'twas in 
 him. Mr. Campley's really a very great poet ; as for the 
 song, 'tis only as they all end in rhyme : Ow — woe^ 
 isses — kisses — boy — ^joy. But, my lord, the other in long 
 heroic blank verse. 
 
 \Reading it with a great tone. 
 
 Pray pay to Mr. William Trim, or order, the sum of — 
 How sweetly it runs ! Pactolian guineas chink every 
 line. 
 
 Ld. LI. How very handsomely this was done in 
 Campley ! I wondered, indeed, he was so willing to 
 show his verses. In how careless a manner that fellow 
 does the greatest actions ! 
 
 Trim. My lord, pray my lord, shan't I go immediately 
 to Cutpurse's? 
 
 Ld. LL. No, sirrah, now we have no occasion for it. 
 
 Trim. No, my lord, only to stare him full in the face 
 after I have received this money, not say a word, but 
 keep my hat on, and walk out. Or perhaps not hear, if 
 any I meet with speak to me, but grow stiff, deaf, and 
 shortsighted to all my old acquaintance, like a sudden 
 rich man as I am. Or, perhaps, my lord, desire Cutpurse's 
 clerk to let me leave fifty pounds at their house, payable 
 to Mr. William Trim, or order, till I come that way, or, 
 a month or two hence, may have occasion for it : I 
 don't know what bills may be drawn upon me. Then 
 when the clerk begins to stare at me, till he pulls the
 
 SCENE 11.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 35 
 
 great goose-quill from behind his ear \PuUs a handfull of 
 farthings oiit\ I fall a-reckoning the pieces as I do these 
 farthings. 
 
 Ld. H. Well, sirrah, you may have your humour, but 
 be sure you take four score pounds, and pay my debts 
 immediately. If you meet any officer you ever see me 
 in company with, that looks grave at Cutpurse's house, 
 tell him I'd speak with him : We must help our friends. 
 But learn moderation, you rogue, in your good fortune ; 
 be at home all the evening after, while I wait at Tom's 
 to meet Campley, in order to see Lady Sharlot. 
 
 My good or ill in her alone is found. 
 
 And in that thought all other cares are drowned. 
 
 \Excuiit. 
 
 SCENE II.— Lord Brumpton's House. 
 
 Enter Sable, Lord Brumpton ami Trusty. 
 
 Sab. Why, my lord, you can't in conscience put me 
 off so. I must do according to my orders, cut you up, and 
 embalm you, except you'll come down a little deeper 
 than you talk of ; you don't consider the charges I have 
 been at already. 
 
 Ld. B. Charges ! for what ? 
 
 Sab. First, twenty guineas to my lady's woman for notice 
 of your death (a fee I've, before now, known the widow 
 herself go halves in), but no matter for that. In the next 
 place, ten pounds for watching you all your long fit of 
 sickness last winter. 
 
 Ld. B. Watching me ? Why I had none but my own 
 servants by turns.
 
 36 THE FUNERAL . [act ii. 
 
 Sab. I mean attending to give notice of your death. I 
 had all your long fit of sickness last winter, at half-a- 
 crown a day, a fellow waiting at your gate to bring me 
 intelligence, but you unfortunately recovered, and I lost 
 my obliging pains for your service. 
 
 Ld. B. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Sable, thou art a very impudent 
 fellow ; half-a-crown a day to attend my decease, and dost 
 thou reckon it to me ? 
 
 Sab. Look you, gentlemen, don't stand staring at me. 
 I have a book at home which I call my Doomsday book, 
 where I have every man of quality's age and distemper 
 in town, and know when you should drop. Nay, my 
 lord, if you had reflected upon your mortality half so 
 much as poor I have for you, you would not desire to 
 return to life thus ; in short, I cannot keep this a secret, 
 under the whole money I am to have for burying you. 
 
 Ld. B. Trusty, if you think it safe in you to obey my 
 orders after the deed Puzzle told his clerk of, pay it to 
 him. 
 
 Tru. I should be glad to give it out of my own 
 pocket, rather than be without the satisfaction of seeing 
 you witness to it. 
 
 Ld. B. I heartily believe thee, dear Trusty. 
 
 Sab. Then, my lord, the secret of your being alive, is 
 now safe with me. 
 
 Tru. I'll warrant I'll be revenged of this unconscionable 
 dog [Aside] — My lord, you must to your closet, I fear 
 somebody's coming. 
 
 \_Exeunt Sable one zvay, Ld. B. ajid Trusty a/ioi/icr.'\ 
 
 •^X^Yl'
 
 SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 7,7 
 
 SCENE III.— Lord Brumpton's House. 
 
 Lady Sharlot discovered reading at a table ; Lady 
 Harriot J>layifio at a glass to and fro, and vieioing her- 
 self. 
 
 L. Ha. Nay, good sage sister, you may as well talk 
 to me S^Lookiug at herself as she speaks\ , as sit staring at 
 a book, which I know you can't attend. Good Dr. Lucas^ 
 may have writ there what he pleases, but there's no put- 
 ting Francis Lord Hardy, now Earl of Brumpton, out of 
 your head, or making him absent from your eyes ; do but 
 look at me now, and deny it if you can. 
 
 Z. S/i. You are the maddest girl {Smiling, 
 
 L. Ha. Look ye, I knew you could not say it and 
 forbear laughing [Looking over Sharlot]. Oh, I see his 
 name as plain as you do — F — r — a — n Fran, c — i — s cis, 
 Francis, 'tis in every line of the book. 
 
 Z. Sh. \Risi?ig\ 'Tis in vain, I see, to mind anything 
 in such impertinent company, but granting 'twere as you 
 say as to my Lord Hardy, 'tis more excusable to admire 
 another than one's self. 
 
 L. Ha. No, I think not ; yes, I grant you than really 
 to be vain at one's person, but I don't admire myself. 
 Pish ! I don't believe my eyes have that softness \_Looking 
 in the glass\ they ain't so piercing. No, 'tis only stuft^the 
 men will be talking. Some people are such admirers of 
 teeth. Lord, what signifies teeth ? \Showing her teeth.'] 
 A very black-a-moor has as white teeth as I. No, sister, 
 I don't admire myself, but I've a spirit of contradiction 
 in me ; I don't know I'm in love myself, only to rival the 
 men. 
 
 1 Richard Lucas, D.D. (1648 — 1715), wrote, among other things, 
 The Enquiry after Happiness, and Practical Christianity. Tlic 
 latter, pubhshed in 1700, was afterwards referred to in the Guardian, 
 No. 63, and there are quotations from both works in Steele's 
 Ladies' Library, 1 7 1 4.
 
 38 THE FUNERAL : [act ll. 
 
 L. Sh. Ay, but Mr. Campley will gain ground even of 
 that rival of his, your dear self. 
 
 L. Ha. Oh ! what have I done to you, that you should 
 name that insolent intruder, a confident opinionative fop. 
 No indeed, if I am, as a poetical lover of mine sighed 
 and sung of both sexes — 
 
 The public envy, and the public care, 
 
 I shan't be so easily catched — I thank him — I want but 
 to be sure I should heartily torment him, by banishing 
 him, and then consider whether he should depart this 
 life, or not. 
 
 L. Sh. Indeed, sister, to be serious with you, this 
 vanity in your humour does not at all become you ! 
 
 La. H. Vanity ! All the matter is we gay people are 
 more sincere than you wise folks : All your life's an art. 
 Speak your soul — look you there — [Hailing her to the glass] 
 are not you struck with a secret pleasure, when you view 
 that bloom in your looks, that harmony in your shape, 
 that promptitude of your mien ? 
 
 Z. Sh. Well, simpleton, if I am at first so silly, as to 
 be a little taken with myself, I know it a fault, and take 
 pains to correct it. 
 
 Z. Ha. Pshaw ! pshaw ! talk this musty tale to old 
 Mrs. Fardingale, 'tis too soon for me to think at that 
 rate. 
 
 Z. Sh. They that think it too soon to understand 
 themselves, will very soon find it too late. But tell me 
 honestly, don't you like Campley ? 
 
 Z. Ha. The fellow is not to be abhorred, if the forward 
 thing did not think of getting me so easily. Oh ! I hate 
 a heart I can't break when I please. What makes the 
 value of dear china, but that 'tis so brittle ? Were it not 
 for that, you might as well have stone mugs in your 
 closet. 
 
 Z. Sh. Hist, hist, here's Fardingale.
 
 SCENE in.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 39 
 
 Knte7- Fardingale. 
 
 Far. Lady Harriot, Lady Sharlot ! I'll entertain you 
 now, I've a new song just come hot out of the poet's 
 brain. Lady Sharlot, my cousin Campley writ it, and 'tis 
 set to a pretty air, I warrant you. 
 
 L. Ha. 'Tis like to be pretty indeed, of his writing. 
 
 \Fliugs away. 
 
 Far. Come, come, this is not one of your tringham 
 trangham witty things, that your poor poets write ; no, 
 'tis well known my cousin Campley has two thousand 
 pounds a year. But this is all dissimulation in you. 
 
 L. Sh. 'Tis so, indeed, for your cousin's song is very 
 pretty, Mrs. Fardingale. 
 
 \Reads:\ 
 Let not love on me bestow 
 Soft distress and tender woe ; 
 I know none but substantial blisses, 
 Eager glances, solid kisses ; 
 I know not what the lovers feign, 
 Of finer pleasure mixed with pain 
 Then prithee give me, gentle boy. 
 None of thy grief, but all thy joy.' 
 
 But Harriot thinks that a little unreasonable, to expect 
 one without enduring t'other. 
 
 F,iiter Servant. 
 
 Ser. There's your cousin Camjjley to wait on you with- 
 out. 
 
 Far. Let him come in, we shall have the song now. 
 
 Enter Campley. 
 Cam. Ladies, your most obedient servant ; your ser- 
 vant. Lady Sharlot — servant Lady Harriot — [Harriot 
 
 ' Daniel Purccll composed music for these verses.
 
 40 THE FUNERAL: [act ll. 
 
 looks grave ttpon him] What's the matter, dear Lady 
 Harriot, not well? I protest to you I'm mightily con- 
 cerned [Pulls out a boitle\. This is a most excellent 
 spirit, snuff it up, madam. 
 
 L. Ha. Pish — the familiar coxcomb frets me heartily. 
 
 Cam. 'Twill over, I hope, immediately. 
 
 L. Sh. Your cousin Fardingdale has shown us some of 
 your poetry ; there's the spinet, Mr. Campley, I know 
 you're musical. 
 
 Cam. She should not have called it my poetry. 
 
 Far. No — who waits there — pray bring my lute out of 
 the next room. 
 
 Enter Servant with a Lute. 
 
 You must know I conned this song before I came in, and 
 find it will go to an excellent air of old Mr. Lawes's, who 
 was my mother's intimate acquaintance ; my mother's, 
 what do I talk of? I mean my grandmother's. Oh, here's 
 the lute ; cousin Campley, hold the song upon your hat. 
 — \Aside to him\ 'Tis a pretty gallantry to a relation. 
 
 \Sings and Squalls.] 
 Let not love, &c. 
 
 Oh ! I have left off these things many a day. 
 
 Cam. No ; I profess, madam, you do it admirably, 
 but are not assured enough. Take it higher \in her oivn 
 squall]. Thus — I know your voice will bear it. 
 
 L. Ha. O hideous ! O the gross flatterer — I shall 
 burst. Mrs. Fardingale, pray go on, the music fits the 
 words most aptly. Take it higher, as your cousin advises. 
 
 Far. Oh ! dear madam, do you really like it ? I do it 
 purely to please you, for I can't sing, alas ! 
 
 L. Sh. We know it, good madam, we know it. But 
 pray 
 
 1 Henry Lawes, the friend of Milton, and his associate in the 
 production of Comics, died in 1662.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 41 
 
 Far. " Let not love," and " substantial blisses," is lively 
 enough, and ran accordingly in the tune. \Curtsies to 
 the company \ Now I took it higher. 
 
 L. Ha. Incomparably done ! Nothing can equal it, 
 except your cousin sang his own poetry. 
 
 Cam. Madam, from my Lord Hardy. \Delivers a 
 letter to Lady Sharlot.] — How do you say, my Lady 
 Harriot, except I sing it myself? Then I assure you I 
 will 
 
 Z. Sh. I han't patience. I must go read my letter. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Cam. \Sings\ Let not love, &c. 
 
 Far. Bless me, what's become of Lady Sharlot ? \Exit. 
 
 L. Ha. Mrs. Fardingale, Mrs. Fardingale, what, must 
 we lose you ? \Going after her. 
 
 Campley runs to the door, takes the key out, and locks 
 her in. 
 What means this insolence ? a plot upon me — Do you 
 know who I am ? 
 
 Cam. Yes, madam, you're my Lady Sharlot Lovely, 
 with ten thousand pounds in your pocket ; and I am 
 Mr. Campley, with two thousand a year, of quality 
 enough to pretend to you. And I do design, before I 
 leave this room, to hear you talk like a reasonable 
 woman, as nature has made you. Nay, 'tis in vain to 
 flounce, and discompose yourself and your dress. 
 
 L. Ha. If there are swords, if they are men of honour, 
 and not all dastards, cowards that pretend to this injured 
 person \Running round the room. 
 
 Cam. Ay, ay, madam, let 'em come. That's putting 
 me in my way, fighting's my trade ; but you've used all 
 mankind too ill to expect so much service. In short, 
 madam, were you a fool I should not desire to expostu- 
 late with you. [Seizing her hand.'] But 
 
 L. Ha. Unhand me, ravish er. [Fulls her hand from 
 him, chases round the room, Campley after her.
 
 42 THE FUNERAL: [ACT li. 
 
 Cam. But madam, madam, madam, why madam ! 
 
 Prithee Cynthia look behind you, \Sings, 
 
 Age and wrinkles will o'ertake you. 
 
 L. Ha. Age, wrinkles, small-pox, nay, anything that's 
 most abhorrent to youth and bloom, were welcome in 
 the place of so detested a creature. 
 
 Cam. No such matter. Lady Harriot. I would not be 
 a vain coxcomb, but I know I am not detestable, nay, 
 know where you've said as much before you understood 
 me for your servant. Was I immediately transformed 
 because I became your lover ? 
 
 L. Ha. My lover, sir ! did I ever give you reason to 
 think I admitted you as such ? 
 
 Cam. Yes, you did in your using me ill ; for if you 
 did not assume upon the score of my pretending to you, 
 how do you answer to yourself some parts of your be- 
 haviour to me as a gentleman ? 'Tis trivial, all this, in 
 you, and derogates from the good sense I know you 
 mistress of. Do but consider, madam, I have long loved 
 you, bore with your fantastic humour through all its 
 mazes. Nay, do not frown, for 'tis no better. I say I 
 have bore with this humour, but would you have me 
 with an unmanly servitude feed it ? No, I love you 
 with too sincere, too honest a devotion, and would 
 have your mind as faultless as your person, which 
 'twould be, if you'd lay aside this vanity of being pur- 
 sued with sighs, with flatteries, with nonsense \She 
 walks about less violently, but more confused?^ — Oh ! my 
 heart aches at the disturbance which I give her, but she 
 must not see it. [Aside.] — Had I not better tell you of it 
 now, than when your are in my power ? I should be then 
 too generous to thwart your inclination. 
 
 Z. Ha. That is indeed very handsomely said. Why 
 should I not obey reason as soon as I see it ? [Aside.] —
 
 SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 43 
 
 Since so, Mr. Campley, I can as ingenuously as I should 
 then, acknowledge that I have been in an error. 
 
 [Looking down on her fan. 
 
 Cam. Nay, that's too great a condescension. Oh ! 
 excellence ! I repent ! I see 'twas but justice in you 
 to demand my knees [k/ieeling\, my sighs, my constant, 
 tenderest regard and service. And you shall have 'em, 
 since you are above 'em. 
 
 Z. Ila. Nay, Mr. Campley, you won't recall me to a 
 fault you have so lately shown me. I will not suffer 
 this — no more ecstasies ! But pray, sir, what was't you 
 did to get my sister out of the room ? 
 
 Cafn. You may know it, and I must desire you to 
 assist my Lord Hardy there, who writ to her by me ; for 
 he is no ravisher, as you called me just now. He is 
 now in the house, and I would fain gain an interview. 
 
 L. Ha. That they may have, but they'll make little 
 use of it ; for the tongue is the instrument of speech to 
 us of a lower form : They are of that high order of 
 lovers, who know none but eloquent silence, and can 
 utter themselves only by a gesture that speaks their 
 passion inexpressible, and what not fine things. 
 
 Cam. But pray let's go into your sister's closet while 
 they are together. 
 
 Z. Ha. I swear I don't know how to see my sister — 
 she'll laugh me to death to see me out of my pantofles,'and 
 you and I thus familiar. However, I know she'll approve it. 
 
 Cam. You may boast yourself an heroine to her, and 
 tlie first woman that was ever vanquished by hearing 
 truth, and had sincerity enough to receive so rough an 
 obligation as being made acquainted with her faults. 
 Come, madam, stand your ground bravely, we'll march 
 in to her thus. \Shc leaning on Campley. 
 
 L. Ha. Who'll believe a woman's anger more ? I've 
 betrayed the whole sex to you, Mr. Campley. [Jixeunt, 
 ' Slippeis.
 
 44 THE FUNERAL: [act II. 
 
 Re-enter Lord Hardy and Campley. 
 
 Cam. My lord, her sister, who now is mine, will im- 
 mediately send her hither. But be yourself : Charge 
 her bravely. I wish she were a cannon, an eighteen- 
 pounder, for your sake. Then I know, were there occa- 
 sion, you'd be in the mouth of her. 
 
 Ld. H. I long, yet fear to see her. I know I am 
 unable to utter myself. 
 
 Cam. Come, retire here till she appears. 
 
 \They go back to the door. 
 
 Etiter Lady Sharlot. 
 
 Z. S/i. Now is the tender moment now approaching. 
 [Aside.] There he is. [T//ey approach and salute each 
 other trembling?^ Your lordship will please to sit. \Aftcr 
 a very long pause, stolen glances, and irresolute gesture^ 
 Your lordship, I think, has travelled those parts of Italy 
 where the armies are. 
 
 Ld. H. Yes, madam. 
 
 L. Sh. I think I have letters from you, dated Mantua. 
 
 Ld. H. I hope you have, madam, and that their pur- 
 pose 
 
 L. Sh. My lord ? \Looking serious and confused. 
 
 Ld. Li. Was not your ladyship going to say some- 
 thing ? 
 
 L. Sh. I only attended to what your lordship was 
 going to say — That is, my lord — But you were, I 
 believe, going to say something of that garden of the 
 world, Italy. I am very sorry your misfortunes in Eng- 
 land are such as make you justly regret your leaving that 
 place. 
 
 Ld. LL. There is a person in England may make those 
 losses insensible to me. 
 
 L. Sh. Indeed, my lord, there have so very few of 
 quality attended his Majesty in the war, that your birth 
 and merit may well hope for his favour.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 45 
 
 Ld. H. I have, indeed, all the zeal in the world for 
 his Majesty's service, and most grateful affection for his 
 l^erson, but did not then mean him. 
 
 Z. Sh. But can you indeed impartially say that our 
 island is really preferable to the rest of the world, or is 
 it an arrogance only in us to think so ? 
 
 Ld. H. I profess, madam, that little I have seen has 
 but more endeared England to me ; for that medley 
 of humours which perhaps distracts our public affairs, 
 does, methinks, improve our private lives, and makes 
 conversation more various, and consequently more 
 pleasing. Everywhere else both men and things have 
 the same countenance. In France you meet much 
 civility and little friendship ; in Holland, deep attention, 
 but little reflection ; in Italy, all pleasure, but no mirth. 
 But here with us, where you have everywhere pretenders 
 or masters in everything, you can't fall into company 
 wherein you shall not be instructed or diverted. 
 
 L. Sh. I never had an account of anything from you, 
 my lord, but I mourned the loss of my brother ; you 
 would have been so happy a companion for him, with 
 that right sense of yours. My lord, you need not bow 
 so obsequiously, for I do you but justice. But you sent 
 me word of your seeing a lady in Italy very like me. 
 Did you visit her often ? 
 
 Ld. H. Once or twice, but I observed her so loose a 
 creature, that I could have killed her for having your 
 person. 
 
 L. Sh. I thank you, sir ; but Heaven that preserves 
 me unlike her, will, I hope, make her more like me. 
 But your fellow traveller — his relations themselves 
 know not a just account of him. 
 
 Ld. LL. The original cause of his fever was a violent 
 passion for a fine young woman he had not power to 
 speak to, but I told her his regard for her as passionately 
 as possible.
 
 40 THE FUNERAL : [act ll. 
 
 L. Sh. You were to him what Mr. Campley has been 
 to you — Whither am I running? — Poor, your friend — 
 poor gentleman 
 
 Ld. H. I hope then as Campley's eloquence is greater, 
 so has been his success. 
 
 Z. Sh. My lord ? 
 
 Ld. H. Your ladyship's 
 
 E)itcr Lady Harriot. 
 
 Z. Ha. Undone ! Undone ! Tattleaid has found, by 
 some means or other, that Campley brought my Lord 
 Hardy hither ; we are utterly ruined, my lady's coming. 
 
 Ld. H, I'll stay and confront her. 
 
 Z. Sh. It must not be ; we are too much in her 
 power. 
 
 Enter Campley. 
 
 Cam. Come, come, my lord, we're routed horse and 
 foot. Down the back stairs, and so out. 
 
 Ladies. Ay, ay, \Exeunt. 
 
 L. Ha. I tremble every joint of me. 
 
 L. Sh. I'm at a stand a little, but rage will recover 
 me ; she's coming in. 
 
 Enter Widow. 
 
 Wid. Ladies, your servant. I fear I interrupt you ; 
 have you company ? Lady Harriot, your servant ; 
 Lady Sharlot, your servant. What, not a word ? Oh, 
 I beg your ladyship's pardon. Lady Sharlot, did I 
 say ? My young Lady Brumpton, I wish you joy. 
 
 Z. Sh. Oh, your servant, Lady Dowager Brumpton. 
 That's an appellation of much more joy to you. 
 
 Wid. So smart, madam ! but you should, methinks, 
 have made one acquainted — Yet, madam, your conduct 
 is seen through. 
 
 Z. Sh. My conduct. Lady Brumpton !
 
 SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 47 
 
 Wid. Your conduct, Lady Sharlot ! 
 
 [ Coming up to each other. 
 
 L. Sh. Madam, 'tis you are seen through all your thin 
 disguises. 
 
 Wid. I seen ? By whom ? 
 
 h. Sh. By an all-piercing eye, nay, by what you much 
 more fear, the eye of the world. The world sees you, 
 or shall see you. It shall know your secret intem- 
 perance, your public fasting — Loose poems in your 
 closet, an homily on your toilet — Your easy, skilful, 
 practised hypocrisy, by which you wrought upon your 
 husband, basely to transfer the trust and ward of us, 
 two helpless virgins, into the hands and care of — I 
 cannot name it. You're a wicked woman. 
 
 L. Ha. [Aside.] O rare sister ! 'Tis a fine thing to 
 keep one's anger in stock by one. We that are angry 
 and pleased every half-hour have nothing at all of all 
 this high-flown fury ! Why, she rages like a princess in 
 a tragedy ! Blessings on her tongue. 
 
 JVid. Is this the effect of your morning lectures, your 
 self-examination, all this fury ? 
 
 Z. Sh. Yes it is, madam ; if I take pains to govern 
 my passions, it shall not give licence to others to 
 govern them for me. 
 
 JVid. Well, Lady Sharlot, however you ill deserve it 
 of me, I shall take care, while there are locks and 
 bars, to keep you from Lord Hardy — from being a 
 leager lady, from carrying a knapsack. 
 
 Z. Sh. Knapsack ! Do you upbraid the poverty 
 your own wicked arts have brought him to ? Knap- 
 sack ! O grant me patience ! Can I hear this of the 
 man I love ? Knapsack ! I have not words. 
 
 [Stumps about the room. 
 
 Wid. I leave you to cool upon it; love and anger are 
 very warm passions. [Exit. 
 
 L. Ha. She has locked us in.
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 [act II. 
 
 L. SJi. Knapsack? Well, I will break walls to go to 
 him. I could sit down and cry my eyes out ! Dear 
 sister, what a rage have I been in ? Knapsack ! I'll 
 give vent to my just resentment. Oh, how shall I avoid 
 this base woman ; how meet that excellent man ! What 
 an helpless condition are you and I in now ! If we run 
 into the world, that youth and innocence which should 
 demand assistance does but attract invaders. Will 
 Providence guard us ? How do I see that our sex is 
 naturally indigent of protection ! I hope 'tis in fate to 
 crown our loves ; for 'tis only in the protection of men 
 of honour that we are naturally truly safe — 
 
 And woman's happiness, for all her scorn. 
 Is only by that side whence she was born.
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. — Lord Hardy's Lodgmgs. 
 
 Enter Lord Hardy, Campley, and Trim. 
 
 D. H. That jade Tattleaid saw me 
 upon the stairs, for I had not pati- 
 ence to keep my conceahiient, but 
 must peep out to see what was become 
 of you. 
 
 Cam. But we have advice, however, 
 it seems, from the garrison already — 
 tills mistress of Trim's is a mighty lucky accident. 
 
 Trim. Ay, gentlemen, she has free egress and regress, 
 and you know the French are the best-bred people in 
 the world — she'll be assistant. But, 'faith, I have one 
 scruple that hangs about me; and that is, look you, my 
 lord, we servants have no masters in their absence. In 
 a word, when I am with mademoiselle I talk of your 
 lordship as only a particular acquaintance ; that I do 
 business indeed for you sometimes. I must needs say, 
 cries I, that indeed my Lord Hardy is really a person 
 I have a great honour for. 
 
 Ld. H. Pish ! is that all ? I understand you ; your 
 mistress does not know that you do me the honour to 
 clean my shoes or so, upon occasion. Pr'ythee, Will, 
 make yourself as considerable as you please. 
 
 Steele. E
 
 5© THE FUNERAL .• [act ill. 
 
 Trirn^ Well, then, your lesson is this. She, out of 
 respect to me, and understanding Mr. Catnpley was an 
 intimate of ray friend, my Lord Hardy, and condescend- 
 ing (though she is of a great house in France) to make 
 manteaus for the improvement of the English — which 
 gives her easy admittance — she, I say, moved by these 
 promises,^ has vouchsafed to bring a letter from my 
 Lady Harriot to Mr. Campley, and came to me to bring 
 her to him. You are to understand also that she is dressed 
 in the latest French cut ; her dress is the model of their 
 habit, and herself of their manners. For she is — but you 
 shall see her. \Exit. 
 
 Ld. H. This gives me some life ! Cheer up, Tom — 
 but behold the solemnity. Do you see Trim's gallantry ? 
 I shall laugh out. 
 
 Enter Trim leading in Mademoiselle. 
 
 Trim. My dear Lord Hardy, this is Mademoiselle 
 d'Kpingle, whose name you've often heard me sigh. 
 [Lord Hardy salutes /ler.] Mr. Campley — -Made- 
 moiselle d'Epingle. [Campley salutes /ler.] 
 
 Mad. Votre servanle, gentlemen, votre servante. 
 
 Cam. I jirotest to you I never saw anything so be- 
 coming as your dress. Shall I beg the favour you'd 
 condescend to let Mr. Trim lead you once round the 
 room, that I may admire the elegance of your habit ? 
 
 [Trim leads her round. 
 
 Ld. H. How could you ask such a thing? 
 
 Cam. Pshaw, my lord, you are a bashful English 
 fellow. You see she is not surprised at it, but thinks me 
 gallant in desiring it. Oh, madam ! your air ! the 
 negligence, the disengagement of your manner ! Oh how 
 delicate is your noble nation ! I swear there's none but 
 
 1 Gildoii suggests that this should be " premises " ; but the 
 word was not altered in later editions of the play.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 51 
 
 the clumsy Dutch and Enghsh would oppose such polite 
 conquerors. When shall you see an Englishwoman so 
 dressed ? 
 
 Mad. De Englise ! poor barbarians ; poor savages ; 
 dey know no more of de dress but to cover dere naked- 
 ness \Glides along the room\. Dey be cloded, but no 
 dressed — But, Monsieur Terim, which Monsieur 
 Campley ? 
 
 Trim. That's honest Tom Campley. 
 
 Cam. At your service, mademoiselle. 
 
 Mad. I fear I incur de censure \PidUng out tht Idler, 
 and recollecting as loth to deliver if\, but Mr. Terim 
 being your intimate friend, and I designing to honour 
 him in de way of an husband — so — so— how do I run 
 away in discourse — I never make promise to Mr. Terim 
 before, and now to do it par accident 
 
 Cam. Dear Will Trim is extremely obliging in having 
 prevailed upon you to do a thing that the severity of 
 your virtue, and the greatness of your quality (though a 
 stranger in the country you now honour by your 
 dwelling in it) would not let you otherwise condescend 
 to 
 
 Mad. Oh, monsieur! oh, monsieur! you speak my 
 very thoughts. Oh I I don't know how, pardon me, to 
 give a billet — it so look I O fie ! I can no stay after 
 it. Drops it, runs affectedly to the other end of the 7-ooin, 
 then quite out ; re-enters?^ I beg ten toiisand pardons for 
 go away to mal-propos. S^Curtsies as going. 
 
 Ld. II. Your servant, good madam. Mr. Trim, you 
 know you command here. Pray, if Madam d'Epingle 
 will honour our cottage with longer stay, wait on her in 
 and entertain her. Pray, sir, be free. 
 
 Trim. My lord, you know your power over me ; I'm 
 ail complaisance. \Leads her out. 
 
 Cam. Now to my dear epistle —
 
 52 THE FUNERAL : [act ill. 
 
 " Sir, 
 " There is one thing which you were too generous to 
 touch upon in our last conversation. We have reason to 
 fear the Widow's practices in relation to our fortunes, if 
 you are not too quick for her. I ask Lady Sharlot 
 whether this is not her sense to Lord Hardy. She says 
 nothing, but lets me write on. These people always 
 have, and will have, admittance everywhere, therefore we 
 may hear from you. 
 
 " I am, sir, 
 
 "Your most obedient servant, 
 
 " Harriot Lovely." 
 
 My obedient servant ! Thy obedience shall ever be as 
 voluntary as now — ten thousand thousand kisses on thee, 
 thou dear paper. Look you, my lord, what a pretty 
 hand it is ? 
 
 Zd. H. Why, Tom, thou dost not give me leave to see 
 it. You snatch it to your mouth so, you'll stifle the 
 poor lady. 
 
 Cam. Look you, my lord, all along the lines here 
 went the pen; and through them white intervals her 
 snowy fingers. Do you see, this is her name ? 
 
 Ld. H. Nay, there's Lady Sharlot's name, too, in the 
 midst of the letter. Why, you'll not be so uncon- 
 scionable -y you're so greedy, you'll give me one kiss 
 sure? 
 
 Cam. Well, you shall ; but you're so eager. Don't 
 bite me, for you shan't have it in your own hands. 
 'J'here, there, there : Let go my hand. 
 
 Ld. H. What an exquisite pleasure there is in this 
 foolery — but what shall we do ? 
 
 Cam. I have a thought ; pry'thee, my lord, call 
 Trim. 
 
 Ld. H. Ha, Trim
 
 SCENE II.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 53 
 
 Cam. Hold, Mr. Trim. You forget his mistress is 
 there. 
 
 Ld. H. Cra'mercy ! Dear Will Trim, step in hither. 
 Cam. Ay, that's something 
 
 Etiier Trim. 
 
 Trim, have not I seen a young woman sometimes cany 
 Madam d'Epingle's trinkets for her, coming from my 
 Lady Brumpton's ? 
 
 Tritn. Yes, you might have seen such a one ; she 
 waits for her now. 
 
 Cam. Do you think you could not prevail for me to be 
 dressed in that wench's clothes, and attend your mistress 
 in her stead thither? They'll not dream we should so 
 soon attempt again 
 
 Trim. Yes, I'll engage it. 
 
 Cam. Then we'll trust the rest to our good genius. I'll 
 
 about it instantly — Harriot Lovely 
 
 \Exit^ kissing the letter. 
 
 SCENE IL— Lady BrumI'TOn's Room. 
 
 Efiter Widow and Tattleaid. 
 
 WuL This was well done of you ; be sure you take care 
 of their young ladyships ; you shall, I promise you, have 
 a snip in the sale of 'em. 
 
 Tat. I thank your good ladyship. 
 
 Wid. Is that the porter's paper of how d'ye's ? 
 
 Tat. Yes, madam, he just sent it up. His general 
 answer is, that you're as well as can be expected in your 
 condition, but that you see nobody. 
 
 Wid. That's right. [^Reading names.] Lady Riggle,
 
 54 THE FUNERAL : [act hi. 
 
 Lady Formal — Oh ! that Riggle, a pert ogler, an indis- 
 creet silly thing, who is really known by no man, yet for 
 her carriage, justly thought common to all ; and as 
 Formal has only the appearance of virtue, so she has only 
 the appearance of vice. What chance, I wonder, put 
 these contradictions to each other into the same coach, as 
 you say they called ? Mrs. Frances and Mrs. Winifred 
 Glebe — who are they? 
 
 Taf. They are the country great fortunes have been 
 out of town this whole year ; they are those whom your 
 ladyship said upon being very well born took upon 'em 
 to be very ill bred. 
 
 l^-'ld. Did I say so ? really I think 'twas apt enough, 
 now I remember 'em. Lady Wrinkle — oh, that smug 
 old woman ! There's no enduring her affectation of 
 youth, but I plague her ; I always ask whether her 
 daughter in Wiltshire has a grandchild } et or not. Lady 
 Worthy — I can't bear her company, she has so much of 
 that virtue in her heart which I have in my mouth only. 
 [Aside.] Mrs. After-Day— oh that's she that was the 
 great beauty, the mighty toast about town — that's just 
 come out of the small-pox; she's horribly pitted they 
 say ; I long to see her and plague her with my condo- 
 lence. 'Tisa pure ill-natured satisfaction to see one that 
 was a beauty unfortunately move with the same languor 
 and softness of behaviour that once was charming in her 
 — to see, I say, her mortify that used to kill — ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! The rest are a catalogue of mere names or titles 
 they were born to, an insipid crowd of neither good nor 
 bad ; but you are sure these other ladies suspect not in 
 the least that I know of their coming? 
 
 Taf. No, dear madam, they are to ask for me. 
 
 JVid. I hear a coach. [£xif Tat.] I've now an 
 exquisite pleasure in the thought of surpassing my Lady 
 Sly, who pretends to have out-grieved the whole town for 
 her husband. They are certainly coming. — Oh no ! here,
 
 SCENE II.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 55 
 
 let me — thus let me sit and think. [Widow on her couch ; 
 while she is ravitig as to herself, Tattleaid softly brings 
 in the ladies.^ Wretched, disconsolate as I am ! Oh 
 welcome, welcome, dear killing anguish ! Oh, that I could 
 lie down and die in my present heaviness — but what — 
 how? Nay, my dear, dear lord, why do you look so 
 pale, so ghastly at me ? Wottoo, wottoo, fright thy own 
 trembling, shivering wife 
 
 Tat. Nay, good madam, be comforted. 
 
 ]Vid. Thou shalt not have me. \Pushes Tat. 
 
 Tat. Nay, good madam, 'tis I, 'tis I, your ladyship's 
 own woman — 'tis I, madam, that dre=.s you, and talk to 
 you, and tell you all that's done in the house every day ; 
 'tis I 
 
 Wid. Is it, then, possible ? Is it, then, possible that I 
 am left? Speak to me not — hold me not. I'll break the 
 listening walls with my complaints. \_Looks surprised at 
 seeing cotnpany, then severely at Tattleaid.] Ah ! 
 Tattleaid 
 
 ist La. Nay, madam, be not angry at her, we would 
 come in in spite of her. We are your friends and are as 
 concerned as you 
 
 Wid. Ah ! madam, madam, madam, madam, I am 
 
 an undone woman. Oh me ! Alas ! Alas ! Oh ! Oh ! 
 
 [All Join in her notes.'\ I swoon — I expire. [Faints. 
 
 2nd La. Pray, Mrs. Tattleaid, bring something that is 
 
 cordial to her. [Exit Tattleaid. 
 
 T^rd La. Indeed, madam, you should have patience. 
 His lordship was old. To die is but going before in a 
 journey we must all take. 
 
 Enter Tattleaid loaded with bottles. 3/7/ Lady takes a 
 bottle from her and drinks. 
 
 i,th La. Lord, how my Lady Fleer drinks ; I've heard, 
 indeed, but never could believe it of her. [Drinks also.
 
 56 THE FUNERAL: [act iii. 
 
 \st La. But, madam,' don't you hear what the town 
 says of the jilt Flirt the men liked so much in the Park ? 
 Hark ye — was seen with him in an Hackney-coach — and 
 
 silk stockings— key-hole — his wig — on the chair 
 
 [ Whispers by interruptions. 
 
 2nd La. Impudent Flirt, to be found out ! 
 
 ■x,rd La. But I speak it only to you 
 
 Afth La. Nor I but to one more 
 
 [ Whispers next woman. 
 
 ^th La. I can't believe it ; nay, I always thought it, 
 madam [ Whispers the Widow. 
 
 Wid. Sure, 'tis impossible ! the demure, prim thing ! 
 Sure all the world's hypocrisy. Well, I thank my stars, 
 whatsoever sufferings I have, I've none in reputation. I 
 wonder at the men ; I could never think her handsome. 
 She has really a good shape and complexion, but no 
 mien ; and no woman has the use of her beauty without 
 mien ! Her charms are dumb, they want utterance. But 
 whither does distraction lead me — to talk of charms? 
 
 1st La. Charms? A chit's, a girl's charms. Come, 
 let us widows be true to ourselves, keep our countenances 
 and our characters, and a fig for the maids — I mean for 
 the unmarried. 
 
 2nd La. Ay, since they will set up for our knowledge, 
 why should not we for their ignorance ? 
 
 ■i^rd La. But, madam, on Sunday morning at church I 
 curtsied to you, and looked at a great fuss in a glaring 
 light dress next pew. That strong masculine thing is a 
 knight's wife, pretends to all the tenderness in the world, 
 and would fain put the unwieldy upon us for the soft, the 
 languid ! She has of a sudden left her dairy, and sets up 
 for a fine town-lady, calls her maid Sisly her woman, 
 speaks to her by her surname, Mrs. Cherryfist, and her 
 
 1 It is interesting to compare the ensuing dialogue with similar 
 scenes in Sheridan's School for Scandal.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 57 
 
 great foot-boy of nineteen, big enough for a trooper, is 
 striped into a lace coat, now Mr. Page forsooth. 
 
 ifih La. Oh ! I have seen her. Well, I heartily pity 
 some people for their wealth, they might have been un- 
 known else ! You'd die, madam, to see her and her 
 equipage. I thought the honest fat tits, her horses, were 
 ashamed of their finery ; they dragged on as if they were 
 still at the plough, and a great bashful-looked booby 
 behind grasped the coach as if he held one. 
 
 ^th La. Alas ! some people think there's nothing but 
 being fine to be genteel ; but the higli prance of the horses, 
 and the brisk insolence of the servants in an equipage 
 of quality, are inimitable, but to our own beasts and 
 servants. 
 
 \st La. Now you talk of equipage, I envy this lady the 
 beauty she'll appear in in a mourning coach, 'twill so 
 become her complexion ; I confess I myself mourned two 
 years for no other reason. Take up that hood there ; 
 Oh ! that fair face with a veil. \They take up her hoods. 
 
 Wid. Fie, fie, ladies. But I've been told, indeed, 
 black does become — 
 
 Z7id La. Well, I'll take the liberty to speak it, there's 
 young Nutbrain has long had (I'll be sworn) a passion 
 for this lady; but I'll tell you one thing I fear she'll dis- 
 like, that is, he's younger than she is. 
 
 2,rd La. No, that's no exception; but I'll tell you one, 
 he's younger than his brother. 
 
 Wid. Ladies, talk not of such affairs. Who could love 
 such an unhappy relict as I am ? But, dear madam, what 
 grounds have you for that idle story ? 
 
 4//^ La. Why he toasts you, and trembles when you're 
 spoke of; it must be a match. 
 
 Wid. Nay, nay ; you rally, you rally ; but I know you 
 mean it kindly. 
 
 ist La. I swear we do. 
 
 [Tattleaid whispers the Widow.
 
 58 THE FUNERAL: [act ill. 
 
 Wid. But I must beseech you, ladies, since you have 
 been so compassionate as to visit and accompany my 
 sorrow, to give me the only comfort I can now know, to 
 see my friends cheerful, and to honour an entertainment 
 Tattleaid has prepared within for you. If I can find 
 strength enough I'll attend you ; but I wish you'd excuse 
 me, for I've no relish of food or joy, but will try to get a 
 bit down in my own chamber. 
 
 All. No, no, you must go with us. 
 
 \st La. There's no pleasure without you. 
 
 Wid. But, madam, I must beg of your ladyship not to 
 be so importune to my fresh calamity, as to mention 
 Nutbrain any more ; I'm sure there's nothing in it. In 
 love with me, quoth a'. \Is helped o^. Exeu/it. 
 
 Enter Mademoiselle, a/id Campley /;/ womens' clothes 
 carrying her things. 
 
 Mad. I very glad us be in de ladies' antichamber ; I 
 was shamed of you. You, you, such an impudent 
 look ; besides, me wonder you were not seized by the 
 constable, when you pushed de man into de kennel. 
 
 Cavi. Why, should I have let him kissed me ? 
 
 Mad. No ; but if you had hit him wit fan, and say, 
 why sure saucy-box, it been enough ; beside, what you 
 hitted de gentleman for offer kiss me ? 
 
 Cam. I beg pardon, I did not know you were pleased 
 with it. 
 
 Mad. Please, no, but me rader be kiss den you, 
 Mr. Terim's friend, be found out. Could not you say 
 when he kiss me, sure saucy-box dat's meat for your 
 master ? Besides, you take such strides when you walk — 
 walk — O fie \ dese littil pette tiny bits a woman steps. 
 
 \Shoiiing her step. 
 
 Cam. But prithee, mademoiselle, why have you lost 
 your English tongue all of a sudden ? Methought when 
 the fellow called us French whores, as we came along,
 
 SCENE IT.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 59 
 
 and said we came to starve their own people, you gave 
 him pretty plain English ; he was a dog, a rascal, you'd 
 send him to the stocks. 
 
 Mad. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I was in a passion and betrayed 
 myself, but you're my lover's friend, and a man of honour, 
 therefore know you'll do nothing to injure us. Why, 
 Mr. Campley, you must know I can speak as good English 
 as you, but I don't for fear of losing my customers. The 
 English will never give a price for anything they under- 
 stand. Nay, I've known some of your fools pretend to 
 buy with good breeding, and give any rate rather than 
 not be thought to have French enough to know what 
 they were doing; strange and far-fetched things they only 
 like. Don't you see how they swallow gallons of the 
 juice of tea, while their own dock-leaves are trod under 
 foot ? But mum ; my Lady Harriot. 
 
 Enter Lady Harriot. 
 
 Madam, votre servante, servante 
 
 L. Ha. Well, mademoiselle, did you deliver my let- 
 ter? 
 
 Mad. Oui. 
 
 L. Ha. Well, and how — is that it in your hand ? 
 
 Mad. Oui. 
 
 L. Ha. Well then, why don't you give it me ? 
 
 Mad. O fie ! lady, dat be so right Englise, de Englise 
 mind only de words of de lovers, ])ut de words of de 
 lovers are often lie, but de action no lie. 
 
 L. Ha. What does the thing mean ? Give me my 
 letter. 
 
 Mad. Me did not deliver your letter. 
 
 L. Ha. No ? 
 
 Mad. No, me tell you, me did drop it, to see Mr, 
 Campley how cavalier to take it up. As dese me drop 
 it so monsieur run take it up. 
 
 \They both run to take it up, Mad. takes it.
 
 6o THE FUNERAL: [act iii. 
 
 L. Ha. Will you give me my letter or not ? 
 
 Mad. Oui. But dus he do. Dere de letter — very 
 well, very well. O I'amour ! You act de manner Mr. 
 Campley — take it up better den I, do' you no see it. 
 
 \They both run., Harriot gets it. 
 
 L. Ha. \^Reads.\ 
 
 " Madam, 
 " I am glad you mentioned what indeed I did not at 
 that time think of, nor if I had, should I have known 
 how to have spoken of. But bless me more than fortune 
 can, by turning those fair eyes upon, madam, 
 " Your most faithful, 
 
 " Most obedient humble servant, 
 
 " Tho. Campley." 
 
 What does he mean ? " But bless me more — by turning" — 
 Oh, 'tis he himself [Looking about obserz'es Cam. sniih\ 
 Oh, the hoyden, the romp, I did not think anything could 
 add to your native confidence, but you look so very bold 
 in that dress, and your arms will fall off, and your petti- 
 coats how they hang ! 
 
 Cam. Mademoiselle, voulez vous de Salville I'eau 
 d'Hongrie, chez Monsieur Marchand de Montpetier — Dis 
 for your teet \_Showing Ins trinkets], de essence, a little 
 book French for teach de elder broders make compli- 
 ments. AVill you, I say, have anything that I have, will 
 you have all I have, madam ? 
 
 L. Ha. Yes, and for humour's sake, will never part 
 with this box, while I live, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Cam. But, Lady Harriot, we must not stand laugh- 
 ing ; as you observe in your letter, delays are dangerous 
 in this wicked woman's custody of you ; therefore I must, 
 madam, beseech you, and pray stay not on niceties, but 
 be advised. 
 
 L. Ha, Mr. Campley, I have no will but yours. 
 
 Cam. Thou dear creature, but [Kisses her hand] harkee
 
 SCENE II.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 6i 
 
 then, you must change dresses with mademoiselle, and 
 go with me instantly. 
 
 L. Ha. What you please. 
 
 Cam. Madam d'Epingle, I must desire you to comply 
 with a humour of gallantry of ours — you may be sure I'll 
 have an eye over the treatment you have upon my 
 account — only to change habits with Lady Harriot, and 
 let her go while you stay. 
 
 Mad. Wit all my heart.' \Offers to undress herselj. 
 
 L. Ha. What, before Mr, Campley? 
 
 Mad. Oh, oh — very Anglaise ! dat is so Englise, all 
 women of quality in France are dress and undress by a 
 valet de chambre; de man chamber-maid help complexion 
 better den de woman. \Apart to L. Harriot. 
 
 L. Ha. Nay, that's a secret in dress, mademoiselle, I 
 never knew before, and am so unpolished an English 
 woman as to resolve never to learn even to dress before 
 my husband. Oh ! Indecency ! Mr. Campley, do you 
 hear what mademoiselle says ? 
 
 AFad. Oh! Hist— bagatelle. 
 
 L. Ha. Well, we'll run in and be ready in an instant, 
 \Exeunt L. Harriot aiid Mademoisellk, 
 
 Cai)i. Well, I like her every minute better and better. 
 What a delicate chastity she has ! There's something so 
 gross in the carriage of some wives (though they're honest 
 too) that they lose their husbands' hearts for faults which, 
 if they had either good nature or good breeding, they 
 know not how to tell 'em of. But how happy am I in 
 such a friend as Hardy, such a mistress as Harriot! 
 
 Continue Heaven, a grateful heart to bless 
 With laith in friendship, and in love success. 
 
 ' Budgell refers to this scene- in a paper in the Spectator (No/ 
 506), on happiness in the mairicd state.
 
 assn£ga^^:l£i^'g^:^^k!ak^lfe>^'i^Aii^^iiji«:,4£''i^^ 
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I.— Lord Brumpton's House. 
 
 Enter Widow and Trusty. 
 
 ID. Mr. Trusty, you have, I do 
 assure you, the same place and 
 ]:)Ower in the management of my 
 Lord Brumpton's estate, as in 
 his life-time. (I am reduced to a 
 necessity of trusting him) [jj-/V/(^.] 
 However Tattleaid dissembles 
 the matter, she must be privy to Lady Harriot's escape, 
 and Fardingale's as deep with 'em both, and I fear will 
 be their ruin, which 'tis my care and duty to prevent. 
 Be vigilant, and you shall be rewarded. I shall employ 
 you wholly in Lady Sharlot's affairs, she is able to pay 
 services done for her. You've sense, and understand 
 me. \Exit Widow. 
 
 Till. Yes, I do indeed understand you, and could wish 
 another could with as much detestation as I do, but my 
 poor old lord is so strangely, so bewitchedly enamoured 
 of her, that even after this discovery of her wickedness, 
 I see he could be reconciled to her, and though he is 
 ashamed to confess to me, I know he longs to speak with 
 her. If I tell Lord Hardy all to make his fortune, he
 
 SCENE II.] THE FUNERAL. 63 
 
 would not let his father be dishonoured by a pubhc way 
 of separation. If things are acted privately, I know she'll 
 throw us all ; there's no middle-way, I must expose her 
 to make a reunion impracticable. Alas, how is honest 
 truth banished the world, when we must watch the seasons 
 and soft avenues to men's hearts, to gain it entrance even 
 for their own good and interest ! \Exit. 
 
 SCENE II.— Lord Hardy's Lodgings. 
 
 E7it£r Lord Hardy, Campley, and'\-Kii.\. 
 
 Ld. H. 1 forget my own misfortunes, dear Campley, 
 when I reflect on your success. 
 
 Cam. I assure you, it moderates the swell of joy that 
 I am in, to think of your difficulties, I hope my felicity 
 is previous to yours ; my Lady Harriot gives her service 
 to you, and we both think it but decent to suspend our 
 mairiage 'till your and Lady Sharlot's affairs are in the 
 same posture. 
 
 Ld. H. Where is my lady ? 
 
 Cajn. She's at my aunt's, my lord. But, my lord, if 
 you don't interpose, I don't know how I shall adjust 
 matters with Mr. Trim for leaving his mistress behind 
 me : I fear he'll demand satisfaction of me. 
 
 Trim. No, sir, alas, I can know no satisfaction while 
 she is in jeopardy. Therefore would rather be put in a 
 way to recover her by storming the castle, or other feat 
 of arms, like a true enamoured swain as I am. 
 
 Cam. Since we arc all three then expecting lovers, my 
 lord, prithee let's have that song of yours which suits out' 
 common j)uri)0se. 
 
 Ld. LI. Call in the boy.
 
 64 THE FUNERAL: [act IV. 
 
 Boy sings} 
 I. 
 Ye minutes bring the happy hour, 
 And Chloe blushing to the bower ; 
 Then shall all idle flames be o'er, 
 Nor eyes or heart e'er wander more ; 
 Both, Chloe, fixed for e'er on thee, 
 For thou art all thy sex to me. 
 
 11. 
 
 A guilty is a false embrace, 
 Corinna's love's a fairy-chace ; 
 Begone, thou meteor, fleeting fire. 
 And all that can't survive desire. 
 Chloe my reason moves and awe, 
 And Cupid shot me when he saw. 
 
 Trim. Look you, gentlemen, since as you are pleased 
 to say we're all lovers, and consequently poets, pray do me 
 the honour to hear a little air of mine. You must know 
 then, I once had the misfortune to fall in love below my- 
 self, but things went hard with us at that time, so that 
 my passion, or as I may poetically speak, my fire was in 
 the kitchen ; 'twas towards a cook-maid, but before I ever 
 saw Mrs. Deborah. 
 
 Ld. H. Come on then. Trim, let's have it. 
 
 Trim. I must run into next room for a lute. \Exit. 
 
 Cam. This must be diverting ! can the rogue play ? 
 
 Rc-ciiter Trim, ivith a pair of Tongs. 
 
 Trim. Dear Cynderaxa herself very well understood 
 this instrument, I therefore always sung this song to it, as 
 thus — 
 
 I. 
 
 Cynderaxa kind and good, 
 
 Has all my heart and stomach too \ 
 
 1 Daniel Purcell composed music for this song.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 65 
 
 She makes me love, not hate, my food, 
 As other peevish wenches do. 
 
 II. 
 
 When Venus leaves her Vulcan's cell, 
 
 Which all but I a coal-hole call ; 
 Fly, fly, ye that above stairs dwell, 
 
 Her face is washed, ye vanish all. 
 
 III. 
 And as she's fair, she can impart 
 
 That beauty, to make all things fine ; 
 Brightens the floor with wondrous art, 
 
 And at her touch the dishes shine. 
 
 Ld. H. I protest, Will, thou art a poet indeed. "And 
 at her touch the dishes shine " — and you touch your 
 lute as finely. 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Boy. There's one Mr. Trusty below would speak with 
 my lord. 
 
 Ld. H. Mr. Trusty ? My father's steward ? What 
 can he have to say to me ? 
 
 Cam. He's very honest, to my knowledge. 
 
 Ld. LL. I remember, indeed, when I was turned out of 
 the house he followed me to the gate and wept over me, 
 for which I've heard he'd like to have lost his'place. But, 
 however, I must advise with you a little about my be- 
 haviour to him; let's in. Boy, bring him up hither, tell 
 him I'll wait on him presently. \_Exit ]5oy. 
 
 I shall want you, I believe, here. Trim. S^Iixcnitt. 
 
 Ke-aiter B(W and Trusty. 
 
 Boy. My lord will wait on you here immediately. 
 
 \^Exit Boy. 
 
 IVu. 'Tis very well, these lodgings arc but homely for 
 
 the Earl of Brampton. Oh, that damned strumpet — that 
 
 Steele. F
 
 66 THE FUNERAL: [act I v. 
 
 I should ever know my master's wife for such ! — How many 
 thousand things does my head run back to ? After my 
 poor father's death the good lord took me, because he 
 was a captain in his regiment, and gave me education. 
 I was, I think, three-and-twenty when this young lord 
 within was christened ; what a do there was about calling 
 him Francis! [JFipcs /lis cycsl] These are but poor 
 lodgings for him. I cannot bear the joy, to think that I 
 shall save the family from which I've had my bread. 
 Enter Trim. 
 
 Irini. Sir, my lord will wait you immediately. 
 
 Trii. Sir, 'tis my duty to wait him — ]^As Trim is going] 
 but, sir, are not you the young man that attended him at 
 Christchurch, in Oxford, and have follou-ed him ever 
 since ? 
 
 Tri??i. Yes, sir, I am. 
 
 Tru. Nay, sir, no harm, but you'll thrive the better 
 for it. 
 
 Trim. I like this old fellow ; I smell more money. 
 
 '[Aside. Exit. 
 
 ■^ Tru. I think 'tis now eight years since I saw him — he 
 
 was not then nineteen — when I followed him to the gate, 
 
 and gave him fifty guineas, which I pretended his father 
 
 sent after him. 
 
 Enter Lord Hardy. 
 
 Ld. H. Mr. Trusty, I'm very glad to see you look 
 very hale and jolly ; you wear well. I'm glad to see it 
 — but your commands to me, Mr. Trusty. 
 
 Tru. Why, my lord, I presume to wait on your lord- 
 ship. My lord, you're strangely grown ; you're your 
 father's very picture, you're he, my lord ; you are the 
 very man that looked so pleased to see me look so fine in 
 my laced livery, to go to Court. I was his page when he 
 was just such another as you. He kissed me afore a great 
 many lords, and said I was a brave man's son, that taught
 
 SCENE II.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 67 
 
 him to exercise his arms. I remember he carried 
 me to the great window, and bid me be sure to keep in 
 your mother's sight in all my finery. She was the finest 
 young creature ; the maids of honour hated to see her at 
 Court. My lord then courted my good lady. She was 
 as kind to me on her death-bed ; she said to me, Mr. 
 Trusty, take care of my lord's second marriage for that 
 child's sake. She pointed as well as she could to you. 
 You fell a-crying, and said she should not die ; but she 
 did, my lord. She left the world, and no one like her 
 in't. Forgive me, my honoured master. [ Weeps, runs to 
 my lord, and hugs him^ I've often carried you in these 
 arms that grasp you ; they were stronger then, but if I die 
 to-morrow, you're worth five thousand pounds by my 
 gift — 'tis what I've got in the family, and I return it to 
 you with thanks. But alas ! do I live to see you want 
 it?' 
 
 Ld. H. You confound me with all this tenderness and 
 generosity. 
 
 Tru. I'll trouble you no longer, my lord, but 
 
 Ld. H. Call it not a trouble, for 
 
 Tru. My good lord, I will not, I say, indulge myself 
 in talking fond tales that melt me, and interrupt my story. 
 My business to your lordship, in one word, is this : I am 
 in good confidence at present with my lady dowager, 
 and I know she has some fears upon her, which depend 
 upon the nature of the settlement to your disfavour, and 
 under the rose — be yourself — I fear your father has not 
 had fair play for his life — be composed, my lord. What 
 is to be done is this : we'll not apply to public justice in 
 this case, 'till we see farther; 'twill make it noisy, which 
 
 ' In the Lay Monastery^ No. 9 (December 4th, 17 13), Blackmorc 
 dwelt on the line touclits of humanity in tiie part (jf I'riisty in this 
 play. He said this pissagje was too well known on the sta{,'c to 
 need transcribinjj : " Tliis is not only nature, hut nature of the nioit 
 beautiful kind ; or, to boirow Plautus's own remark, by the repre- 
 sentation of such pHy^ even gond men may he mitdc better,^''
 
 68 THE FUNERAL: [act iv. 
 
 we must not do, if I might advise. You shall, with a detach- 
 ment of your Company, seize the corpse as it goes out of 
 the house this evening to be interred in the country ; 
 'twill only look like taking the administration upon your- 
 self, and commencing a suit for the estate. She has put 
 off" the lying in state, and Lady Harriot's escape with Mr. 
 Campley makes her fear he will prove a powerful friend, 
 both to the young ladies and your lordship. She cannot, 
 with decency, be so busy, as when the corpse is out of 
 the house, therefore hastens it. I know your whole 
 affair ; leave the care of Lady Sharlot to me. I'll pre- 
 acquaint her, that she mayn't be frightened, and dispose 
 of her safely, to observe the issue. 
 
 Ld. H. I wholly understand you ; it shall be done. 
 
 Tru. I'm sure I am wanted this moment for your 
 interest at home. This ring shall be the passport of 
 intelligence for whom you send to assault us, and the 
 remittance of it sealed with this, shall be authentic from 
 within the house. 
 
 Ld. H. 'Tis very well. 
 
 Tru. Hope all you can wish, my lord, from a certain 
 secret relating to the estate, which I'll acquaint you with 
 next time I see you. \Exii. 
 
 Ld, LI. Your servant This fellow's strangely 
 
 honest Ha! Will. 
 
 Enter Campley and Trtm. 
 
 Will ! don't the recruits wait for me to see 'em at their 
 parade before this house ? 
 
 Trim. Yes ; and have waited these three hours. 
 
 Ld. LI. Go to 'em ; I'll be there myself immediately. 
 We must attack with 'em, if the rogues are sturdy, this 
 very evening. 
 
 Trim. I guess where I'm overjoyed at it. I'll 
 
 warrant you they do it, if I command in chief. 
 
 " Ld. LL. I design you shall. [Trbi runs oid Jumping.
 
 SCENE in.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 69 
 
 Cam. You seem, my lord, to be in deep meditation, 
 Ld, H. I am so, but not on anything that you may 
 not be acquainted with. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. — Covent Garden. 
 
 E?iter Trim, with a coi?tpany of ragged fcllozas, 
 with a cane. 
 
 1st Sol. Why then, I find, Mr. Trim, we shall come to 
 blows before we see the French. 
 
 Tri/n. Harkee, friend, 'tis not your affair to guess or 
 enquire what you're going to do ; 'tis only for us com- 
 manders. 
 
 2nd Sol. The French ? Pox ! they are but a Company 
 of scratching civet cats. They fight ! 
 
 Tri/n. Harkee, don't bluster. Were not you a little 
 mistaken in your facings at Steinkirk ? 
 
 2nd Sol. I grant it ; you know I have an antipathy to 
 the French — I hate to see the dogs. Look you here, 
 gentlemen, I was shot quite through the body, look 
 you. 
 
 Trim. Prithee, look where it entered at your back. 
 
 2nd Sol. Look you, Mr. Trim, you will have your joke, 
 we know you are a wit — but what's that to a fighting 
 man ? 
 
 Enter Kate. 
 
 Kate. Mr. Trim ! Mr. Trim ! 
 
 Trim. Things are not as they have been, Mrs. Kate. 
 1 now pay the Company, and we that pay money expect 
 a little more ceremony. 
 
 Kate. Will your honour please to taste some right 
 French brandy ?
 
 70 2 HE FUNERAL : [act iv. 
 
 Trim. Art thou £ure, good woman, 'tis right? \Drinks. 
 How — French — pray — nay, if I find you deceive me, 
 who pay the men [Drinks. 
 
 Kate. Pray, good master, have you spoken to my lord 
 about me ? 
 
 Trim. I have, but you shall speak to him yourself. 
 Thou hast been a true campaigner, Kate, and we must 
 not neglect thee. Do you sell grey pease yet of an 
 evening, Mrs. Matchlock ? [Drinks again. 
 
 Kate. Anything to turn the penny, but I got more by 
 crying pamphlets this year, than by anything I have done 
 a great while. Now I am married into the Company 
 again, I design to cross the seas next year. But, master, 
 my husband, a Temple porter, and a Parliament man's 
 footman, last night by their talk made me think there 
 was danger of a peace ; why, they said, all the prime 
 people were against a war. 
 
 Trim. No, no, Kate, never fear ; you know I keep 
 great company. All men are for a war, but some would 
 have it abroad, and some would have it at home in their 
 own country. 
 
 Kate. Ay, say you so ? Drink about, gentlemen, not a 
 farthing to pay ; a war is a war, be it where it will. But 
 pray, Mr. Trim, speak to my lord, that when these gentle- 
 men have shirts I may wash for 'em. 
 
 Trim. I tell you, if you behave well to-night, you shall 
 have a fortnight's pay each man as a reward ; but there's 
 none of you industrious. There's a thousand things you 
 might do to help out about this town, as to cry, puff, 
 puff pies — have you any knives or scissors to grind ? or, 
 late in an evening, whip from Grub Street, strange and 
 bloody news from Flanders — votes from the House of 
 Commons — buns, rare buns — old silver lace, cloaks, suits, 
 or coats— old shoes, boots, or hats — But here, here, here's 
 my lord a-coming ; here's the captain. Fall back into 
 the rank there; move up \\\ the centre.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 71 
 
 Enkr Lord Hardy and Campley. 
 
 Ld. H. Let me see whether my ragged friends are 
 leady and about me. 
 
 Kate. Ensign Campley, Ensign Campley, I am over- 
 joyed to see your honour ; ha ! the world's surely 
 altered, ha ! 
 
 Cam. 'Tis so, faith ! Kate, why thou art true to the 
 cause, with the Company still, honest amazon, 
 
 Kate. Dear soul, not a bit of pride in him ; but won't 
 your honour help in my business with my lord ? Speak 
 for me, noble ensign, do. 
 
 Cam. Speak to him yourself; I'll second you. 
 
 Kate. Noble captain, my lord ! I suppose Mr. Trim 
 has told your honour about my petition. I have been a 
 great sufferer in the service. 'Tis hard for a poor woman 
 to lose nine husbands in a war, and no notice taken ; 
 nay, three of 'em, alas, in the same campaign. Here the 
 woman stands that says it. I never stripped a man 'till 
 I first tried if he could stand on his legs, and, if not, I 
 think 'twas fair plunder, except our adjutant, and he was 
 a puppy, that made my eighth husband run the gauntlet 
 for not turning his toes out. 
 
 Ld. H. Well, we'll consider thee, Kate, but fall 
 back into the rear. A roll of what ? Gentlemen sol- 
 diers ? 
 
 Irim [To Pumkin]. Do you hear that? My lord him- 
 self can't deny but we are all gentlemen, as much as his 
 honour. 
 
 Ld. LL \Iicading\. Gentlemen soldiers quartered in and 
 about Guy Court in Vinegar Yard, in Russel Court in 
 Diury Lane, belonging to the honourable Captain Hardy's 
 Company of Foot — So, answer to your names, and march 
 off from the left. John Horseem, corporal, march easy, 
 that I may view you as you pass by me. Drums 
 Simon Ruffle, Daiby Tattoo — there's a shilling for you
 
 T2 THE FUNERAL : [act IV. 
 
 — Tattoo be always so tight ; how does he keep himself 
 so clean ? 
 
 Tr/m. Sir, he is a tragedy drum to one of the play- 
 houses. 
 
 Zd. H. Private gentlemen : Alexander Cowitch, 
 Humphrey Mundungus, William Faggot, Nicholas Scab, 
 Timothy Megrim, Philip Scratch, Nehemiah Dust, Hum- 
 phrey Garbage, Nathaniel Matchlock. 
 
 Cam. What ! Is Matchlock come back to the Com- 
 pany? That's the fellow that brought me off at Stein- 
 kirk. 
 
 Ld. H. No, sir, 'tis I am obliged to him for that. 
 \Pfftring to give him money.] There, friend, you shall 
 want for nothing ; I'll give thee a halbert too. 
 
 Ji^'aie. O brave me ! Shall I be a sergeant's lady? 
 r faith, I'll make the drums, and the corporal's wives, and 
 Company-keepeis know their distance. 
 
 Cam. How far out of the country di(i~you come to 
 list? Don't you come from Cornwall ? How did you bear 
 your charges? 
 
 Match. I was whipped from constable to constable 
 
 Trim. Ay, my lord, that's due by the courtesy of 
 England to all that want in red coats ; besides, there's 
 an Act that makes us free of all corporations, and that's 
 the ceremony of it. 
 
 Cam. But what pretence had they for using you so ill ? 
 You did not pilfer ? 
 
 Match. I was found guilty of being poor. 
 
 Cam. Poor devil ! 
 
 Ld. H. Timothy Ragg ! O Ragg ! I thought when 
 I gave you your discharge, just afore the peace, we 
 should never have had you again. How came you to 
 list now ? 
 
 Ragg. To pull down the French king. 
 
 Ld. H. Bravely resolved ! But pull your shirt into 
 your breeches in the mean time. Jeoffrey Tatter —
 
 SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. ']i 
 
 What's become of the skirts and buttons of your 
 coat ? 
 
 Tatter. In our last clothing in the regiment I served 
 in afore, the colonel had one skirt before, the agent one 
 behind, and every captain of the regiment a button. 
 
 Ld. H. Hush, you rogue, you talk mutiny. \SiniUng, 
 
 TrifH. Ay., sirrah, what have you to do with more 
 knowledge than that of your right hand from your left ? 
 
 [^Hits him a bloia on the head. 
 
 Ld. H. Hugh Clump — Clump, thou growest a little 
 too heavy for marching. 
 
 Trim. Ay, my lord, but if we don't allow him the 
 pay he'll starve, for he's too lame to get into the hos- 
 pital. 
 
 Ld. H. Richard Bumpkin ! Ha ! A perfect country 
 hick. How came you, friend, to be a soldier ? 
 
 Bump. An't please your honour, I have been crossed 
 in love, and am willing to seek my fortune. 
 
 Ld. IL. ^Vell, I've seen enough of 'em. If you mind 
 your affair, and act like a wise general, these fellows may 
 do — come, take your orders. [Trim puts his hat on his 
 stick, while my lord is giving him the ring, and whispers 
 orders.^ Well, gentlemen, do your business manfully, 
 and nothing shall be too good for you. 
 
 All. Bless your honour. ^ExeimtHAKT)'^ and Cauvl^y. 
 
 Trim. Now, my brave friends and fellow-soldiers — 
 [Aside.] I must fellow-soldier 'em just afore a battle, like 
 a true officer, though I cane 'em all the year round beside 
 — [Strutting about.] Major-General Trim ; no, pox, Trim 
 sounds so very short and priggish — that my name should 
 be a monosyllable ! But the foreign news will write me, I 
 suppose, Monsieur or Chevalier Trimont. Seigneur 
 Trimoni, or Count Trimuntz, in the German Army, I shall 
 perhaps be called ; ay, that's all the plague and comfort 
 of us great men, they do so toss our names about. But, 
 gentlemen, you are now under my command — huzza I
 
 74 
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 [act IV. 
 
 thrice — faith, this is very pleasing, this" grandeur ! Wliy, 
 after all, 'tis upon the neck of such scoundrels as these 
 gentlemen that we great captains build our renown. A 
 million or two of these fellows make an Alexander, and 
 as that my predecessor said in the tragedy of him on the 
 very same occasion, going to storm for his Statira, so do 
 I for my dear seamstress, Madam d'Epingle — 
 
 When I rush on, sure none will dare to stay; 
 'Tis beauty calls, and glory leads the vvay.^ 
 
 * These lines are in the spirit of, but are not a quotation from 
 Lee's Rival Queens, or the Death af Alexander the Great.
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. — Lord Brumpton's House. 
 
 Elder Trusty and Lord Brumpton. 
 
 T^i^^^l^SS^J^' RU. She knows no moderation in her 
 good fortune ; she has, out of im- 
 patience to see herself in her weeds, 
 ordered her mantua woman to stitch 
 up anything immediately. You may 
 hear her and Tattleaid laugh aloud— 
 she is so wantonly merry. 
 Ld. B. But this of Lady Sharlot is the very utmost of 
 all ill. Pray read— -but I must sit; my late fit of the 
 gout makes me act with pain and constraint. Let me 
 
 see 
 
 Tru. She writ it by the page, who brought it me, as I 
 had wheedled him to do all their passages. 
 Ld. B. [Reads.] 
 
 " You must watch the occasion of the servants being 
 gone out of the house with the corpse ; Tattleaid shall 
 conduct you to my Lady Sharlot's apartment — away with 
 
 her — and be sure you bed her 
 
 "Your affectionate Sister, 
 
 '• Mary Brumpton.' 
 
 Brumpton ? The creature ! She called as Frank's 
 mother was? Brumpton! Thesuccuba! What a devil 
 incarnate have I had in my bosom ? Why, the common 
 abandoned town women would scruple such an action as
 
 76 THE FUNERAL : [act v. 
 
 this. Though they have lost all regard to their own 
 chastity, they would be tender of another's. Why, sure 
 she had no infancy. She never had virginity, to have no 
 compassion through memory of her own former inno- 
 cence. This is to forget her very humanity — her very 
 sex. Where is my poor boy? Where's Frank? Does 
 not he want? How has he lived all this time? Not a 
 servant, I warrant, to attend him — what company can he 
 keep ? What can he say of his father ? 
 
 Tru. Though you made him not your heir, he is still 
 your son, and has all the duty and tenderness in the 
 world for your memory. 
 
 Ld. B. It is impossible, Trusty ; it is impossible. I 
 will not rack myself with the thought, that one I have 
 injured can be so very good — keep me in countenance — 
 tell me he hates my very name, would not assume my 
 title because it descends from me. What's his company? 
 
 Tru. Young Tom Campley ; they are never asunder. 
 
 Ld. B. I am glad he has my pretty tattler — the cheer- 
 ful innocent Harriot. I hope he'll be good to her; he's 
 good-natured and well-bred. 
 
 Tru. But, my lord, she was very punctual in ordering 
 the funeral. She bid Sable be sure to lay you deep 
 enough, she had heard such stories of the wicked sextons 
 taking up people ; but I wish, my lord, you would please 
 to hear her and Tattleaid once more 
 
 Ld. B. I know to what thy zeal tends; but I tell you, 
 since you cannot be convinced but that I have still 
 a softness for her — I say though I had so, it should never 
 make me transgress that scrupulous honour that becomes 
 a peer of England . If I could forget injuries done myself 
 thus gross, I never will those done my friends. You 
 knew Sharlot's worthy father — No, there's no need of 
 my seeing more of this woman. I behold her now 
 with the same eyes that you do ; there' s a meanness 
 in all she says or does ; she has a great wit but a little
 
 SCENE I.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. jj 
 
 mind — something ever wanting to make her appear my 
 Lady Brumpton, She has nothing natively great. You 
 see I love her not; I talk with judgment of her. 
 
 Tru. I see it, my good lord, with joy I see it, nor care 
 how few things I see more in this world. My satisfaction 
 is complete. Welcome old age ; welcome decay ; 'tis not 
 decay, but growth to a latter being. 
 
 [Exit, leading Lord Brumpton. 
 
 Re-enicr Trusty, meeting Cabinet. 
 
 Tru. I have your letter, Mr. Cabinet. 
 
 Cab. I hope, sir, you'll believe it was not in my nature 
 to be guilty of so much baseness ; but being born a gentle- 
 man, and bred out of all roads of industry in that idle 
 manner too many are, I soon spent a small patrimony ; 
 and being debauched by luxury, I fell into the narrow 
 mind to dread no infamy like poverty, which made me 
 guilty, as that paper tells you ; and had I not writ to you, 
 I am sure I never could have told you of it. 
 
 Tru. It is an ingenious, pious penitence in you ; my 
 Lord Hardy (to whom this secret is inestimable) is a 
 noble-natured man, and you shall find him such, I give 
 you my word. 
 
 Cab. I know, sir, your integrity. 
 
 Tru. But pray be there ; all that you have to do is to 
 ask for the gentlewoman at the house at my Lord Hardy's ; 
 she'll take care of you. And pray have patience, where 
 she places you, till you see me. \Exit Cab.] My Lord 
 Hardy's being a house where they receive lodgers, has 
 allowed me convenience to place everybody I think neces- 
 sary to be by at her discovery. This prodigious welcome 
 secret ! I see, however impracticable honest actions may 
 appear, we may go on with just hope — • 
 
 All that is ours is to be justly bent, 
 
 And Heaven in its own cause will bless the event. 
 
 \_Exit.
 
 78 THE FUNERAL : [act v. 
 
 SCENE W.— Coven t Garden. 
 Enter Trim and his party. 
 
 Trim. March up, march up. Now we are near the 
 citadelj and halt only to give the necessary orders for the 
 engagement. Ha ! Clump, Clump ! When we come to 
 Lord Brumpton's door, and you see us conveniently dis- 
 posed about the house, you are to wait till you see a 
 corpse brought out of the house ; then to go up to him 
 you observe the director, and ask importunately for an 
 alms to a poor soldier, for which you may be sure you 
 shall have a good blow or two; but if you have not, be 
 saucy till you have. Then when you see a file of men 
 got between the house and the body — a file of men, 
 Bumpkin, is six men — I say, when you see the file in 
 such a posture, that half the file may face to the house, 
 half to the body, you are to fall down, crying murder, 
 that the half file faced to the body may throw it and 
 themselves over you. I then march to your rescue. 
 Then, Swagger, you and your party fall in to secure my 
 rear, while I march off with the body. These are the 
 orders ; and this, with a little improvement of my own, 
 is the same disposition Villeroy and Catinat made at 
 Chiaii. \^Marchcs off with his party. 
 
 SCENE III. — Lord Brumpton's House. 
 
 Etiter Widow, /« deep mourning, with a dead squirrel on 
 her arm, and Tattleaid. 
 
 Wid. It must be so ; it must be your carelessness. 
 What had the page to do in my bedchamber ? 
 
 Tat. Indeed, madam, I can't tell. But I came in and 
 catched him wringing round his neck 
 
 Wid. Tell the rascal from me he shall romp with the
 
 SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE 79 
 
 footmen no more. No ; I'll send the rogue in a frock to 
 learn Latin among the dirty boys that come to good, I 
 will. But 'tis ever so among these creatures that live on 
 one's superfluous affections ; a lady's woman, page, and 
 squirrel are always rivals. 
 
 Poor harmless animal — pretty e'en in death : 
 
 Death might have overlooked thy little life — 
 
 How could'st thou, Robin, leave thy nuts and me? 
 
 How was't importunate, dearest, thou should'st tlie ? 
 
 Thou never did'st invade thy neighbour's soils ; 
 
 Never mad'st war with specious shows of peace ; 
 
 Thou never hast depopulated regions. 
 
 But cheerfully did'st bear thy little chain, 
 
 Content — so I but fed thee with this hand. 
 
 Tat. Alas, alas ! we are all mortal. Consider, madam, 
 my lord's dead too. [ Weeps. 
 
 Wid. Ay, but our animal friends do wholly die ; an 
 husband or relation, after death, is rewarded or tor- 
 mented ; that's some consolation — I know her tears are 
 false, for she hated Robin always ; but she's a well-bred, 
 dishonest servant, that never speaks a painful truth 
 \Aside?^ — But I'll resolve to conquer my affliction — never 
 speak more of Robin — hide him there. But to my dress : 
 How soberly magnificent is black — and the train — I 
 wonder how widows came to wear such long tails? 
 
 Tat. Why, madam, the stateliest of all creatures has 
 the longest tail; the peacock, nay, 't has of all creatures 
 the finest mien too — except your ladyship, who are a 
 Phoenix 
 
 Wid. Ho ! brave Tattleaid ! Ijut did not you observe 
 what a whining my Lady Sly made when she had drank 
 a little? Did you believe her? Do you think there are 
 really people sorry for their husbands? 
 
 Tat. Really, madam, some men do leave their for- 
 tunes in such distraction that I believe it rnay be 
 
 \JSpeaks with pins in her mouth.
 
 8o THE FUNERAL: [act v. 
 
 ]]'id. But I swear I wonder how it came up to dress 
 us thus. I protest, when all my equipage is ready, and 
 I move in full pageantry, I shall fancy myself an embas- 
 sadress from the Commonwealth of Women, the distressed 
 State of Amazonia- — to treat for men. But I protest I 
 wonder how two of us thus clad can meet with a grave 
 face ! Methinks they should laugh out like two fortune- 
 tellers, or two opponent lawyers that know each other 
 for cheats 
 
 Tat. Ha ! ha ! ha I I swear to you, madam, your 
 ladyship's wit will choke me one time or other. I had 
 like to have swallowed all the pins in my mouth 
 
 Wid. But, Tatty, to keep house six weeks, that's another 
 barbarous custom ; but the reason of it, I suppose, was 
 that the base people should not see people of quality may 
 be as afiflicted as themselves. 
 
 Tat. No, 'tis because they should not see 'em as merry 
 as themselves. 
 
 Wid. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Hussy, you never said that you 
 spoke last. Why, 'tis just — 'tis satire — I'm sure you saw 
 it in my face, that I w^as going to say it : 'Twas too good 
 for you. Come, lay down that sentence and the pin- 
 cushion, and pin up my shoulder. Harkee, hussy, if 
 you should, as I hope you won't, outlive me, take care 
 I ain't buried in flannel ; 'twould never become me, I'm 
 sure.i That they can be as merry : Well, I'll tell my 
 
 1 The object of the Act cf 1678 (30 Charles II. c. 3), which 
 obliged the dead to be buried in woollen, was to protect homespun 
 goods against foreign linen. 
 
 " ' Odious ! in woollen ! 'twould a saint pro\oke,' 
 "Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke ; 
 ' No, let a charming ch ntz and Brussels lace 
 \\'rap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face ; 
 One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead — 
 And — Betty — give this cheek a little red.' " 
 
 (Pope, Moral Essays, i. 246—251.) 
 
 Pope here alludes, says Carruthers, to 2»Irs. Oldfield, who acted 
 Naicissa in Gibber's Love's Last Shift. She was buried in West- 
 minster Abbey, the corpse being decorated with " a Brussels lace
 
 SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 8i 
 
 new acquaintance — what's her name ? — she that reads 
 so much, and writes verses. Her husband was deaf the 
 first quarter of a year ; I forget her name. That 
 expression she'll like. Well, that woman does divert me 
 strangely ; I'll be very great with her. She talked very 
 learnedly of the ridicule till she was ridiculous ; then she 
 spoke of the decent, of the agreeable, of the insensible. 
 She designs to print the discourse ; but of all things, I 
 like her notion of the insensible. 
 
 Tat. Pray, madam, how was that ? 
 
 Wid. A most useful discourse to be inculcated in our 
 teens. The purpose of it is to disguise our apprehension 
 in this ill-bred generation of men, who speak before 
 women what they ought not to hear. As now, suppose 
 you were a spark in my company, and you spoke some 
 double entendre, I look thus ! But be a fellow, and you 
 shall see how I'll use you. The insensible is useful upon 
 any occasion where we seemingly neglect and secretly 
 approve, which is our ordinary common case. Now, 
 suppose a coxcomb, dancing, prating, and playing his 
 tricks before me to move me, without pleasure or distaste 
 
 in my countenance, I look at him, just thus ; but 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! I have found out a supplement to this 
 notion of the insenible, for my own use, which is infallible, 
 
 head-dress, a Holland shift, with tucker and double ruffles ol the 
 same lace, and a pair of new kid gloves." — See, too, Tatler, 
 No. Ii8. 
 
 It is evident that by making a certain payment persons of position 
 could evade the Act ; in the Overseers' Rate Books for the Parish 
 of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, one or two persons in the year are 
 often mentioned as being buried in linen : Thus in the volume for 
 1702 (p. 147) I found — 
 
 " Received for persons buried in linen, contrary to Act of 
 Parliament : 
 
 For ;^2 5 o 
 
 For the Earl of Macclesfield _^2 10 o." 
 
 Mr. Austin Dobson has poinled out tliat if Anne Oklfield really 
 gave the orders alleged by Pope she was only elaborating the words 
 of Steele's widow, which she must have often heard on the stage, 
 as she acted iIjo part of La'ly Sharlot in this play. 
 
 Steele. G
 
 82 THE FUNERAL : [act V. 
 
 and that is to have always in my head all that they can 
 say or do to me. So never be surprised with laughter, 
 the occasion of which is always sudden. 
 
 Tat. Oh ! my Lady Brumpton [Tattleaid bo7os and 
 cringes\ my lady, your most obedient servant. 
 
 Wid. Look you, wench, you see by the art of insensi- 
 bility I put you out of countenance, though you were 
 prepared for an ill-reception. 
 
 Tat. Oh ! madam, how justly are you formed for what 
 is now fallen to you — the empire of mankind. 
 
 Wid. Oh ! sir, that puts me out of all my insensibility 
 at once ; that was so gallant — Ha ! what noise is that ; 
 that noise of fighting } Run, I say. Whither are you 
 going ? What, are you mad ? Will you leave me alone ? 
 Can't you stir ? What, you can't take your message with 
 you ? Whatever 'tis, I suppose you are not in the plot ; 
 not you — Nor that now they're breaking open my house 
 for Sharlot — Not you — Go, see what's the matter, I say, 
 I have nobody I can trust. \_Exit Tattleaid] One 
 minute I think this wench honest, and the next false. 
 Whither shall I turn me ? 
 
 Tat. Madam, madam. {^Re-entering. 
 
 Wid. Madam, madam, will you swallow me gaping? 
 
 Tat. Pray, good my lady, be not so out of humour ; 
 but there is a company of rogues have set upon our 
 servants and the burial man's, while others ran away with 
 the corpse. 
 
 Wid. How, what can this mean ? What can they do 
 with it ? — Well, 'twill save the charge of interment. — But 
 to what end? 
 
 Enter Trusty and a Servant, bloody and dirty ^ haling in 
 Clump and Bumpkin. 
 
 Ser. I'll teach you better manners ; I'll poor soldier 
 you, you dog you, I will. Madam, here are two of the
 
 SCENE III.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 83 
 
 rascals that were in the gang of rogues that carried away 
 the corpse. 
 
 Wid. We'll examine 'em apart. Well, sirrah, what are 
 you ? Whence came you ? What's your name, sirrah ? 
 [Clump makes signs as a dumb man. 
 
 Ser. Oh, you dog, you could speak loud enough just 
 now, sirrah, when your brother rogues mauled Mr. Sable. 
 We'll make you speak, sirrah. 
 
 Wid. Bring the other fellow hither. I suppose you 
 will own you knew that man before you saw him at my 
 door? 
 
 Clump. I think I have seen the gentleman's face. 
 
 \Bowing to Bumpkin. 
 
 Wid. The gentleman's ! The villain mocks me. But 
 friend, you look like an honest man — what are you ? 
 Whence came you ? What are you, friend ? 
 
 Bump. I'se at present but a private gentleman, but I 
 was lifted to be a sergeant in my Lord Hardy's Com- 
 pany. I'se not ashamed of my name nor of my koptin. 
 
 Wid. Leave the room all. \Exeunt all but Trusty 
 and Tattleaid.] Mr. Trusty — Lord Hardy ! O, that 
 impious young man, thus, with the sacrilegious hands of 
 ruffians to divert his father's ashes from their urn and 
 rest — I suspect this fellow [Aside.] — Mr. Trusty, I must 
 desire you to be still near me. I'll know the bottom of 
 this ; and to Lord Hardy's lodgings as I am, instantly. 
 'Tis but the back side of this street, I think. Let a 
 coach be called. — Tattleaid, as soon as I am gone, con- 
 duct my brother and his friends to Lady Sharlot. Away 
 with her. Bring mademoiselle away to me, that she may 
 not be a witness. — Come, good Mr. Trusty. 
 
 '^^^MM^^M^^
 
 84 THE FUNERAL : [ACT v. 
 
 SCENE IV. — Lord Hardy's Lodgings. 
 
 Enta- Lord Hardy, leading Harriot ; Campley, and 
 Trim. 
 
 L. Ha. Why, then I find this Mr. Trim is a perfect 
 general ; but I assure you, sir, I'll never allow you an 
 hero, who could leave your mistress behind you. You 
 should have broke the house down, but you should have 
 mademoiselle with you. 
 
 Trim. No, really, madam, I have seen such strange fears 
 come into the men's heads, and such strange resolutions 
 into the women's upon the occasion of ladies following a 
 camp, that I thought it more discreet to leave her behind 
 me. My success will naturally touch her as much as if 
 she were here. 
 
 L. Ha. A good, intelligent, arch fellow this [Aside.] — 
 But were not you saying, my lord, you believed Lady 
 IJrumpton would follow hither ? If so, pray let me 
 be gone. 
 
 £d. H No, madam, I must beseech your ladyship to 
 stay, for there are things alleged against her which 
 you, who have lived in the family, may perhaps give hght 
 into, and which I can't believe even she could be guilty 
 of. 
 
 Z. Ha. Nay, my lord, that's generous to a folly, for 
 even for her usage of you (without regard to myself), I 
 am ready to believe she woukl do anything that can 
 come into the head of a close, malicious, cruel, designing 
 woman. 
 
 £nUr Boy. 
 
 jBoy. My Lady Brumpton's below. 
 
 Z. Ha. I'll run, then. 
 
 Cam. No, no, stand your ground. You, a soldier's 
 wife ? Come, we'll rally her to death. 
 
 Zd. H. Prithee, entertain her a little, while I go in for 
 a moment's thought on this occasion. \_Exit.
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 85 
 
 L. Ha. She has more wit than us both. 
 
 Cam. Pshaw, no matter for that ; be sure, as soon as 
 the sentence is out of my mouth, to clap in with some- 
 thing else ; and laugh at all 1 say. I'll be grateful, and 
 burst myself at my pretty, witty wife. We'll fall in slap 
 upon her ; she shan't have time to say a word of the 
 running away. 
 
 E/ifer Lady Brumpton and Trusty. 
 
 Oh, my Lady Brumpton, your ladyship's most obedient 
 servant : This is my Lady Harriot Campley. Why, 
 madam, your ladyship is immediately in your mourning. 
 Nay, as you have more wit than anybody, so (what 
 seldom wits have) you have more prudence, too. Other 
 widows have nothing in a readiness but a second hus- 
 band; but you, I see, had your very weeds and dress 
 lying by you. 
 
 Z. Ha. Ay, madam; I see your ladyship is of the 
 Order of Widowhood, for you have put on the habit. 
 
 Wid. I see your ladyship is not of the profession of 
 virginity, for you have lost the look on't. 
 
 Cam. You are in the habit — That was so pretty ; nay, 
 without flattery. Lady Harriot, you have a great deal of 
 wit. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Z. Ha. No, my Lady Brumpton here is the woman of 
 wit ; but, indeed, she has but little enough, considering 
 how much her ladyship has to defend. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Wid. I am sorry, madam, your ladyship has not what's 
 suflicient for your occasions, or that this pretty gentle- 
 man can't supply 'em 
 
 [Campley dancing about a?id tro//ini:[. 
 Hey, day ! I find, sir, your heels are a great help to your 
 head. They relieve your wit, I see ; and I don't ques- 
 tion but ere now they have been as kind to your valour. 
 Ha! ha! 
 
 Cam, Pox, I can say nothing ; 'tis always thus willi
 
 86 THE FUNERAL : [ACT v. 
 
 your endeavours to be witty \Aside?^ — I saw, madam, 
 your mouth go, but there could be nothing offered in 
 answer to what my Lady Harriot said. — 'Twas home 
 — 'Twas cutting satire. 
 
 Z. Ha. Oh, Mr. Campley ! But pray, madam, has 
 Mr. Cabinet visited your ladyship since this calamity ? 
 How stands that affair now ? 
 
 Wid. Nay, madam, if you already want instructions, 
 I'll acquaint you how the world stands, if you are in 
 distress — but I fear Mr. Campley overhears us. 
 
 Cam. And all the tune the pipers played was Toll- 
 toll-doroll. I swear. Lady Harriot, were I not already 
 yours, I could have a tender for this lady. 
 
 Wid. Come, good folks, I find we are very free with 
 each other. What makes you two here ? Do you board 
 my lord, or he you ? Come, come, ten shillings a head 
 will go a great way in a family. What do you say, Mrs. 
 Campley, is it so ? Does your ladyship go to market 
 yourself? Nay, you're in the right of it. Come, can 
 you imagine what makes my lord stay ? He is not now 
 with his land-steward. Not signing leases, I hope ? 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Ca7n. Hang her, to have more tongue than a man and 
 his wife too. [Aside. 
 
 Enter Lord Hardy. 
 
 Ld. H. Because your ladyship is, I know, in very 
 much pain in company you have injured, I'll be short 
 — Open those doors — There lies your husband's, my 
 father's body ; and by you stands the man accuses you of 
 poisoning him. 
 
 Wid. Of poisoning him ! 
 
 Tru. The symptoms will appear ujDon the corpse. 
 
 Ld. H. But I am seized by nature — How shall I view, 
 a breathless lump of clay, him whose high veins con- 
 veyed to me this vital force and motion ?
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, GRTEF A-LA-MODE. 87 
 
 I cannot bear that sight — 
 
 I am as fixed and motionless as he — 
 
 \They open the coffin, out of xvhich jumps Lady Sharlot.^ 
 Art tliou the ghastly shape my mind had formed ? 
 Art thou the cold, inanimate — bright maid ? 
 Thou giv'st new higher life to all around. 
 Whither does fancy, fired with love, convey nie ? 
 Whither transported by my pleasing fury ? 
 The season vanishes at thy approach ; 
 'Tis morn, 'tis spring — 
 Daisies and lillies strow thy flowery way. 
 Why is my fair unmoved — my heavenly fair ? 
 Does she but smile at my exalted rapture ? 
 
 Z. Sh. Oh ! sense of praise, to me unfelt before, 
 Speak on, speak on, and charm my attentive ear. 
 How sweet applause is from an honest tongue ! 
 Thou lov'st my mind — hast well affection placed ; 
 In what, nor time, nor age, nor care, nor want can alter. 
 Oh, how I joy in thee, my eternal lover ; 
 Immutable as the object of thy flame ! 
 I love, I am proud, I triumph that I love. 
 Pure, I approach thee ; nor did I with empty shows, 
 Gorgeous attire, or studied negligence. 
 Or song, or dance, or ball, allure thy soul ; 
 Nor want, or fear, such arts to keep or lose it : 
 Nor now with fond reluctance doubt to enter 
 My spacious, bright abode, this gallant heart.' 
 
 \Redines on Hardy. 
 
 1 Genest (^Account of the lifiglish Stage) suggests that the idea 
 of Lady Sharlot's escape was taken from Beaumont and Fletcher's 
 Knis;ht of the Burning Pestle, Act V., So. 111. 
 
 ^ Eusden, in a complimentary poem "To the Author of the 
 Tatter'' printed in Nichols' Collection of Poems, iv. 152 — 4, thus 
 exprel^sed himself: — 
 
 " O Charlotte ! who tliy character can read, 
 But soon must languish, sigh, and secret bleed ? 
 
 To wealth, to power, I every wish resign, 
 If only that dear Charlotte might be mine."
 
 88 THE FUNERAL : [ACT v. 
 
 L. Ha. Ay, marry, these are high doings indeed ; the 
 greatness of the occasion has burst their passion into 
 speech. Why, Mr Campley, when we are near these 
 fine folks, you and I are but mere sweethearts. I 
 protest I'll never be won so ; you shall begin again 
 with me. 
 
 Cam. Prithee, why dost name us poor animals ? They 
 have forgot there are such creatures as their old acquaint- 
 ance Tom and Harriot. 
 
 Ld. H. So we did indeed, but you'll pardon us. 
 
 Cam. My lord, I never thought to see the minute 
 wherein T should rejoice at your forgetting me, but now 
 I do heartily. \Emhracing. 
 
 L. Sh. Harriot. 
 
 Z.^«.Sharlot.l ['"'*•'"'''*] 
 
 Wid. Sir, you're at the bottom of all this ; I see you're 
 skilled at close conveyances. I'll know the meaning 
 instantly of these intricacies. 'Tis not your seeming 
 honesty and gravity shall save you from your deserts. 
 My husband's death was sudden. You and the burial 
 fellow were observed very familiar. Produce my hus- 
 band's body, or I'll try you for his murder ; which I find 
 you'd put on me, thou hellish engine ! 
 
 Tni. Look you, madam, I could answer you, but I 
 scorn to reproach people in misery. You're undone, 
 madam. 
 
 Wid. What does the dotard mean ? Produce the 
 body, villain, or the law shall have thine for it. [Trusty 
 exit hastily?^ — Do you design to let the villain escape ? 
 How justly did your father judge, that made you a 
 beggar with that spirit ! You meant just now you could 
 not bear the company of those you'd injured. 
 
 Ld. H. You are a woman, madam, and my father's 
 widow. But sure you think you've highly injured me. 
 \Hen Lord Brumpton and Trusty half enter and obseme. 
 
 Wid. No, sir, I have not, will not, injure you. I
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 8q 
 
 must obey the will of my deceased lord to a tittle ; I must 
 justly pay legacies. Your father, in consideration that 
 you were his blood, would not wholly alienate you. He 
 left you, sir, this shilling, with which estate you now are 
 Earl of Brumpton. 
 
 Ld. H. Insolent woman ! it was not me my good 
 father disinherited ; 'twas him you represented. The 
 guilt was thine ; he did an act of justice. 
 
 Lord Brumpton, entering icnfh Trusty. 
 
 Ld. B. Oh, unparalleled goodness I 
 Tattleaid and Mademoiselle at the other door entering. 
 
 Tru. Oh ! Tattleaid, his and our hour is come. 
 
 Wid. What do I see? My lord, my master, husband, 
 living ? 
 
 Ld. B. \Turning from her, running to his son."] Oh, X 
 my boy, my son. Mr. Campley, Sharlot, Harriot ! \All 
 kneeling to him ?\ Oh, my children ! Oh, oh ! These passions 
 are too strong for my old frame. Oh, the sweet torture ! 
 my son ! my son ! I shall expire in the too mighty 
 pleasure ! my boy ! 
 
 Ld. H. A son, an heir, a bridegroom in one hour ! 
 Oh ! grant me. Heaven, grant me moderation ! 
 
 Wid. A son, an heir ! Am I neglected then ? 
 What ? can my lord revive, yet dead to me ? 
 Only to me deceased — to me alone, 
 Deaf to my sighs, and senseless to my moan ? 
 
 Ld. B. 'Tis so long since I have seen plays, good 
 madam, that I know not whence thou dost repeat, nor 
 can I answer. 
 
 Wid. You can remember, though, a certain settlement, 
 in which I am thy son and heir. Great noble, that's I 
 suppose not taken from a play? That's as irrevocable as 
 law can make it, that if you scorn me, your death and 
 life are equal ; or I'll still wear my mourning 'cause 
 you're living.
 
 go THE FVXERAL: [ACT v. 
 
 Tru. Value her not. my lord ; a prior obligation made 
 you incapable of settling on her, your wife. 
 
 Ld. B. Thy kindness, Trusty, does distract thee. I 
 would indeed disengage myself by any honest means, 
 but, alas, I know no prior gift that avoids this to her — Oh, 
 my child ! 
 
 Tru. Look you, madam, I'll come again immedi- 
 ately. Be not troubled, my dear lords \Exit. 
 
 Cam. Trusty looks very confident ; there is some good 
 in that. 
 
 Re-enter Trusty ivWi Cabinet. 
 
 Cab. What, my Lord Brumpton living? nay then 
 
 Tru. Hold, sir, you must not stir, nor can you, sir, 
 retract this for your hand-writing. — My lord, this gen- 
 tleman, since your supposed death, has lurked about the 
 house to speak with my lady, or Tattleaid, who upon your 
 decease have shunned him, in hopes, I suppose, to 
 buy him off for ever. Now, as he was prying about, 
 he peeped into your closet, where he saw your lord- 
 ship reading. Struck with horror, and believing him- 
 self (as well he might) the disturber of your ghost for 
 alienation of your fortune from your family, he writ me 
 this letter, wherein he acknowledges a private marriage 
 with this lady, half a year before you ever saw her. 
 
 All. How ? \_All turn upon her disdaififully. 
 
 Wid. No more a widow then, but still a wife. 
 
 \Recoveri7xg from her confusion. 
 I am thy wife — thou author of my evil. 
 Thou must partake with me an homely board, 
 An homely board that never shall be cheerful ; 
 But every meal embittered with upbraidings. 
 Thou that could'st tell me, good and ill were words. 
 When thou could'st basely let me to another, 
 Yet could'st see sprights, great unbeliever ! 
 Coward ! Bug-beared penitent
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 91 
 
 Stranger henceforth to all my joys, my joys 
 To thy dishonour ; despicable thing, 
 Dishonour thee ? Thou voluntary cuckold. 
 
 [Cabinet sneaks off, \N\TxyNjlings after hbn, 
 'Y ATTh'EAiT) following. 
 Ld. B. I see you're all confused as well as I, Ye 
 are my children, I hold you all so ; and for your own 
 use will speak plainly to you. I cannot hate that woman ; 
 nor shall she ever want. Though I scorn to bear her 
 injuries, yet had I ne'er been roused from that low pas- 
 sion to a worthless creature, but by disdain of her attempt 
 on my friend's child. I am glad that scorn's confirmed 
 by her being that fellow's, whom, for my own sake, I only 
 will contemn. Thee, Trusty, how shall we prosecute 
 with equal praise and thanks for this great revolution in 
 our house ? 
 
 Tru. Never to speak on't more, my lord. 
 
 Ld. B. You are now, gentlemen, going into cares at a 
 crisis ^ in your country. 
 
 And on this great occasion, Tom, I'll mount 
 
 Old Campley which thy father gave me, 
 
 And attend thee a cheerful gay old man, 
 
 Into the field to represent our county. 
 
 My rough plebeian Britons, not yet slaves 
 
 To France, shall mount thy father's son 
 
 Upon their shoulders. Echo loud their joy, 
 
 While I and Trubty follow weeping after : 
 
 But be thou honest, firm, impartial, 
 
 Let neither love, nor hate, nor faction move thee, "^ 
 
 Distinguish words from things, and men from crimes ; 
 
 1 A favourite woid with Steele. In the first scene of the play 
 Sable says : "There's a what d'ye call, a ciisis." In 1714, Steele 
 wrote a famous pamphlet called The Crisis. " Plebian Britons," 
 five lines below, leminds us of his four pamphlets, The Plebeian^ 
 on the Peeragj Bill of 17 19. 
 
 * Steele always maintained in his own political career the honest 
 independent attitude here recommended.
 
 92 THE FUNERAL: [act v. 
 
 Punctual be thou in payments, nor basely 
 
 Screen thy faults 'gainst law, behind the 
 
 Laws thou makest 
 
 But thou against my death, must learn a supereroga- 
 tory morality. \To Lord Hardy. 
 
 As he is to be just, be generous thou : 
 
 Nor let thy reasonable soul be struck 
 
 With sounds and appellations ; title is 
 
 No more, if not significant 
 
 Of something that's superior in thyselt 
 
 To other men, of which thou may'st be 
 
 Conscious, yet not proud — But if you swerve 
 
 From higher virtue than the crowd possess, 
 
 Know, they that call thee honourable mock thee. 
 You are to be a Peer, by birth a judge 
 
 Upon your honour, of others' lives and fortunes ; 
 
 Because that honour's dearer than your own. 
 Be good, my son, and be a worthy lord 
 
 For when our shining virtues bless mankind, 
 
 We disappoint the livid malcontents, 
 
 Who long to call our noble Order useless. 
 
 Our all's in danger, sir, nor shall you dally 
 
 Your youth away with your fine wives. 
 
 No, in your country's cause you shall meet death. 
 
 While feeble we with minds resigned do wait it. 
 Not but I intend your nuptials as soon as possible, to 
 draw entails and settlements. How necessary such things 
 are, I had like to have been a fatal instance. 
 
 Cam. But, my lord, here are a couple that need not 
 wait such ceremonies. Please but to sit ; you've been 
 extremely moved, and must be tired. You say we must 
 not spend our time in dalliance; )Ou'll see, my lord, the 
 entertainment reminds us also of nobler things, and what 
 I designed for my own wedding Til compliment the 
 general with. The bride dances finely. Trim, will you 
 dance with her ?
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, GRIEF A-LA-MODE. 93 
 
 Trim. I will, but I can't. There's a countryman of 
 hers without, by accident. 
 
 Ca/n. Ay, but is he a dancer ? 
 
 Trim. Is a Frenchman a dancer ? Is a Welshman a 
 gentleman ? I'll bring him in. 
 
 \_Here a dance and the following songs. 
 
 Set by Mk. Daniel Purcell.' 
 
 Sung by J EMMIE BowiN. 
 
 I, 
 
 On yonder bed supinely laid, 
 Behold thy loved expecting maid : 
 In tremor, blushes, half in tears, 
 Much, much she wishes, more she fears. 
 Take, take her to thy faithful arms. 
 Hymen bestows thee all her charms. 
 
 Heaven to thee bequeaths the fair, 
 To raise thy joy, and lull thy care ; 
 Heaven made grief, if mutual, cease, 
 But joy, divided, to increase : 
 To mourn with her exceeds delight, 
 Darkness with her, the joys of light. 
 
 Sung by Mk. Pate. 
 
 I. 
 
 Arise, arise, great dead, for arms renowned, 
 Rise from your urns, and save your dying story, 
 
 Your deeds will be in dark oblivion drowned, 
 For mighty William seizes all your glory. 
 
 1 Daniel I'urcell, brother of the great musician, Henry Purcell, 
 was appointed organist of Magdalen College, Oxford, in 168O, and 
 of St. Andrew's, Holl)orn, in 17 13. He composed the nm.iic for 
 an opera by George Powell, and died in 1717.
 
 94 THE FUNERAL. [act v 
 
 IT. 
 
 Again the British trumpet sounds, 
 
 Again Britannia bleeds ; 
 To glorious death, or comely wounds, 
 
 Her godlike monarch leads. 
 
 III. 
 Pay us, kind fate, the debt you owe, 
 
 Celestial minds from clay untie, 
 Let coward spirits dwell below. 
 
 And only give the brave to die. 
 
 Ld. B. Now, gentlemen, let the miseries which I have 
 but miraculously escaped, admonish you to have always 
 inclinations proper for the stage of life you're in. Don't 
 follow love when nature seeks but ease ; otherwise you'll 
 fall into a lethargy of your dishonour, when warm 
 pursuits of glory are over with you ; for fame and rest 
 are utter opposites. 
 
 You who the path of honour make your guide. 
 Must let your passion with your blood subside ; 
 And no untiraed ambition, love, or rage 
 Employ the moments of declining age ; 
 Else boys will in your presence lose their fear. 
 And laugh at the grey-head they should revere.
 
 spoken by Lord Hardy. 
 
 Love, hope and fear, desire, aversion, rage, 
 All that can move the soul, or can assuage. 
 Are drawn in miniature of life, the stage. 
 Here you can view yourselves, and here is shown 
 To what you're born in sufferings not your own. 
 The stage to wisdom's no fantastic way, 
 Athens herself learned virtue at a play. 
 Our author me to-night a soldier drew. 
 But faintly writ, what warmly you pursue : 
 To his great purpose, had he equal fire. 
 He'd not aim to please only, but inspire ; 
 He'd sing what hovering fate attends our isle, 
 And from base pleasure rouse to glorious toil : 
 Full time the earth to a new decision brings \ 
 While William gives the Roman eagle wings : 
 With arts and arms shall Britain tamely end, 
 Which naked Picts so bravely could defend ? 
 The painted heroes on th' invaders press, 
 And think their wounds addition to their dress ; 
 In younger years we've been with conquest blest, 
 And Paris has the British yoke confessed ; 
 Is't then in England, in lost England, known, 
 Her kings are named from a revolted throne ? 
 But we offend — You no examples need, 
 In imitation of yourselves proceed \
 
 q6 
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 [ACT V. 
 
 'Tis you your country's honour must secure, 
 By all your actions worthy of Namur : 
 With gentle fires your gallantry improve, 
 Courage is brutal, if untouched with love : 
 If soon our utmost bravery's not displayed, 
 Think that bright circle must be captives made; 
 Let thoughts of saving them our toils beguile, 
 And they reward our labours with a smile.
 
 THE LYIiXG LOVET{: 
 
 OR 
 
 THE LcAVIES' F1{IE^VSHIT. 
 
 'r^iCUBnUiUU/JRi-r- 
 
 " Haec nosse salus est adolescentulis." '^Tertullian. 
 
 1 ,To have known these things is safety to the young. 
 
 Steele.
 
 'H'E Zjhig Lover: or the Ladies' Friend- 
 ship, a Comedy, was acted at Dmry 
 Lane Theatre on December 2, 1703, 
 and ran for six nights. It was pub- 
 lished by Bernard Lintot on January 
 26, 1704. Wilks (Bookwit, jun.), 
 Mills (Lovemore), Gibber (Laiine), 
 Pinkethman (Storm), and Bullock (Charcoal), together 
 with Mrs. Oldfield (Victoria), and Mrs. Rogers (Pene- 
 lope), acted in this piece, which, so far as is known, has 
 been revived only once (April 4, 1746) since it was 
 originally produced. The plot was taken from Le 
 Meiiteur, by Corneille, who had borrowed from Ruiz 
 de Alarcon's Verdad Sospechosa. Steele is, of course, 
 solely responsible for the scenes in Newgate towards the 
 end of the piece. Samuel Foote afterwards made much 
 use of Steele's play in his Liar.
 
 To His G?'acc the 
 
 DUKE OF ORMONDE 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 UT of gratitude to the memorable and 
 illustrious patron of my infancy,^ 
 your Grace's grandfather, I presume 
 to lay this Comedy at your feet. 
 The design of it is to banish out of 
 conversation all entertainment which 
 does not proceed from simplicity of 
 mind, good-nature, friendship, and honour. Such a pur- 
 pose will not, I hope, be unacceptable to so great a lover 
 of mankind as your Grace ; and if your patronage can 
 recommend it to all who love and honour the Duke of 
 Ormond, its reception will be as extensive as the world 
 itself. 
 
 'Twas the irresistible force ot this humanity in your 
 temper that has carried you through the various successes 
 of war, with the peculiar and undisputed distinction that 
 you have drawn your sword without other motive than a 
 
 1 James, second Duke of Ormond, was in command of the 
 expedition against Spain in 1702, when there were successes at 
 Cadiz, Vigo, etc. ; great booty was taken, and many galleons were 
 sunk. Steele alludes below to this " wealth of the Indies." On 
 February 4, 1 703, the Duke was madeLord-Lieutcnant of Ireland. 
 
 2 James Butler, first Duke of Ormond. Steele's uncle and 
 guardian, Henry Gascoigne, was the Duke's secretary, and had 
 obtained, through his employer, a place upon tiie foundation of 
 the Charterhouse for Steele. Four years later (1688) the Duke 
 died, and was succeeded by his grandson.
 
 loo EPISTLE DEDTCA TOR Y. 
 
 passionate regard for the glory of your country ; since 
 before you entered into its service, you were possessed 
 of its highest honours, but could not be contented with 
 the illustrious rank your birth gave you, without repeat- 
 ing the glorious actions by which it was acquired. 
 
 But there cannot be less expected from the son of an 
 Ossoiy, than to contemn life, to adorn it, and with 
 munificence, affability, scorn of gain, and passion for 
 glory, to be the honour and example to the profession of 
 arms ; all which engaging qualities your noble family has 
 exerted with so steadfast a loyalty, that in the most 
 adverse fortune of our monarchy, popularity, which in 
 others had been invidious, was a security to the Crown, 
 when lodged in the House of Ormond. 
 
 Thus your Grace entered into the business of the 
 world with so great an expectation, that it seemed im- 
 possible there could be anything left which might still 
 conduce to the honour of your name. But the most 
 memorable advantage your country has gained this 
 century was obtained under your command ; and Provi- 
 dence thought fit to give the wealth of the Indies into 
 his hands, who only could despise it; while, with a 
 superior generosity, he knows no reward but in oppor- 
 tunities of bestowing. The great personage whom you 
 succeed in your honours, made me feel, before I was 
 sensible of the benefit, that this glorious bent of mind is 
 hereditary to you. I hope, therefore, you will pardon 
 me, that I take the liberty of expressing my veneration 
 for his remains, by assuring your Grace that I am, 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 Your Grace's most obedient 
 
 And most devoted 
 
 Humble Servant, 
 
 Richard Steele.
 
 <f^^«f^ 
 
 #te>»^<^4-^^ 
 
 THE PREFACE. 
 
 -£-8K)«^a«(«-J- 
 
 HOUGH it ought to be the care of all 
 Governments that pubHc representa- 
 tions should have nothing in them 
 but what is agreeable to the manners, 
 laws, religion, and policy of the place 
 or nation in which they are exhibited ; 
 yet is it the general complaint of the 
 more learned and virtuous amongst us, that the PZnglish 
 stage has extremely offended in this kind. I thought, 
 therefore, it would be an honest ambition to attempt a 
 Comedy which might be no improper entertainment in a 
 Christian commonwealth. 
 
 In order to this, the spark of this play is introduced 
 with as much agility and Hfe as he brought with him from 
 France, and as much humour as I could bestow upon 
 him in England. But he uses the advantages of a 
 learned education, a ready fancy, and a liberal fortune, 
 without the circumspection and good sense which should 
 always attend the pleasures of a gentleman ; that is to 
 say, a reasonable creature. 
 
 Thus he makes false love, gels drunk, and kills 
 man ; but in the fifth Act awakes from his debauch, with 
 
 LIBKARY
 
 102 THE PREFACE. 
 
 ihe compunction and remorse which is suitable to a 
 man's finding himself in a gaol for the death of his 
 friend, without his knowing why. 
 
 The anguish he there expresses, and the mutual sorrow 
 between an only child and a tender father in that dis- 
 tress, are, perhaps, an injury to the rules of comedy, but 
 I am sure they are a justice to those of morality. And 
 passages of such a nature being so frequently applauded 
 on the stage, it is high time that we should no longer 
 draw occasions of mirth from those images which the 
 religion of our country tells us we ought to tremble at 
 with horror. 
 
 But her Most Excellent Majesty has taken the stage 
 into her consideration ; ^ and we may hope, by her 
 gracious influence on the Muses, wit will recover from its 
 apostasy ; and that, by being encouraged in the interests 
 of virtue, it will strip vice of the gay habit in which it 
 has too long appeared, and clothe it in its native dress ot 
 shame, contempt, and dishonour. 
 
 ' On the 13th of January, 1704, one week before the publication 
 of this play, tlie Queen issued an Order for the regulation of the 
 playhouses, proliibiting them from acting anything contrary to 
 religion and good manners (Salmon's Chronological Historian).
 
 _2=^^i^@^^ 
 
 Wl PROLOGUE. W 
 
 All the commanding powers that awe mankind 
 
 Are in a trembling poet's audience joined, 
 
 Where such bright galaxies of beauty sit, 
 
 And at their feet assembled men of wit : 
 
 Our author, therefore, owns his deep despair 
 
 To entertain the learned or the fair ; 
 
 Yet hopes that both will so much be his friends. 
 
 To pardon what he does, for what he intends ; 
 
 He aims to make the coming action move 
 
 On the dread laws of friendship and of love ; 
 
 Sure then he'll find but very few severe. 
 
 Since there's of both so many objects here. 
 
 He offers no gross vices to your sight. 
 
 Those too much horror raise for just delight ; 
 
 And to detain the attentive knowing ear. 
 
 Pleasure must still have something that's severe.' 
 
 If then you find our author treads the stage 
 
 With just regard to a reforming age ; 
 
 He hopes, he humbly hopes, you'll think there's due 
 
 Mercy to him, for justice done to you. 
 
 1 This line is repeated from Steele's Procession, 1095.
 
 c:aS^^%35:SL. 
 
 Old Bookwit, 
 
 Young Bookwit, the " Lying Lover." 
 
 LovEMORE, in love with Penelope. 
 
 Frederick, Friend to Lovemore. 
 
 Latin K, Friend to Young Bookwit. 
 
 Storm, a Highwayman. 
 
 Charcoal, an Alchemist and Coiner. 
 
 Simon, Servant to Penelope. 
 
 Penelope. 
 
 Victoria, Friend to Penelope. 
 
 Betty, Victoria's Woman. 
 
 Lettice, Penelope's Woman. 
 
 Constables, Watch, Turnkey, Cookmaid, and several 
 Gaol-birds. 
 
 SCENE— London.
 
 THE LYIUHiG. LOVET{: 
 
 OR 
 
 THE LcAVIES' F\IE[XPSHIT. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE. — St. "James's Park. 
 
 Enter Young Bookwit and Latine, 
 
 ATINE. But have you utterly left Ox- 
 ford ? 
 
 y. Book. For ever, sir, for ever ; 
 my father has given me leave to come 
 to town, and I don't question but will 
 let my return be in my own choice. 
 But Jack, you know we were talking 
 in Maudlcn Walks last week of the necessity, in intrigues, 
 of a faithful, yet a prating servant. We agreed, there- 
 fore, to cast lots who should be the other's footman for 
 the present expedition. Fortune, that's always blind, 
 gave me the superiority. 
 
 Lat. She shall be called no more so, lor that one
 
 1 06 THE L YING L O VER : [act i . 
 
 action. And I am, sir, in a literal sense, your very 
 humble servant. 
 
 Y. Book. Begin, then, the duty of a useful valet, and 
 flatter me egregiously. Has the fellow fitted me ? How 
 is my manner ? my mien ? Do I move freely ? Have I 
 kicked off the trammels of a gown ? or does not the tail 
 on't seem still tucked under my arm, where my hat is, 
 with a pert jerk forward, and little hitch in my gait like a 
 scholastic beau ? This wig, I fear, looks like a cap. 
 
 Lat. No, faith, it looks like a cap and gown too ; 
 though at the same time you look as if you ne'er had 
 worn either. 
 
 Y. Book. But my sword, does it hang careless ? Do I 
 look bold, neghgent, and erect ? that is, do I look as if 
 I could kill a man without being out of humour? I 
 horridly mistrust myself. Am I military enough in my 
 air ? I fancy people see I understand Greek. Don't I 
 pore a little in my visage ? Han't I a down bookish 
 lour, a wise sadness ? I don't look gay enough and 
 unthinking, I fancy. 
 
 Lat. I protest you wrong yourself. You look very 
 brisk and very ignorant. 
 
 Y. Book. O fie ! I am afraid you flatter me. 
 
 Lat. I don't indeed ; I'll be hanged if my tutor would 
 know either of us. But, good master, to what use do 
 you design to put the noble arts and sciences he taught 
 us? The conduct of our lives, the government of our 
 passions, were his daily talk to us, good man ! 
 
 Y. Book. Good man ! Why I'll obey his precepts, but 
 abridge 'em. For as he used to advise me, I'll contract 
 my thoughts, as I'll tell you, Jack : — for the passions, I'll 
 turn 'em all into that one dear passion, love ; and when 
 that's the only torture of my heart, I'll give that tortured 
 heart quite away ; deny there's any such thing as pain, 
 and turn stoic a shorter way than e'er thy tutor taught 
 thee. This is the new philosophy, you rogue you.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 107 
 
 Lat. But you would not in earnest be thought wholly 
 illiterate ? 
 
 Y. Book. No ; for as when I walk, I'd have you know 
 by my motion I can dance ; so when I speak, I'd have 
 you see I read : yet would ordinarily neither cut capers 
 nor talk sentences. But you prate as if I came to town 
 to get an employment. No ; hang business, hang care \ 
 let it live and prosper among the men ; I'll ne'er go 
 near the solemn ugly things again. I'll keep company 
 with none but ladies — bright ladies, O London ! 
 London ! O woman ! woman ! I am come where thou 
 livest, where thou shinest. 
 
 Lat. Hey-day ! why, were there no women in 
 Oxford ? 
 
 Y. Book. No, no ; why, do you think a bed-maker's a 
 woman ? 
 
 Lat. Yes, and thought you knew it. 
 
 Y. Book. No, no, 'tis no such thing. As he that is 
 not honest or brave is no man ; so she that is not witty 
 or fair is no woman. No, no, Jack, to come up to that 
 high name and object of desire, she must be gay and 
 chaste, she must at once attract, and banish you. I 
 don't know how to express myself, but a woman, me- 
 thinks, is a being between us and angels. She has 
 something in her that at the same time gives awe and 
 invitation ; and I swear to you I was never out in 't yet, 
 but I always judged of men as I observed they judged of 
 women. There's nothing shows a man so much as the 
 object of his affections. — But what do you stare at so 
 considerately ? 
 
 Lat. Faith, sir, I am wondering at you — how 'tis pos- 
 sible you could be so jaunty a town-spark in a moment, 
 and have so easy a behaviour. I look, methinks, to 
 you, as if I were really your footman. 
 
 \. Book. Why, if you're serious in what you say, I 
 owe it wholly to the indulgence of an excellent father, in
 
 1 08 THE L YING L O VER : [act I . 
 
 whose company I was always free and unconstrained. 
 But what's this to ladies, Jack, to ladies ? I was going 
 to tell you I had studied 'em, and know how to make 
 my approaches to 'em by contemplating their frame, 
 their inmost temper. I don't ground my hopes on the 
 scandalous tales and opinions your wild fellows have of 
 'em — fellows that are but mere bodies, machines — which 
 at best can but move gracefully. No ; I draw my pre- 
 tences from philosophy — from nature. 
 
 Lat. You'll give us by-and-by a lecture over your 
 mistress : you can dissect her. 
 
 Y. Book. That I can, indeed, and have so accurately 
 observed on woman, that I can know her mind by her 
 eye as well as her doctor shall her health by her pulse ; 
 I can read approbation through a glance of disdain ; can 
 see when the soul is divided by a sparkling tear that 
 twinkles and betrays the heart. A sparkling tear's the 
 dress and livery of love — of love made up of hope and 
 fear, of joy and grief. 
 
 Lat. ^ But what have the wars to do with all this? 
 Why must you needs commence soldier all of a sudden ? 
 
 1 Cliton. Qu'a de piopre la guerre a montrer votre flamme .■' 
 Dorante. O le beau compliment a charmer une dame, 
 
 De lui dire d'abord : " J'apporte a vos beautes . 
 
 Un coeur nouveau-venu des univeisites ; 
 
 Si vous avez besoin de lois et de rubiiques, 
 
 Je sais le Code entier avec les Authenliques, 
 
 Le Digestd nouveau, 1j vieux, I'lufortidt, 
 
 Ce qu'eu a dit Jason, Balde, Accurse, Akiat ! " 
 
 Qu'un si riche discours nous rend considerables ! 
 
 Qu'on amollit par la de coeurs inexoiat)les ! 
 
 Qu'un homme a paragraphe est un joli galant ! 
 On s'introduit bicn nutux a titre de vaillant : 
 
 Tout le secret ne git qu'en un peu de grimace, 
 
 A meiiiir a propos, jurer de bonne grace, 
 
 £taler force mots qu'elk-s n'entendcnt pas ; 
 
 Faire sonner Lamboy, Jean de Vert, et Galas; 
 
 Nommer quelques chateaux de qui les noms barbares. 
 
 Plus ils blessent I'oreille, et plus leur semblent rares ; 
 
 Avoir toujours en bouciie angles, lignes, fosses, 
 
 Vedette, contrescarpe, et travaux avances : 
 
 Sans ordie et sans raison, n'imporie, on les etonae ;
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 109 
 
 Y. Book. Were 't not a taking compliment with my 
 coUege face and phrase to accost a lady : — " Madam, I 
 bring your ladyship a learned heart, one newly come 
 from the University. If you want definitions, axioms, 
 and arguments, I am an able schoolman. I've read 
 Aristotle twice over, compared his jarring commentators 
 too, examined all the famous peripatetics, know where 
 the Scotists and the Nominals differ : " — this, certainly, 
 must needs enchant a lady. 
 
 Lat. This is too much on th' other side. 
 
 Y. Book. The name of soldier bids you better wel- 
 come. 'Tis valour and feats done in the field a man 
 should be cried up for ; nor is 't so hard to achieve. 
 
 Lat. The fame of it, you mean ? 
 
 Y. Book. Yes ; and that will serve. 'Tis but looking 
 big, bragging with an easy grace, and confidently mus- 
 tering up an hundred hard names they understand not : 
 Thunder out Villeroy, Catinat, and Boufflers ; speak of 
 strange towns and castles, whose barbarous names, the 
 harsher they're to the ear, the rarer and more taking; 
 still running over lines, trenches, outworks, counter- 
 scarps, and forts, citadels, mines, countermines, pic- 
 keering, pioneers, sentinels, patrols, and others, without 
 sense or order; that matters not, the women are 
 amazed, they admire to hear you rap 'em out so 
 readily; and many a one that went no farther for it, 
 retailing handsomely some warlike terms, passes for a 
 brave fellow. Don't stand gaping, but live and learn, 
 my lad. I can tell thee ten thousand arts to make 
 thee known and valued in these regions of wit and 
 gallantry — the park, the playhouse. 
 
 Lat. Now you put me in mind where we are. What 
 have we to do here thus early, now there's no company ? 
 
 On leur fait admirer les bales qu'on leur donne : 
 
 Et tel a la faveur d'un semblable del)it, 
 
 Passe pour homme illustre, et se met en credit. 
 
 [Le Menteur, Act 1. Scene VI.
 
 1 1 THE L YING L O VER : [act I . 
 
 Y. Book. Oh ! sir, I have put on so much of the 
 soldier with my red coat, that I came here to observe 
 the ground I am to engage upon. Here must I act, 
 I know, some lover's part, and therefore came to view 
 this pleasant walk. I privately rambled to town last 
 November. Here, ay here, I stood and gazed at high 
 Mall, till I forgot it was winter, so many pretty shes 
 marched by me. Oh ! to see the dear things trip, trip 
 along, and breathe so short, nipt with the season ! I 
 saw the very air not without force leave their dear lips. 
 Oh ! they were intolerably handsome. 
 
 Lat. You'll see, perhaps, such to-day; but how to 
 come at 'em ? 
 
 Y. Book. Ay, there's it, how to come at 'em. 
 
 Lat} Are you generous ? 
 
 K Book. I think I am no niggard. 
 
 Lat. You must entertain them high, and bribe all 
 about them. They talk of Ovid and his Art of Loving ; 
 be liberal, and you outdo his precepts. The art of love, 
 sir, is the art of giving. Be free to women, they'll be 
 free to you. Not every open-handed fellow hits it 
 neither. Some give by lapfulls, and yet ne'er oblige. 
 The manner, you know, of doing a thing is more than 
 the thing itself. Some drop a jewel, which had been 
 refused if bluntly offered. 
 
 Y. Book. Some lose at play what they design a 
 present. 
 
 Lat. Right ; the skill is to be generous, and seem not 
 to know it of yourself, 'tis done with so much ease ; but 
 a liberal blockhead presents his mistress as he'd give an 
 alms. 
 
 F. Book. Leaving such blockheads to their deserved 
 ill-fortune, tell me if thou know'st these ladies ? 
 
 Lat. No, not I, sir ; they are above an academic 
 
 ' This dialogue, down to the exit of Latino, is based upon Le 
 Menteur, i. i.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. iii 
 
 converse many degrees. I've seen ten thousand verses writ 
 in the University on wenches not fit to be either of their 
 handmaids. I never spoke to such a fine thing as either 
 in my whole Ufe — I'm downright asleep o' sudden. I 
 must fall back, and glad it is my place to do so ; yet I 
 can get you intelligence perhaps. I'll to the footman. 
 
 Y. Book. Do you think he'll tell ? 
 
 Lat. He would not to you, perhaps, but to a brother 
 footman. Do but hsten at the entrance of the Mall at 
 noon, and you'll have all the ladies' characters in town 
 among their lackeys. You know all fame begins from 
 our domestics. 
 
 Y. Book. That was a wise man's observation. Follow 
 him, and know what you can. \Exit Latin e. 
 
 Enter Penelope, Victoria, Simon, and Lettice. 
 
 Pen. A walk round would be too much for us ; we'll 
 keep the Mall. — But to our talk : I must confess I have 
 terrors when I think of marrying Lovemore. He is, 
 indeed, a man of an honest character. He has my good 
 opinion, but love does not always follow that. He is so 
 wise a fellow, always so precisely in the right, so observ- 
 ing and so jealous ; he's blameless indeed, but not to be 
 commended. What good he has, has no grace in it ; 
 he's one of those who's never highly moved, except to 
 anger. Give me a man that has agreeable faults rather 
 than offensive virtues. 
 
 Vict. Offensive virtues, madam ? 
 
 Pen. Yes, I don't know how — there's a sort of virtue, 
 or prudence, or what you'll call it, that we can but just 
 approve. That does not win us, Lovemore wants that 
 fire, that conversation-spirit I would have. They say 
 he's learned as well as discreet, but I'm no judge of that, 
 I'm sure he's no woman's scholar ; his wisdom he should 
 turn into wit, and his learning into jjoetry or humour.
 
 112 THE LYING LOVER : , [act i. 
 
 Vict. Well, I'm not so much of your mind ; I like a 
 sober passion. 
 
 Pen. A sober passion ! you took me up just now when 
 I said an offensive virtue. — Bless me ! 
 
 \Stumbling almost to a fall. 
 
 Y. Book.^ [^Catching /ler-l How much am I indebted 
 to an accident, that favours me with an occasion of this 
 small service ! for 'tis to me an happiness beyond ex- 
 pression thus to kiss your hand. 
 
 Fen. The occasion, methinks, is not so obliging, nor 
 the happiness you mention worth that name, sir. 
 
 Y. Book. 'Tis true, madam, I owe it all to fortune ; 
 neither your kindness nor my industry had any share in 't. 
 Thus am I still as wretched as I was, for this happiness 
 I so much prize had doubtless been refused my want 
 of merit. 
 
 Fen. It has veiy soon, you see, lost what you valued 
 m it ; but I find you and I, sir, have a different sense ; 
 for, in my opinion, we enjoy with most pleasure what we 
 attain with least merit. Merit is a claim, and may pre- 
 tend justly to favour ; when without it what's conferred 
 is more unexpected, and therefore more pleasing. 
 
 Y. Book. You talk very well, madam, of an happiness 
 you can't possibly be acquainted with, the enjoying with- 
 out desert. But indeed you have done me a very singular 
 good office, in letting me know myself very much quali- 
 fied for felicity. 
 
 Vict. I swear he's a very pretty fellow, and how 
 readily the thing talks ! I begin to pity Lovemore, but I 
 begin to hate Penelope. How he looks ! he looks at her ! 
 
 Y. Book.^ But judge, madam, what the condition of a 
 passionate man must be, that can approach the hand 
 only of her he dies for, when her heart is inaccessible. 
 
 1 The four following speeches are a free translation from Le 
 Menteur, i. ii. 
 
 - From Le Menteur, i. ii
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 113 
 
 Pen. 'Tis very well the heart h'es not so easily to be 
 
 seized as the hand — I find Pray, sir — I don't know 
 
 what there is in this very odd fellow : I'm not angry, 
 though he's downright rude — but I must 
 
 Y. Book. But your heart, madam, your heart — 
 
 \Pressingly. 
 
 Pen. You seemed, sir, I must confess, to have shown 
 a ready civility when I'd like to fall just now, for which 
 I could not but thank you, and permit you to say what 
 you pleased on that occasion — " But your heart, madam ! " 
 'tis a sure sign, sir, you know not me ; or, if you are 
 what indeed you seem — a gentleman — sure you forget 
 yourself, or rather you talk, by memory, a form or cant 
 which you mistake for something that's gallant. 
 
 Y. Book. Madam, I very humbly beg your pardon, if 
 I pressed too far and too abruptly. I forgot, indeed, 
 that I broke through decencies, and that though you 
 have been long a familiar to me, I am a stranger to you. 
 
 Pen. Pray, familiar stranger, what can you mean ? I 
 never saw you before this instant, nor you me, I believe. 
 
 Y. Book.^ Perhaps not, that you know of, madam, for 
 your humility, it seems, makes you so little sensible of 
 your own perfection, that you overlook your conquest ; 
 nor have you e'er observed me, though I hover day and 
 night about your lodging, haunt you from place to place, 
 at balls, in the park, at church. I gave you all the 
 serenades you've had, yet never till this minute could I 
 find you, and this minute an unfortunate one — But this 
 is always my luck when I'm out of the field. 
 
 Vict. You've travelled then, and seen the wars, sir? 
 
 Y. Book. I — madam — I — all that I know of the matter 
 is, that Louis the Fourteenth mortally hates me. They 
 talk of French gold — what heaps have I refused ! Yet to 
 be generous even to an enemy, I must allow that Prince 
 
 ' The general idea of the ensuing dialogue, down to Die exit of 
 the ladies, is taken from Le Menteur, i. iii. 
 
 Steele. I
 
 I i 4 THE L YING L O VER : [ACT I . 
 
 has reason for his rancour to me. There has not been a 
 skirmish, siege, or battle since I bore arms, I made not 
 one in ; no, nor the least advantage got of the enemy, but 
 I had my share, though perhaps not all my share of the 
 glory. You've seen my name, though you don't know it, 
 often in the Gazette. 
 
 Fen. I never read news. 
 
 Ejiter Latin E. 
 
 Lat. What tale's he telling now, tro' ? 
 
 Y. Book. You've never heard, I suppose, of such 
 names as Ruremonde, Kaiserswerth, and Liege ? nor read 
 of an English gentleman left dead by his precipitancy 
 upon a parapet at Venloo ? I was thought so indeed, when 
 the first account came away. Every man has his failings ; 
 rashness is my fault. 
 
 Lat. Don't you remember a certain place called 
 Oxford among your towns, sir ? 
 
 Y. Book. Pshaw, away — Oh ! oh ! — I beg your pardon, 
 ladies, this fellow knows I was shot in my left arm, and 
 cannot bear the least touch, yet will still be rushing on 
 me. 
 
 Lat. He has a lie, I think, in every joint. [Aside. 
 
 Pen. Do you bear any commission, sir? 
 
 Y. Book. There's an intimate of mine, a general officer, 
 who has often said, Tom, if thou would'st but stick to 
 any one application, thou might'st be anything. 'Tis my 
 misfortune, madam, to have a mind too extensive. I 
 began last summer's campaign with the renowned Prince 
 Eugene, but was forced to fly into Holland for a duel 
 with that rough Captain of the Hussars, Paul Diack. They 
 talk of a regiment for me, but those things — besides, it 
 will oblige me to attend it, and then I can't follow 
 honour where'er she's busiest, but must be confined to 
 one nation ; when indeed 'tis rather my way of serving 
 with such of our allies as most want me.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 115 
 
 Pen. But I see you soldiers never enjoy such a thing 
 as rest: You but come home in winter to turn your 
 valour on the ladies — 'tis but just a change of your war- 
 fare. 
 
 Y. Book. I had immediately returned to Holland, but 
 your beauties at my arrival here disarmed me, madam, 
 made me a man of peace, or raised a civil war within me 
 rather. You took me prisoner at first sight, and to your 
 charms I yielded up an heart, till then unconquered. 
 Martial delights (once best and dearest to me) vanished 
 before you in a moment, and all my thoughts grew bent 
 to please and serve you. 
 
 Lett. Lovemore's in the walk, madam ; he'll be in a fit. 
 
 Y. Book. Rob me o' the sudden thus of all my happi- 
 ness ! Yet ere you quite forsake me, authorise my 
 passion, license my innocent flames, and give me leave 
 to love such charming sweetness. 
 
 Pen. He that will love, and knows what 'tis to love, 
 will ask no leave of any but himself. \Exeujit Ladies, etc. 
 
 Y. Book. Follow 'em, Jack. 
 
 Lat. I know as much of 'em already as needs : the 
 footman was in his talking vein. The handsomer of the 
 two, says he, I serve, and she lives in the Garden. 
 
 Y. Book. What Garden ? 
 
 Lat. Covent Garden ; the other lies there too. I did 
 not stay to ask her name, but I shall meet him again ; I 
 took particular notice of the livery. 
 
 Y. Book. Ne'er trouble thyself to know which is which, 
 my heart and my good genius tell me, 'tis she, that pretty 
 she I talked to. 
 
 Lat. If, with respect to your worship's opinion, I might 
 presume to be of a contrary one, I should think the other 
 the handsomer now. 
 
 Y. Book. What, the dumb thing,' the [)icture? — No, 
 love is the union of minds, and she that engages mine 
 ' The dialogue thus far clusely follows Le Menteur, \. iv.
 
 1 1 6 THE L YING L O VER : [ACT I . 
 
 must be very well able to express her own. But I 
 suppose some scolding landlady has made you thus 
 enamoured with silence. But here are two of the dearest 
 of my old comrades — they seem amazed at something by 
 their action. 
 
 Enter Lovemore and Frederick. 
 
 Fred} How ! a collation on the water, and music too? 
 
 Love. Yes, music and a collation. 
 
 Fred. Last night ? 
 
 Love. Last night too. 
 
 Fred. An handsome treat ? 
 
 Love. A very noble one. 
 
 Fred. Who gave it ? 
 
 Love. That I'm yet to learn. 
 
 Y. Book. How happy am I to meet you here ! 
 
 f Love. When I embrace you thus, no happiness can 
 
 equal mine. [Sali/ti/ig. 
 
 Y. Book. I thrust myself intrudingly upon you ; but 
 
 you'll pardon a man o'erjoyed to see you. 
 
 Love. Where you're always welcome you never can 
 
 intrude. 
 
 Y. Book. What were you talking of? 
 
 Love. Of an entertainment. 
 
 K Book. Given by some lover? 
 
 Love. As we suppose. 
 
 Y. Book. That circumstance deserves my curiosity, 
 
 pray go on, and let me share the story. 
 
 Love. Some ladies had the fiddles last night. 
 
 Y. Book. Upon the water, too, methought you said ? 
 
 Love. Yes, 'twas upon the water. 
 
 Y. Book. Water often feeds the flame. 
 
 Love. Sometimes. 
 
 1 This passage, down to the end of Young Bookwit's description 
 of the feast — " twelve dishes to a course " — is a hteral translation 
 from Le Menteur, i. v. The whole scene appears again in slightly 
 varied form in Fuote's Lia?-.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, IHE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 117 
 
 Y. Book. And by night too ? 
 
 Love. Yes, last night. 
 
 Y. Book. He chose his time well — The lady is hand- 
 some ? 
 
 Love. In most men's eyes she is. 
 
 Y. Book. And the music? 
 
 Love. Good, as we hear. 
 
 Y. Book. Some banquet followed ? 
 
 Love. A sumptuous one, they say. 
 
 Y. Book. And neither of you all this while know who 
 gave this treat ? ha ! ha ! 
 
 Love. D'ye laugh at it ? 
 
 Y. Book. How can I choose, to see you thus admire a 
 slight divertisement I gave myself? 
 
 Love. You ? 
 
 Y. Book. Even I ! 
 
 Love. Why, have you got a mistress here already ? 
 
 Y. Book. I should be sorry else. I've been in town 
 this month or more, though for some reasons I appear 
 but little yet by day. I' the dark o' the evening I peep 
 out, and incognito make some visits. Thus had I spent 
 my time but ill, were not 
 
 Lat. [To Y. Book.] Do you know what you say, sir? 
 Don't lay it on so thick. 
 
 Y. Book. [To Lat.] Nay, you must be sure to take 
 care to be in the way as soon as they land, to shew up- 
 stairs — I beg pardon, I was giving my fellow some direc- 
 tions about receiving some women of quality that sup 
 
 with me to-night incog but you're my dearest friends, 
 
 and shall hear all. 
 
 T'red. [To Love.] How luckily your rival discovers 
 himself ! 
 
 Y. Book. I took five barges, and the fairest kept for 
 my company ; the other four I filled with music of all 
 sorts, and of all sorts the best; in the first were fiddles, 
 i in the next theorbo, lutes, and voices.
 
 1 1 8 THE L YING L O VER : [act i . 
 
 Flutes and such pastoral instruments i' th' third. 
 
 Loud music from the fourth did pierce the air. 
 
 Each concert vied by turns, 
 
 Which with most melody should charm our ears. 
 
 The fifth, the largest of 'em all, was neatly hung, 
 
 Not with dull tapestry, but with green boughs. 
 
 Curiously interlaced to let in air. 
 
 And every branch with jessamines, and orange posies 
 decked ; 
 
 In this the feast was kept. 
 Hither, with five other ladies, I led her whose beauty alone 
 governs my destiny. Supper was served up straight ; I 
 will not trouble you with our bill of fare, what dishes 
 were best liked, what sauces most recommended ; 'tis 
 enough I tell you this delicious feast was of six courses, 
 twelve dishes to a course. 
 
 Lat. That's indeed enough of all conscience. \Aside. 
 
 Love. Oh, the torture of jealousy ! [Aside] — But, sir, 
 how seemed the lady to receive this entertainment ? We 
 must know that. 
 
 y. Book. Oh ! that was the height on't. She, I warrant 
 you, was quite negligent of all this matter. You know 
 their way, they must not seem to like — no, I warrant it 
 would not so much as smile to make the fellow vain, and 
 believe he had power to move delight in her — ha, ha ! 
 
 Love. But how then ? 
 
 Y. Book. Why you must know my humour grew poetic. 
 I pulled off my sword-knot, and Avith that bound up a 
 coronet of ivy, laurel, and flowers ; with that round my 
 temples, and a plate of richest fruits in my hand, on one 
 knee I presented her with it as a cornucopia, an offering 
 from her humble swain of all his harvest — to her the 
 Ceres of our genial feast and rural mirth. She smiled ; 
 the ladies clapped their hands, and all our music struck 
 sympathetic rapture at my happiness ; while gentle winds, 
 the river, air, and shore echoed the harmony in notes
 
 scENK I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 119 
 
 more soft than they received it. Methought all nature 
 seemed to die for love like me. To all my heart and 
 every pulse beat time. Oh, the pleasures of successful 
 love ! ha, Lovemore ! ha ! What, hast thou got a good 
 office lately? you're afraid I should make some request. 
 Prithee ben't so shy, I have nothing to ask but of my 
 mistress — What's the matter ? 
 
 Love. I only attend, sir, I only attend — 
 Y. Book. Then I'll go on. As soon^ as we had supped, 
 the fireworks played. Squibs of all sorts were darted 
 through the skies, whose spreading fires made a new day. 
 A flaming deluge seemed to fall from Heaven, and with 
 such violence attacked the waves, you would have thought 
 the fiery element had left his sphere, to ruin his moist 
 enemy. Their contest done, we landed, danced till day, 
 which hasty Sol disturbed us with too soon. Had he 
 taken our advice, or feared my anger, he might in Thetis's 
 lap have slept as long as at Alcmena's labour he's re- 
 ported. But steering not as we would have prescribed, 
 he put a period to our envied mirth. 
 
 Love. Trust me, you tell us wonders, and with a grace 
 as rare as the feast itself, which all our summer's mirth 
 can't equal. 
 
 Y. Book. My mistress took me o'the sudden ; I liad 
 not a day's warning. 
 
 Love. The treat was costly though, and finely ordered. 
 
 Y. Book. I was forced to take up with this trifle. He 
 that wants time can't do as he would. 
 
 Love. Farewell, we shall meet again at more leisure. 
 
 Y. Book. Number me among your creatures. 
 
 I^ove. Oh jealousy ! Thou rack, jealousy ! 
 
 Fred. [To Lovk.] What reason have you to feel it? 
 the circumstances of tlic feast nothing agree. 
 
 ' The rest of the scene with Lovemore and Frc dciick is fror 
 Le Menteur, i, v.
 
 120 THE LYING LOVER: [act i. 
 
 Love. [To Frkd.] In time and place they do; the rest 
 is nothing. [£xainf Fred, a/id Love. 
 
 Lat^ May I speak now, sir, without oftence ? 
 
 V. Book. 'Tis in your choice now to speak or not, 
 but before company you'll spoil all. 
 
 Lat. Do you walk abroad and talk in your sleep ? or 
 do you use to tell your dreams for current truth ? 
 
 V. Book. Dull brain ! 
 
 Lat. Why, you beat out mine with your battles, your 
 fireworks, your music, and your feasts. You've found an 
 excellent way to go to the wars, and yet keep out of danger. 
 Then you feast your mistresses at the cheapest rate that 
 ever I knew ! Why d'ye make 'em believe you ha' been 
 here these six weeks ? 
 
 Y, Book. My passion has the more growth, and I the 
 better ground to make love. 
 
 Lat. You'd make one beheve fine things, that would 
 but hearken to you ; but this lady might soon have found 
 you out. 
 
 Y. Book. Some acquaintance I have got, however ; this 
 is making love, scholar, and at the best rate too. 
 
 Lat. To speak truth, I'm hardly come to myself yet ; 
 your great supper lies on my stomach still. I defy 
 Pontack- to have prepared a better o'the sudden. Your 
 
 1 The ensuing dialogue is an adaptation fromZ^ Menteiir, i, vi., 
 down to Latine's mention of lying. The rest is Steele's. 
 
 2 Pontack's was a French eating-house in Abchurch Lane, where 
 the Royal Society held its annual dinners until 1746. Pontack was 
 son of the President of the Parliament of Bordeaux, and gave the 
 name to a famous French claret. Evelyn refers to him in his 
 diary, 13 July, 1683, and 30 Nov., 1694, and Swift, in his Journal, 
 16 Aug., 1711 : "Pontack told us, although his wine was so good, 
 he sold it cheaper than others ; he took but seven shillings a flask. 
 Are not these pretty rates 1 " See, too, the prologue to Love's 
 Contrivances, 1 703, by Mrs. Centlivre : — • 
 
 "At Locket's, Brown's, and at Pontack's enquire, 
 What modish kickshaws the nict beaus desire. 
 What faiued ragouts, what new-invented salad. 
 Has best pretensions to regale the palate. 
 Jf we present you with a medley here,
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 121 
 
 enchanted castles, where strangers found strange tables 
 strangely furnished with strange cates, were but sixpenny 
 ordinaries to the fifth barge ; you were an excellent man 
 to write romances, for having feasts and battles at com- 
 mand, your Quixote in a trice would over-run the world ; 
 revelling and skirmishing cost you nothing; then you 
 vary your scene with so much ease, and shift from court 
 to camp with such facility — 
 
 Y. Book. I love thus to outvie a newsmonger; and as 
 soon as I perceive a fallow thinks his story will surprise, I 
 choke him with a stranger, and stop his mouth with 
 an extempore wonder. Did'st thou but know what a 
 pleasure 'tis to cram their own news down their throats 
 again ! 
 
 Lat. 'Tis fine, but may prove dangerous sport, and 
 may involve us in a peck of troubles. Prithee, Tom, 
 consider that I am of quality to be kicked or caned by 
 this 1 
 
 Y. Book. Hush, hush, call it not lying ; as for my 
 waging war, it is but just I snatch and steal from fortune 
 that fame which she denies me opportunity to deserve. 
 My father has cramped me in a college, while all the 
 world has been in action. Then as to my lying to my 
 mistress, 'tis but what all the lovers upon earth do. Call 
 it not then by that coarse name, a lie. 'Tis wit, 'tis fable, 
 allegory, fiction, hyperbole — or be it what you call it, the 
 world's made up almost of nothing else. What are all 
 the grave faces you meet in public ? mere silent lies, 
 dark solemn fronts, by which they would disguise vain 
 
 A hodj^e-podge dish served up in china-w:ue, 
 
 We hope 'twill please, 'cause like your bills of fare." 
 
 Pontack put up a picture of his father's head as a sign (Burn's 
 Descriptive Catalogue of the London Traders' Tavern, and Coffee- 
 House Tokens, 1855, p. 13). From a tract called Tlie Metamor- 
 phoses of the Town, dated 1730, we Icarn that Fontack's was then 
 the resort of extravagant epicures ; in the bill of fare of a " guinea 
 ordinary " aie " a ragout of iatted snails," and " chickens not two 
 hours from the shell."
 
 122 
 
 THE LYING LOVER. 
 
 [ACT I. 
 
 empty silly noddles. But after all, to be serious, since I 
 am resolved honestly to love, I don't care how artfully I 
 obtain the woman I pitch upon ; besides, did you ever 
 know any of them acknowledge they loved as soon as 
 they loved ? No, they'll let a man dwell upon his knees — 
 whom they languish to receive into their arms. They're 
 no fair enemy. Therefore 'tis but just that — 
 
 We use all arts the fair to undermine, 
 
 And learn with gallantry to hide design. \Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I.— Penelope's Lodgings, Covent Garden. 
 
 Efiter Old Bookwit, Penelope, a?id Lettice. 
 
 |LD BOOK. Mistress Penelope, I have 
 your father's leave to wait upon 
 you, madam, and talk to you this 
 morning; nay, to talk to you of 
 marriage. 
 
 Pe7i. To talk to me of marriage, 
 sir? 
 
 O. Book. Yes, madam, in behalf ot my son, Tom 
 Bookwit. 
 
 Pen. Nay, there may perhaps be something said to 
 that. \Aside. 
 
 O. Book} I sent for him from Oxford with that design. 
 He came to town but yesterday ; and, if a father can 
 judge, he brings from a college the mien and air of a 
 court. I love my son entirely, and hope, madam, you 
 take my thoughts as to you, to be no want of respect to 
 you. 
 
 Pen. 'Twere want of sense, sir, to do that. 
 
 O. Book. If I can remember my style to my mistress 
 
 1 Geronte. II vint hier dc Poitiers, mais il sent peu I'ecolc ; 
 Kt, si I'on pouvait croire un pere a sa parole, 
 Quelque ecolier qu'il soit, jc dirais qu'aiijourd'hiii 
 Peu (le nos gens de cour sont mieux tallies (nic lui. 
 
 {Le Menieur, ii. ii.)
 
 124 'i'HE L YING L O VER : [act ll- 
 
 of old, I'll ease Tom's way, and raise her expectation ot 
 my son. \Aside?^ — Madam, had I my hat, my feather, 
 pantaloons, and jerkin on, as when I wooed your humble 
 servant's mother, I wouJd deliver you his errand. I 
 married her just such a young thing as you; her com- 
 plexion was charming, but not indeed with all your 
 sweetness. 
 
 Pen. Oh! sir! 
 
 O. Book. Her neck and bosom were the softest pillows ; 
 her shape was not of that nice sort. Some young women 
 suffer in shapes of their mother's making, by spare diet, 
 straight lacing, and constant chiding. But 'twas the work 
 
 of nature, free, unconstrained, healthy, and But her 
 
 charms had not all that emanation which your's have. 
 
 Pen. O fie ! fie ! 
 
 O. Book. Not those thousand thousand graces, that 
 soft army of loves and zephyrs, millions of airy beings 
 that attend around you, and appear only to the second 
 sight of lovers. 
 
 Pe?i. O fie ! Pray, good sir, you'll leave nothing for 
 your son to say. 
 
 O. Book. I did not think I had such a memory. I 
 find the women are now certainly daughters of the women 
 before 'em : Flattery still does it. \_Aside.'\ — Tom is my 
 only son, and I extremely desire to have him settled. I 
 own I think him of much merit. 
 
 Pen. He would derogate from his birth were he not 
 much a gentleman. But to receive a man in the character 
 of a pretender at first sight 
 
 O. Book. I'll walk him by and by before your window, 
 where your own eyes shall judge. I think there's nothing 
 above his pretences but yourself; but when one of so 
 many excellent qualities bestows herself, it must be con- 
 descension. You shall not answer — Farewell, daughter; 
 we are but too apt to believe what we wish. 
 
 \Exit Old Book.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 125 
 
 Pen. 'Tis as you said, Lettice, Old Bookwit came to 
 propose his son. 
 
 Lett. I overheard the old gentleman talk of it last 
 night. But, madam, you han't heard the song that was 
 made on you. Oh ! 'tis mighty pretty! The gentleman is 
 dying for you, he says it. Pure, pure verses. 
 
 Pett. Whoever writ 'em, he's not the first poet I have 
 made. They may talk, and say nature makes a poet, 
 but I say love makes a poet. Don't you see elder 
 brothers, who are by nature born above wit, shall fall in 
 love, and write verses ; nay, and pretty good ones, con- 
 sidering they can tag 'em to settlements. But let's see. 
 
 \ReadingP\ " To Celia's Spinet. 
 
 " Thou soft machine that dost her hand obey. 
 Tell her my grief in thy harmonious lay." 
 Poor man ! 
 
 " To shun my moan to thee she'll fly ; 
 To her touch be sure reply, 
 And, if she removes it, die." 
 The device is just and truly poetical. 
 
 " Know thy bliss — " 
 Ay, ay^ there I come in. 
 
 " Know thy bliss, with rapture shake. 
 Tremble o'er all thy numerous make ; 
 Speak in melting sounds my tears. 
 Speak my joys, my hopes, my fears — " 
 
 Which all depend upon me. 
 
 " Thus force her, when from me she'd fly, 
 By her own hand, like me, to die." 
 
 Well, certainly nothing touches the heart of woman so 
 much as poetry. I suppose the master is in the next 
 room. 'Tis his hour ; desire him to walk in. 'Twill 
 make one's ears tingle, a song on one's self! 
 
 \IIen the so//g is performed to a spinet.
 
 126 THE LYING LOVER : [act II. 
 
 Well, dost think, Lattice, my grave lover writ this fine 
 thing — say'st thou ? 
 
 Lett. No, madam, nobody writes songs on those they 
 are sure of. 
 
 Pen. Sure of me ! the insolent ! 
 
 Lett. Nay, I know no more but that he said he'd turn 
 me away as soon as he had married you. 
 
 Pen. 'Tis like enough; that's the common practice of 
 your jealous-headed fellows. Well, I have a good mind 
 to dress myself anew, put on my best looks, and send for 
 him to dismiss him. I know he loves me. 
 
 J^ett. I never knew him show it but by his jealousy. 
 
 Pen. As you say, a jealous fellow love ! 'tis all mistake 
 — 'tis only for himself he has desires ; nor cares what the 
 object of his wishes suffers so he himself has satisfaction. 
 — No, he has a gluttony, an hunger for me. 
 
 Lett. An hunger for you ! I protest, madam, if you'd 
 let me be his cook, and make you ready, I'd poison him. 
 But I'm glad Simon disobeyed you, and told the gentle- 
 man's servant who you were, and your lodging. 
 
 Pen. Did the rogue do so? Call him hither. 
 
 Lett. Simon, why Simon ! 
 
 Enter Simon. 
 
 Pen. Sirrah, I find I must at last turn you off, you saucy 
 fellow. Don't stand staring and dodging with your feet, 
 and wearing out your livery hat with squeezing for an 
 excuse, but answer me, and that presently. 
 
 Sim. I will, madam, as soon as you ask me a question. 
 
 Pen. Not afore then — Mr. Pert, don't you know, you 
 told the gentleman's footman in the park who I was, 
 against my constant order, when I walk early. Come, 
 sirrah, tell all that passed between you. 
 
 SifH. Why, madam, the gentleman's gentleman came 
 up to me very civilly, and said his master was in discourse 
 with my lady, he supposed ; then he fell into talk about
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 12; 
 
 vails ' — about profits in a service ; at last, after a deal of 
 civil discourse between us 
 
 Pen. Come, without this preamble, what he asked you, 
 impertinence ; tell that, do. 
 
 Sim. He asked about you, and Madam Victoria. I 
 said the handsomest of the two is my lady. 
 
 Pen. Speak on boldly, Simon ; I'm never angry at a 
 servant that speaks truth. 
 
 Sim. He told me he should be very proud of my 
 acquaintance. Indeed, madam, the man was very well 
 spoken, and showed a great deal of respect for me, on 
 your ladyship's account. He is a mighty well spoken 
 man, and said he found I was a smart gendeman; said 
 he'd come again. 
 
 Pen. Go, you have done your business. Go down. 
 
 [ Exit. 
 
 Lett. Well, after all, madam, I did not think that 
 gentleman displeased you. 
 
 Pen.^ Had but young Bookwit his mien and conversa- 
 tion, how easily would he exclude Lovemore ! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Mr. Lovemore is coming up, madam. 
 
 Pen. He has not heard, sure, of this new proposal ! 
 
 Lett. 'Tis possible he may, and come to rant or upbraid 
 your ladyship. I wonder you endure him on these 
 occasions. 
 
 Pen. I'll rack his very heart-strings. He shall know 
 all that man e'er suffered for his native mistress, woman. 
 
 Lett. His father, madam, has been so long coming out 
 of Suffolk — There are strange tricks in the world, but 'tis 
 not my place to speak. 
 
 Pen. However, his father, may come at last. I will 
 
 ' Presents to servants. 
 
 ''■ Clarice. All ! hon Dieu ! si Dorante avail autant d'appas, 
 Que d'Alcippe aisenieiit il obliemlrait lu plate ! 
 
 {^Le Menteur^ ll. ii.)
 
 128 THE L YING LO VER : [act ii . 
 
 not wholly lose him ; as bad as he is, he's better than 
 no husband at all. Stay in the room ; I'll talk lo you 
 as if he were not present. 
 
 jE/i^er LovEMORE. 
 
 Love} Ah ! Penelope ! inconstant, fickle Penelope ! 
 
 Pen. But, Lettice, you don't tell me what the gentleman 
 said. Now there's nobody here, you may speak. 
 
 Love. Now there's nobody here ? Then I am a thing, 
 a utensil ! I am nobody, I have no essence that I am 
 sensible of! I think 'twill be so soon ! — This ingrate — 
 this perjured ! 
 
 Pe7i. Tell me, I say, how the match happened to break 
 off? 
 
 Love. This is downright abuse ! What ! don't you see 
 me, madam ? 
 
 Lett. He had the folly, upon her being commonly civil 
 to him, to talk of directing her affairs before his time. In 
 the first place, he thought it but necessary her maid, her 
 faithful servant, Mrs. Betty, should be removed. 
 
 I^ve. Her faithful servant, Mrs. Betty ? Her betrayer, 
 her whisperer, Mrs. Lettice I Madam, would you but 
 hear me ? I will be heard ! 
 
 Pen. Prithee step, Lettice, and see what noise is that 
 without. 
 
 Love. The noise is here, madam ; 'tis I that make 
 what you call noise. 'Tis I that claim aloud my right 
 and speak to all the world the wrongs I suffer. 
 
 Pen. Cooling herbs, well steeped — a good anodyne at 
 night, made of the juice of hellebore, with very thin diet, 
 may be of use in these cases. 
 
 \Both looki?ig at him as disturbed. 
 
 Love. Cases ! what cases ? I shall downright run mad 
 with this damned usage ! Am I a jest ? 
 
 1 Alcippc. Ah, Claiice! ah, Clarice! inconstante, volage ! 
 
 l^Le Menteur, II. iii.) 
 The idea of the servant remaining in the -room is Steele's.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 129 
 
 Lett. A jest ? No, faith, this is far from a merry mad- 
 ness. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Love. Harkee, Lettice, I'll downright box you. Hold 
 your tongue, gipsy. 
 
 Lett. Dear madam, save me ! Go you to him. 
 
 Pen. Let him take you. — Bless me, how he stares ! 
 
 Take her, 
 
 Lett. Take her. ) r r> • 77,7 
 
 ^ , , f Ktmnmg round each other. 
 
 Fen. Take her. ) ■■ ^ 
 
 Love. Very fine ! — No, madam, your gallant, your spark 
 last night ; your fine dancer, entertainer, shall take you. 
 He that was your swain ; and you, I warrant, a fantastic 
 nymph of the flood or forest. Ha ! ha ! ha ! To be out 
 all night with a young fellow ! Oh ! that makes you 
 change your countenance, does it so ? Fine lady — you 
 wonder how I came to know. Why, choose a discreeter 
 the next time — he told me all himself. Swoon — die for 
 shame at hearing of these words — do ! 
 
 Fen. I am, indeed, downright ashamed for him that 
 speaks 'em. Whence this insolence, if not from utter dis- 
 traction, under this roof? 
 
 Love. Oh, the ingrate ! Have not I, madam, two long 
 years, two ages, with humblest resignation, depended on 
 your smile ? and shall I suffer one of yesterday's to 
 treat you, to dance all night with you ? 
 
 Fen.^ Speak softly ; my father's coming down. 
 
 Love. Thy father's coming down ! Faithless ! Thou 
 hast no father — But to cross me by night upon the 
 water ! 
 
 Fen. Well, by night upon the water ; what then ? 
 
 Love. Yes, all night. 
 
 Fen. What of that ? 
 
 Love. Without blushing when you hear of 't ! 
 
 Pen. Blush for what ? What do you drive at ? 
 
 ' Most of this scene, down to Lovemore's exit, is adai;tcd from 
 Le Menteiir, H. iii., iv. 
 
 Steele. V
 
 130 THE LYING LOVER : [act ii. 
 
 Love. Can you, then, coolly ask what 'tis I mean, thou 
 reveller, thou rambler ? A fine young lady, with your 
 midnight frolics ! But what do I pretend to ? I know 
 not how with bended knees to call you Ceres ; make 
 you an offering of summer fruits, and deiiy your vanity ! 
 Thou art no goddess ; thou'rt a very woman, with all the 
 guile ! Your barges ! your treats ! your fireworks ! 
 
 Pen. What means the insolent? You grow insuffer- 
 able! 
 
 Love. Oh, Penelope ! that look, that disdainful look 
 has pierced my soul, and ebbed my rage to penitence and 
 sorrow. I own my fault ; I'm too rash — 
 
 Pen. The imaginary enemies you raise are but mere 
 forms of your sickly brain : so I think, and scorn 'em. A 
 diffident, a humorous, and ungenerous man, who, with- 
 out grounds, calls me inconstant, shall surely find me so. 
 She will be very happy that takes a constant man with 
 twenty thousand humours. 
 
 Love. Is it a fault my life's bound up in thee, 
 That all my powers change with thy looks. 
 That my eyes gloat on thee when thou'rt present. 
 And ache and roll for light when thou'rt absent ? 
 
 Pen. A little ill-usage, I see, improves a lover. I 
 never heard him speak so well in my life before. \Aside. 
 
 Love. Of you I am not jealous : 
 'Tis my own indesert^ that gives me fears. 
 And tenderness forms dangers where they're not ; 
 I doubt and envy all things that approach thee : 
 Not a fond mother of a long-wished-for only child beholds 
 with such kind terrors her infant offspring, as I do her 
 I love. She thinks its food, if she's not by, unwholesome; 
 and all the ambient air made up of fevers and of quartan 
 agues, except she shrouds it in her arms. Such is my 
 unpitied, anxious care for you ; and can I see another 
 
 Pm. What other? 
 
 1 Want of merit. See the Ta^/if;-, No. 69.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' ERIENDSHIP. 131 
 
 Love. Nay, if you make a secret of your meeting, 
 there's all that I suspect in it. Another ? Young Book- 
 wit is another — 
 
 Pe7i. I never saw his face. Young Bookwit? 
 
 Love. What ! not though he solicited a glance, with 
 symphonies of charming note, with sumptuous dishes? 
 Not when the flying meteors from the earth made a new 
 day? Not see him? Oh, that was hard; that was 
 unkind ! Not one look for all this gallantry? — But love 
 is blind. You can be all night with the son, all day with 
 the father, and never see either. His father was here 
 this morning. — Seek not to excuse : I find your arts, and 
 see their aim too. Go, go, take your Bookwit ; forget 
 your lover, as he now must you. [Going. 
 
 Fen. Hear but three words. 
 
 Love. What shall they be ? 
 
 Pen. Prithee hear me. 
 
 Love. No, no, your father's coming down. 
 
 Fen. He's not coming, nor can he overhear us. There's 
 time and privacy enough to disabuse you. 
 
 Love. I'll hear nothing unless you will be married; 
 unless you give me, as a present earnest of yourself, three 
 kisses, and your word for ever. 
 
 Fen. To give way to my satisfaction, then, and be 
 friends again, you would, Mr. Lovemore, have three 
 kisses 
 
 Love. Three kisses, your faith and hand. 
 
 Fen. Nothing else ? Will you be so contented ? 
 
 Love. I'll expect higher terms if you accept not these — 
 Quickly, then. 
 
 Fefi. Well, then — no, my father's coming. Ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Love. Laugh at my sufferings ! slight my anger ! 
 Is this your base requital of my love ? — 
 Revenge, revenge ! I'll print on thy favourite in his 
 heart's blood my revenge. Our swords — our swords
 
 132 THE LYING LOVER : [act II. 
 
 shall dispute our pretences, rather than he enjoy what 
 my long services entitle me to, which is to do myself 
 right for what he intends an injury ; though perhaps 
 what we shall dispute for is better lost. 
 
 Pen. Mr. Lovemore, you have taken very great 
 liberties. You say I have injured you in my regard 
 to another. Is your opinion, then, of what you say you 
 will dispute for, such as you just now said — better 
 lost? 
 
 Love. Look you, madam — so — therefore — as to that — 
 this is such — for that it — You don't consider what you 
 said to me. 
 
 Pen. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Love. You shall by all that's — you shall repent this. 
 
 \Fli7igs out. 
 
 Pe?i. This is all we have for 't, a little dominion before- 
 hand. These are the creatures that are born to rule us ; 
 who creep, who flatter, and servilely beseech our favour; 
 which obtained, they grow sullen, proud, and insolent ; 
 pry into the gift, the manner of bestowing, with all the 
 little arts the ungrateful use to hide, or kill their sense 
 and conscience of a benefit. 
 
 Lett. Ay, ay, madam, 'tis so. I had a sweetheart 
 once, a lady's butler, to whom I gave a lock of my hair, 
 and the villain, when we quarrelled, told me half of them 
 were grey. 
 
 Pen. Ha ! ha ! ha ! the ingrate — the faithless, as Love- 
 more says. 
 
 Lett. And yet, madam, the rogue stole a letter out of a 
 book to ask me for it, as my next suitor found out. 
 
 Pen. However, I am sure 'tis in my fate to be subject 
 to one of them very suddenly. 
 
 Lett. Ah ! madam ! the gentleman this morning 
 
 Pe?i. The fellow's very well, and I am mightily mis- 
 taken if my cousin Victoria did not think so. 
 
 Lett. And so do you heartily. [Aside.
 
 CENE I.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHrP. 133 
 
 Pen. Yet I wish I had seen this young Bookvvit before 
 Lovemore came to-day. 
 
 Lett} I'll tell you how, madam. Victoria has ne'er a 
 lover, and is your entire friend. Now, madam, suppose 
 you got her to write a letter to this young gentleman in 
 her own name. You meet him under that name incognito; 
 then, if an accident should happen, both you and she 
 will be safe, and puzzle the truth : you never writ to him, 
 she never met him. 
 
 Pe7i. A lucky thought — step to her immediately. I'll 
 come to her, or she to me. 
 
 Lett. I fly, I fly. ^Exif. 
 
 Pen. This is, indeed, a lucky hint of the wench, in 
 which I have another drift, too. Now shall I sift my 
 friend Victoria, and perfectly understand whether she 
 likes that agreeable young fellow ; for if her reserved 
 humour easily falls in with this design on Bookwit, she's 
 certainly smitten with the other, and suspects me to be 
 so too — What is this dear, this sudden intruder, love, 
 that Victoria's long and faithful friendship, Lovemore's 
 anxious and constant passion, both vanish before it in a 
 moment? Why are our hearts so accessible at our eyes? 
 — My dear 
 
 Enter Victoria and Lettice. 
 
 Vict. Dear Pen, I ran to you. Well, what is it ? 
 
 Pen. Set chairs, and the bohea tea, and leave us. 
 \_Exit Lett.] Dear Victoria, you have always been my 
 most intimate bosom friend ; your wary carriage and 
 circumspection have often been a safety against errors to 
 me — I must confess it. \Filling her tea. 
 
 Vict. But, my dear, why this preface to me ? To the 
 matter — 
 
 Pen. You know all that has passed between me and 
 Mr. Lovemore. 
 
 ' There is a similar speech in Le Menteiir, II. ii.
 
 1 34 THE L YING L O VER .- [act 1 1 . 
 
 Fu'/. I have always approved him, and do now more 
 than ever; for 'lis not a mien and air that makes that 
 worthy creature, a kind husband ; but 
 
 /V;/. True, but here was old Bookwit this morning, 
 with my father's authority to talk to me of the subject of 
 love. 
 
 F/r/. Nay, madam, if so, and you can resolve to obey 
 your father^I contend not for Lovemore; for though the 
 young men of this age are so very vicious, so expensive, 
 both of their health and fortune 
 
 J^efi. How zealous she is to put me out of her way ! 
 False creature ! [Asicife.] — But, my dear friend, you don't 
 take me; your friendship outruns my explanation. 'Twas 
 for his son at Oxford he came to me : He is to walk 
 with him before the door that I may view him, by- 
 and-by. 
 
 Vic/. Nay, as one must obey their parents wholly, I 
 think a raw young man that never saw the town is better 
 than an old one that has run through all its vices. I 
 congratulate your good fortune. There's a great estate ; 
 and he knows nothing — ^just come to town. The furni- 
 ture and the horse-cloths will be all your own device for 
 the wedding, and the horses when and where you please. 
 He knows no better. 
 
 I't'//. But one shall be so long teaching a raw creature 
 a manner. 
 
 Vict Never let him have one; 'twill make him like 
 himself, and think of making advances elsewhere : You'd 
 better have him a booby. — How could I think of the old 
 fellow for you ! Look you, Pen, old age has its in- 
 firmities, and 'tis a sad prospect for an honest young 
 woman to be sure of being a nurse, and never of being a 
 mother. 
 
 Fen. Oh, that I had but your prudence ! But, my 
 dear, I have a request to make to you, and that is that 
 you would write him an assignation this evening in the
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 135 
 
 Park. I'll obey the appointment, and converse with him 
 under that disguise ; for the old people will clap up a 
 match before I know anything of the real man. And if 
 one don't know one's husband, how can one manage him 
 — that is to say, obey him ? 
 
 Vict. Oh ! pray, my dear, do you think I don't under- 
 stand you ? Oh ! and there's another thing — a scholar 
 makes the best husband in the world. 
 
 Pen. Because they are the most knowing? 
 
 Vict. No, because they are the least knowing. — But 
 I'll go immediately and obey your commands. I wish 
 you heartily well, my dear, in this matter. \^Kissiiig her. 
 
 Pen. I thank you, dearest ; I don't doubt it indeed. 
 
 Vict. Where are you going now, my dear ? O 
 fie ! this is not like a friend — Do I use you so, dear 
 madam ? 
 
 Pen. Nay, indeed, madam, I must wait on you. 
 
 Vict. Indeed you shan't — indeed you shan't. 
 
 [F's.'ii. follows Vict. 
 
 Pen. Well, madam, will you promise, then, to be as 
 free with me ? — Thus does she hope to work me out of 
 my lover, by being made my confident — but that baseness 
 has been too fashionable to pass any more. I have not 
 trusted her, the cunning creature. I begin to hate her so 
 — I'll never be a minute from her, [^Exii. 
 
 SCENE ll.—Covent Garden. 
 
 Enter Old Bookwit, Young Bookwit, and Latine. 
 
 O. Book. Well, Tom, where have you sauntered about 
 since I saw you ? Is not the town mightily increased 
 since you were in it ?
 
 1 36 THE L YING L O VER : [act 11 . 
 
 Y. Book. Ay, indeed, I need not have been so im- 
 patient to have left Oxford. Had I stayed a year longer, 
 they had builded to me. 
 
 O. Book. But I don't observe you affected much with 
 the alterations. Where have you been ? 
 
 Y. Book. No, faith, the New Exchange ' has taken up 
 all my curiosity. 
 
 O. Book. Oh ! but, son, you must not go to places 
 to stare at women ! Did you buy anything ? 
 
 Y. Book. Some baubles. But my choice was so dis- 
 tracted among the pretty merchants and their dealers, I 
 knew not where to run first. One little, lisping rogue — 
 " Ribbandths, gloveths, tippeths " — "Sir," cries another, 
 " will you buy a fine sword-knot?" Then a third pretty 
 voice and curtsey — " Does not your lady want hoods, 
 scarfs, fine green silk stockings ? " ^ I went by as if I 
 had been in a seraglio, a living gallery of beauties, staring 
 from side to side — I bowing, they laughing — so made my 
 
 1 The New Exchange was on the south side of the Strand, partly 
 on the site of tlie present Adelphi. It was a very favourite place 
 of resort in Charles II. 's time, and the restoration pla\s aie full of 
 allusions to it. There were four walks, two above and two below 
 stairs. Steele refers to the New Exchange again in the Spectator, 
 Nos. 96, 155. It M'as pulled down in 1737. With the scene here 
 described we may compare Etherege's She ivnuld if she could, 
 iii. i. : — 
 
 ^^ Mrs. Trinckit. What d'ye buy.? what d'ye lack, gentlemen.? 
 Gloves, ribbons, and essences; libbons, gloves, and essences.'' . . . 
 
 " Coiirtall, Walk a turn or two above, or fool awhile with pretty 
 ]\Iistress Anvil, and scent your eye-brows and periwig with a little 
 essence of oranges, or jessamine." 
 
 Similarly in Otway's Atheist : or the Second Part of the Soldier's 
 Fortune, ii. i., Courtine remaiks : — 
 
 " Methinks, this place looks as if it were made for lovings. The 
 lights on each hand of the walk look stately ; and tlien the rustling 
 of silk petticoats, the din and the clatter of the pretty little parti- 
 coloured parrots, thai hop and flutter from one side to t'other, puts 
 every sense upon its proper office, and sets the wheels of nature 
 finely moving." 
 
 - Green silk stoclcings seem to have been introduced by Elizabeth, 
 Countess of Chesteifield. On this matter the curious may consult 
 Grammont {Memoirs, 1846, pp. 177-8, 180).
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 137 
 
 escape, and brought your son and heir sale to you, through 
 all these darts and glances, to which indeed my breast 
 is not impregnable. But I wonder whence I had this 
 amorous inclination ? 
 
 O. Book. Whoever you had it from, sirrah, 'tis your 
 business to correct it, by fixing it upon a proper object — 
 But, Tom, you know I am always glad to hear you talk 
 with the gaiety before me that you do elsewhere. But I 
 have now something of consequence (that sudden, serious 
 look was so like me). [Aside.] — What I am going to say 
 now, I tell you is extraordinary, 
 
 V. Book. I could not indeed help some seeming 
 extravagancies I have been forced to. But 
 
 O. Book. I do not grudge you your expenses, I was 
 not going to speak on it. For I decay, and so do my 
 desires, while yours grow still upon you. Therefore, 
 what may be spared from mine, I heartily give you to 
 supply yours ; 'tis but the just order of things. I scorn 
 to hoard what I only now can gaze at, while your youth 
 and person want those entertainments you may become 
 and taste. All your just pleasures are mine also ; in 
 you my youth and gayer years methinks I feel repeated. 
 
 K Book. Then what can give you, sir, uneasiness ? 
 
 O. Book. Your affectation of a soldier's dress ; makes 
 me think you bent upon a dangerous though noble 
 course ; that you'll expose a life, that's dearer to your 
 father than yourself, to daily hazards. I, therefore, have 
 resolved to settle thee,' and chosen a young lady, wilty, 
 prudent, ricli, and fair 
 
 Y. Book. Oh, Victoria ! [y/j-/^^.]— You cannot move 
 too slowly in such a business. 
 
 O. Book. Nay, 'tis no sudden thing. Her fatlier and 
 I have been old acquaintance, and I was so conlident of 
 
 1 The ensuing dialogue between father and son is adajited from 
 one in Le Menfeur, ii. v. The story is also followed closely by 
 Foote, in the Liar, ii. iii.
 
 I3S THE LYTNG LOVER: [act ii. 
 
 her worth, and your comphance, that I can't with honour 
 disengage myself. 
 
 Y. Book. How, sir ! when honour calls me to the 
 field, where I may perpetuate your name by some brave 
 exploit 
 
 O. Book. You may do it much better, Tom, at 
 home, by a brave boy. Come, come, it must be 
 so 
 
 Y. Book. What shall I do tor some invention ? 
 
 \^A$ide. 
 
 O. Book. Let it be so, dear Tom ; it must be so. 
 
 Y. Book. What if it be impossible ? 
 
 O. Book. Impossible ! as how ? 
 
 Y. Book. Upon my knees I beg your pardon, sir; I 
 am 
 
 0. Book. What ? 
 
 K Book. At Oxford 
 
 O. Book. What art thou at Oxford ? Rise and tell 
 me. 
 
 Y. Book. Why I am married there, since you needs 
 must know. 
 
 O. Book. Married, without my consent ! 
 
 Y. Book. There was a force upon me ; you'll easily get 
 all annulled if you desire it. It was the Grossest, most 
 unhappy accident. Yet, indeed, she is an excellent 
 creature ! 
 
 Lat. How could he conceal this all this while from me ? 
 But I remember he used to be out of the college whole 
 nights, we knew not where. [Aside. 
 
 Penelope atid Victoria at the windoiv. 
 
 Pen. [Aside.] The very man we mec this morning; and 
 I employ m)- rival to write to him ! How confidently she 
 stares at the fellow, and observes his action ! 
 
 Viet. Betty, do you see with wliat intent and with what 
 lire in her eyes Penelope gazes yonder ? But take you
 
 SCKNEII.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 139 
 
 that letter and give it when the old gentleman's gone. 
 Goodness ! how concerned she seems ! Well, some 
 women ! \Exeunt Ladies from above. 
 
 O. Book. Let that pass, since the business is irre- 
 vocable. What is her name? 
 
 Y. Book. Matilda, and her father's, Newtown. 
 
 O. Book. They're names I never heard before ; but go 
 on, 
 
 Y. Book. This lady, sir, I saw in a public assembly ; 
 at the first sight she niade me hers tor ever. From that 
 instant I languished, nor had vital heat out of her 
 presence. The sun to me shed influence in vain ; he 
 rose and set both unobserved, nor was to any living this 
 human life so much a dream as me. All this she ob- 
 served, but not untouched observed. She shewed a 
 noble gratitude to a noble passion ; favours I soon 
 received, but severely modest ones. 
 
 Lat. Oh ! that's pre-supposed ; you, to be sure, would 
 ne'er desire any other. \Aside, 
 
 Y. Book. We had contrived to meet o'nights, 
 The sweetest hours of love ; and there was I 
 One evening in her lodging — 'Twas, as I remember, 
 Yes, 'twas on the second of December ; 
 
 That's the very night I was caught 
 
 Lat. 'Tis strange, a fellow of his wit to be trepanned 
 into a marriage \Aside. 
 
 Y. Book. Her father supped abroad that night, which 
 made us think ourselves secure. But coming home by 
 accident sooner than we expected, we heard him at the 
 door. How did that noise surprise us ! She hid me 
 behind the bed, then lets him in. 
 
 O. Book. I tremble for the poor young lady. — Pray go 
 on. How did she recover herself? 
 
 Y. Book. She fell into the prettiest artful little tales to 
 divert him and hide her discomposure — which he inter- 
 rupted by telling licr she must be married suddenly to
 
 140 THE L YING LO VER : [ACT II. 
 
 one proposed to him that evenmg. This was to me 
 daggers. 
 
 O. Book. But she ! 
 
 Y. Book. She, by general answers, in that case managed 
 it so well that he was going down, when instantly my 
 watch in my pocket struck ten. He turns him short on 
 his amazed daughter, asked where she had it. She cried 
 her cousin Martha sent it out of the country to be 
 mended for her. • He said he would take care on't. She 
 comes to me, but as I was giving it her the string was 
 so entangled in the cock of a pistol I always had about 
 me on those occasions, that my haste to disengage it fired 
 it off. My mistress swoons away. The father ran out, 
 crying out murder. I thought her dead, feared his 
 return, which he soon did with two boisterous rogues, his 
 sons, and his whole family of servants. I would have 
 made my escape, but they opposed me with drawn 
 swords. I wounded both ; but a lusty wench, with a 
 fireshovel, at one blow struck down my sword, and broke 
 it all to pieces. 
 
 0. Book. But still, the poor young lady ! 
 
 Y. Book. Here was I seized. Meantime, Matilda wakes 
 from her trance, beholding me held like a ruffian, both 
 her brothers bleeding. She was returning to it. What 
 should I do? I saw the hoary father in the divided 
 sorrow, for his sons' lives and daughter's honour, of both 
 which he thought me the invader. She, with pitying, 
 dying and reproaching looks, beseeched me,and taught me 
 what I owed her constant love. I yielded, sir, I own I 
 yielded to the just terror of their family resentment, and 
 to my mistress's more dreadful upbraiding. Thus am 
 I, sir, the mart3'r of an honest passion 
 
 O. Book. That I most blame is, that you concealed it 
 from your best friend. I'll instantly to Penelope's 
 father, and make my apology. He is my friend. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 141 
 
 Lat. This marriage strangely surprised me. 
 
 Y. Book. Why, did you believe it, too, as well as the 
 old gentleman ? Why, then, I did it excellently. Ha ' 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Lat. What,^ the watch ! The pistol ! Lady swooning ! 
 Her pitying, upbraiding look ! All chimera ? 
 
 Y. Book. Nothing but downright wit, to keep myself 
 safe for Victoria. 
 
 Lat. May I desire one favour ? 
 K Book. What can I deny thee, my privado ? 
 
 Lat. Only that you'd give me some little secret hint 
 
 when next you 1 are going to be witty. But to 
 
 jumble particulars so readily ! 'Tis impossible you could, 
 I believe, at the beginning of your tale know the ending 
 
 —Yet 
 
 K Book. These are gifts, child, mere gifts ; 'tis not to 
 be learnt — the skill of lying — except humour, wit, inven- 
 tion, presence of mind, retention, memory, circumspec- 
 tion, etc., were to be obtained by industry. You must 
 not hum, nor haw, nor blush for't 
 
 Lat, Who have we got here ? 
 
 Betty entermg. 
 
 Bet. May I be so bold as to crave the liberty to ask 
 your name ? 
 
 Y. Book. My bright handmaid, my little she Gany- 
 mede — thou charming Hebe — you may ask me my 
 name, for I won't tell it you — till you do ; because I'd 
 have the more words with you. 
 
 Bet. Are not you Mr. Bookwit ? 
 
 Y. Book. The very same, my dear. 
 
 Bet. There, then [Givi//g him letter?^ He's a mighty 
 pretty man. \^Exit Betty. 
 
 Y. Book. [Jieadmg.] " You may wonder — your person 
 
 ' The next foyr speeches are fioiri Le Mentcur, ii. vi.
 
 142 TH?: LYIXG LOVKR: [act ii. 
 
 and character — this evening, near Rosamond's Pond, on 
 the other side the Park. — Victoria." 
 Oh, the happiness ! What is become of the girl ? Oh ! 
 Latine ! Latine ! ask me fifty questions all at once ! 
 What ails me? \\\\)- this joy ? Who is this from ? Oh, 
 I could die, methinks, this moment, lest there should be 
 in fate some future ill to dash my present joy ! Why, 
 Jack, why dost not ask me what's the matter? 
 
 Lat. If you'd but give me leave 
 
 K Book. No ; do not speak. Let me talk all ; I fain 
 would celebrate my fair one's praise, her every beauty 1 
 but the mind's too full to utter anything that is articulate, 
 and will give way to nothing but mere names and inter- 
 jections. O Victoria ! Victoria! Victoria! O my Victoria ! 
 Read there. 
 
 Lat. Well, I own this subscribed " Victoria " — but still 
 I am afraid of mistakes. 
 
 Y. Book. No — kneel down and ask forgiveness. You 
 don't believe that she that would not speak to me would 
 write. — But after all raptures and ecstasies — prithee step 
 after the maid, learn what you can of her fortune, and 
 so forth. Get interest to be admitted another time. 
 
 \Exit Latine. 
 
 Enter Frederick. 
 
 Fred. Sir, your servant. 
 
 Y. Book. Yours, sir ; have you business with me ? 
 
 Fred. This paper speaks it. 
 
 Y. Book. \_Readi7ig?\^ " Of a friend you've made me your 
 mortal enemy. With your sword I expect satisfaction to- 
 morrow morning at six in Hyde Park. — Lovemore." 
 Do you know the contents of this letter ? 
 
 Fred. Yes, sir, it is a challenge from Lovemore. 
 Y. Book. Are you to be his second ? 
 
 Fred. I offered it, but he will meet you single. 
 
 K Book. The fewer the better cheer.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 143 
 
 Fred. You're very pleasant, sir. 
 
 Y. Book. My good humour was ever challenge-proof. 
 I will be very punctual. \_Exit Fred.] — I fall into 
 business very fast. There, thou dear letter of love ; be 
 there, thou of hatred. There ; men of business must 
 sort their papers. — I fear he saw me put up two letters. 
 
 Enter Latin e. 
 
 Oh, Jack, more adventures, another lady has writ. 
 
 Lat. Let's see it. 
 
 Y. Book. No ; always tender of rep. — she is of 
 quality — a gentleman usher came with it. I can't believe 
 there's anything in that old whim of being wrapt in one's 
 mother's smock to be thus lucky ; I suppose I was used 
 like other children. They clapped me on a skull-cap, 
 swathed me hard, played me in arms, and shewed me 
 London. But however it comes about I have strange 
 luck with the women. 
 
 Lat. But let us see this letter. 
 
 K Book. \^Reading?\ " No, no — A woman of condi- 
 tion to go so far — But, indeed, your passion, your wit — 
 My page — at the back stairs — secrecy, and your 
 veracity 
 
 Lat. There her ladyship nicked it. Pox, I'll be as 
 humourous and frolic as you. You pert fellows are 
 the only successful 
 
 Y. Book. Well said, lad ; and, as Mr. Bayes says, 
 now the plot thickens upon us we'll spend our time 
 as gaily as the best of 'em, and all of it in love — 
 
 For since through all the race of man we find. 
 
 Each to some darling passion is inclined. 
 
 Let love be still the bias of my mind. \_Excunt. 
 
 ' In the Duke of Buckingham's Rehearsal (1671), iii. ii.
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. — Victoria's Lodgings, Covent Garden. 
 
 Enter Victoria and Betty. 
 
 ICT. This was, indeed, Betty, a very 
 diverting accident, that I should be 
 employed to write to her lover. Now, 
 I can't but think how angry my 
 cousin Pen is. She frets, I warrant, 
 at her very looking-glass, which used to 
 be her comforter upon all occasions. 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Bet. I v/ould not be in poor Mrs. Lettice's place for 
 all the world. Nothing, to be sure, can please to-day ; 
 did you mind how she nestled and fumed inwardly to see 
 your ladyship look so well ? Nay, indeed, madam, 
 you were in high beauty. 
 
 Vict. Yet I must confess I was myself a little dis- 
 composed.. I was ashamed for my friend, and then to 
 see her show such a regard for a fellow ! 
 
 Bet. But I swear, were I to have my will, you should 
 be always angry at me. It gives your ladyship such a 
 pretty fierceness, and quick spirit to your features — not 
 
 that you want it — yet it adds 
 
 Vict. There are some people very unhappily pretend 
 to fire and life ; there's poor, stupid, insipid Lady Fad,
 
 SCENE I.] THE LYING LOVER. 145 
 
 has lieard of the word spleen, and distaste, and sets up 
 for being out of humour, with that unmeaning face of 
 hers. 
 
 Bet. You're in a fine humour, madam. 
 
 Vict. Her ladyship's physician prescribed anger to her ; 
 upon which she comes in public with her eyes staringly 
 open. This she designs for vivacity, and gapes about 
 like a wandering country lady. She pretends to be a 
 remarker, and looks at everybody ; but, alas, she wants 
 it here, and knows not that to see, is no more to look, 
 than to go is to walk. For you must know, Betty, 
 every child can see, but 'tis an observing creature that 
 can look ; as every pretty girl can go, but 'tis a fine 
 woman that walks. 
 
 Both. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Vict. But, by the way, there's Mrs. Penelope, me- 
 thinks, does neither ; I have a kindness for her, but she 
 has no gesture in the least. My dear 
 
 Enter Penelope. 
 
 Pen. Well, my dear 
 
 Bet. How civilly people of quality hate one another. 
 
 S^Aside. 
 
 Pen. Well, my dear, were not you strangely surprised 
 to see that this young Bookwit should be the soldier 
 we met this morning? 
 
 Vict. The confident lying creature ! Indeed, I 
 wondered you'd suffer him to entertain you so long. 
 
 Pen. You must know, madam, he's married too at 
 Oxford. 
 
 Vict. The ugly wretch ! 1 think him downright dis- 
 agreeable. — But perhaps this is a fetch of hers ; he had 
 no married look. S^Aside, 
 
 Pen. Yet I am resolved to go to your assignation, if it 
 be but to confront the coxcomb, and laugh at his lie. 
 
 Steele-. L
 
 146 THE L YING L O VER : [ACT iii . 
 
 Such fellows should be made to know themselves, and 
 that they're understood. 
 
 Vict. I'll wait upon you, my dear. — She's very prettily 
 dressed. [AstWe.'] — But indeed, my dear, you shan't go 
 with your hood so ; it makes you look abominably, 
 with your head so forward. There — ^Displacing her 
 head^ ; that's something. You had a fearful, silly 
 blushing look ; now you command all hearts. 
 
 Fen. Thank you, my dear. 
 
 Vict. Your servant, dearest. 
 
 Fen. But alas, madam, who patched you to-day? Let 
 me see. It is the hardest thing in dress — I iriay say, 
 without vanity, I know a little of it. That so low on the 
 cheek pulps the flesh too much. Hold still, my dear, 
 I'll place it just by your eye.— Now she downright 
 squints. \^Aside. 
 
 Vict. There's nothing like a sincere friend, for one 
 is not a judge of one's self. I have a patch-box about 
 me. Hold, my dear, that gives you a sedate air, that 
 large one near your temples. 
 
 Fen. People, perhaps, don't mind these things. But 
 if it be true, as the poet finely sings, that "all the pas- 
 sions in the features are," we may show or hide 
 'em, as we know how to affix these pretty artificial 
 moles 
 
 Vict. And so catch lovers, and puzzle physiognomy. 
 
 Fen. 'Tis true ; then pray, my dear, let me pat a little 
 disdain in your face : tor we'll plague this fop. There — 
 that on your forehead does it. 
 
 Vict. Hold, my dear ; I'll give indifterence for him, a 
 patch just at the point of your lip exactly shows it — and 
 that you're dumb to all applications. 
 
 Fen. You wish I would be. [Aside. 
 
 Vict. There, my dear. 
 
 Fen. But, dear madam, your hair is not half powdered. 
 Betty, bring the powder-box to your lady. It gives one
 
 SCENE II.] OS, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 147 
 
 a clean look (though your complexion does not want it) 
 to enliven it. 
 
 Vict. Oh ! fie, this from you ! But I know you won't 
 flatter me, you're too much my friend. 
 
 Pe7i. Now, madam, you shall see. \_Powders her.^ — 
 Now she looks hke a sprite. \_Aside. 
 
 Vict Thank you, my dear ; we'll take an hack. Our 
 maids shall go with us. Come, dear friend. 
 
 \_Exetint anil in arm. 
 
 Bet. Pray, Madam Lettice, be pleased to go on. 
 
 Lett. Indeed, Madam Betty, I must beg your 
 pardon. 
 
 Bet. I am at home, dear Madam Lettice. 
 
 Lett. Well, madam, this is unkind. I don't use you 
 with this ceremony. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Covent Garden. 
 Enter Young Bookwit aiid Latin e after a flourish. 
 
 v. Book. Victoria ! Victoria ! Victoria ! 
 
 Lat. Make way, make way. By your leave. Stand by. 
 Victoria ! " Formosani resonare doces Aviaryllida sytvas." ' 
 
 Y. Book. Well said, Jack. Let me see any of your 
 sparks besides myself keep such an equipage. I don't 
 question but in a little time I shall be a finer fop than 
 the town has yet seen. All my lackeys shall be linguists 
 as thou art. While thus I ride immortal steeds — how 
 my horses stare at me ! They see I am a very new sort 
 of beau. 
 
 Lat. This is rare — the having this noise of music. But 
 won't it be reckoned a disturbance ? 
 
 Y. Book. No, no; it is a usual gallantry here. But 
 
 ' Vou teach the woods to re-echo the name of the fair Amaryllis 
 [Virgil, Buc. I. v).
 
 148 IHE L YING LOVER : [act hi. 
 
 the vocal is an elegance hardly known before me here — 
 who am the founder of accomplished fools, of which I'll 
 institute an order. All coxcombs of learning and parts 
 shall after me be called Bookwits — a sect will soon be 
 more numerous, and in more credit, than yoor Aris- 
 totelians, Platonists, and Academics. 
 
 Lat. Sir, 'twill be extraordinary, and you are really a 
 wise person — you put your theory of philosophy into 
 practice ; 'tis not with you a dead letter. 
 
 Y. Book. Oh ! sir, no. The design of learning is for 
 the use of life ; therefore I'll settle a family very suddenly, 
 and show my literature in economy. 
 
 Lat. As how, pray ? 
 
 Y. Book. I'll have four peripatetic footmen, two 
 followers of Aristippus for valets de chambre, and an 
 epicurean cook — with an hermetical chemist (who are 
 good only at making fires) for my scullion ; and then I 
 think all is disposed. But, methinks this fair one takes 
 state upon her. But I am none of your languishers ; I 
 am not known in town, and if I misbehave, 'tis but being 
 sent back again to my small beer and three-halfpenny 
 commons ; and I, like many another beau, only blazed 
 and vanished 
 
 Lat. But you know I love music immoderately. How 
 do you dispose your entertainment? Let 'em begin, 
 
 Y. Book. Well, give me but leave. The fiddles will 
 certainly attract the ladies, I mean the nymphs who have 
 grottos round this enchanted forest. In the first place, 
 you intelligences that move this vehicle — how the fellows 
 stare ! 
 
 Chair. Good your honour, speak to us in English. 
 
 Y. Book. Why then, you chairmen, wherever I move, 
 you are to follow me ; for I mean to strut, shine through 
 the dusk of the evening, and look as like a lazy town-fool 
 •as I can, to charm 'em, 
 
 J^at. Well, but the music?
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 149 
 
 Y. Book. But remember, ye sons of Phoebus, brethren 
 of the string and lyre, that is to say, ye fiddlers — Let me 
 have a flourish as I now direct. When I lift up my cane, 
 let it be martial. If I but throw myself just forward on 
 it, or but raise it smootlily, sigh all for love, to show, as I 
 think fit, that I would die or fight for her you see me bow 
 to. Well, then, strike up : — 
 
 Song, by Mr, Leveridge.^ 
 
 I. 
 
 Venus has left her Grecian isles, 
 
 With all her gaudy train 
 Of little loves, soft cares and smiles. 
 In my larger breast to reign. 
 
 II. 
 Ye tender herds and list'ning deer. 
 Forget your food, forget your fear, 
 The bright Victoria will be here. 
 
 III. 
 The savages about me throng, 
 Moved with the passion of my song. 
 And think Victoria stays too long. 
 
 Y. Book. There's for you, Jack ; is not that like a fine 
 gentleman that writes for his own diversion ? 
 
 Lat. And nobody's else. 
 
 Y. Book. Now I warrant one of your common sparks 
 would have stamped, fretted, and cried, what the devil ! 
 fooled ! jilted ! abused ! — while I, in metre, to show you 
 how well nothing at all may be made to run — 
 
 The savages about me throng, 
 Moved with the passion of my song, 
 And think Victoria stays too long. 
 
 ' Richard Leveridge had a deep and powerful bass voice, and he 
 also composed much song music. He died in 1758, aged 88.
 
 150 THE LYING LOVER : [act in. 
 
 Lat. I begin to be one of those savages. 
 
 Enter Victoria, Penelope, Lettice, and Betty. 
 
 Vict. We had better have stayed where we were, and 
 h'stened to that charming echo, than have come in search 
 of thai Har. 
 
 Lat. Do you see yonder ? 
 
 Y. Book. \Gives the sign and sif?gs himself .'[Hhns, 
 madam, have I spent my time ahnost ever since I saw 
 you, repeated your name to the woods, the dales, and 
 echoing groves. 
 
 Pen. Prithee observe him. Now he begins. 
 
 Y. Book. I had not time to carve your name on every 
 tree, but that's a melancholy employment, not for those 
 lovers that are favoured with assignation. 
 
 Vict. Prithee, cousin, do you talk to him in my name, 
 ril be silent till I see farther.^ 
 
 Fen. The spring is now so forward, that it must indeed 
 be attributed to your passion that you are not in the 
 field. 
 
 Y. Book. You do me justice, madam, in that thought, 
 for I am strangely {icstered to be there. Well, the French 
 are the most industrious people in the world. I had a 
 letter from one of their generals, that shall be nameless 
 (it came over by the way of Holland), with an offer of 
 very great terms, if I would but barely send my opinion 
 in the use of pikes, about which he tells me their Prince 
 and generals have lately held a grand court martial. 
 
 Both. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lat. These cunning things keep still together to puzzle 
 us. — I'll alarm him. — Sir, one word 
 
 Vict. Come, come, we'll have no whispering, no mes- 
 sages at present. Some other ladies have sent, but they 
 shan't have you from us. 
 
 ' Lucrhce. Mais parle sous mon nom, c'est a moi de me taire. 
 (Ze Menteur, III. v ) 
 
 J
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. [51 
 
 Both. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Y. Book. I hold myself obliged to be of the same 
 humour ladies are in — ha ! ha ! ha ! Now pray do me 
 the favour to tell me what I laughed at. 
 
 Pen} Why, you must know, your talking of the French 
 and war put us in mind of a young coxcomb that came 
 last night from Oxford, calls himself soldier, treats ladies, 
 fights battles, raises jealousies with downright lies of his 
 own inventing — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Y. Book. That must be an impudent young rascal 
 certainly — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Vict. Nay, this is beyond comparison 
 
 Y. Book. I can't conceive how one of those sneaking 
 academics could personate such a character ; for we, bred 
 in camps, have a behaviour that shows we are used to act 
 before crowds. 
 
 Pen. 'Tis certainly so ; nay, he has been confronted 
 with it, as plainly as I speak to you, and yet not 
 blushed for it, but carried it as if he knew not the 
 man 
 
 Y. Book. That may be ; 'tis want of knowing them- 
 selves makes those coxcombs so confident. 
 
 Pe7i. The faithless ! shameless ! Well, then, to see, if 
 possible, such a one may be brought to that sense, I tell 
 you, this worthy hero two days ago was in hanging- 
 sleeves at Oxford, and is called Mr. Bookwit. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Y. Book. Well, was it not well enough carried ? Pooh, 
 I knew you well enough, and you knew me, before you 
 writ to me for Mr. Bookwit's son. But I fell into that way of 
 talking purely to divert you. I knew you a woman of wit 
 and spirit, and that acting that part would at least show I 
 had fire in me, and wished myself what I would be Iialf 
 an age to serve and please you — suffer in camjis all the 
 vicissitudes of burning heats and sharp afflicting colds — ■ 
 
 Vict. Look you, sir, I shall tell Mrs. Matilda Newtown, 
 ^ This speech is adnpted from one in Le ATentciir, III. v.
 
 152 THE LYING LOVER : [act ill. 
 
 your spouse at Oxford, what you are saying to another 
 lady. 
 
 Pc7i. Prithee cousin, never give yourself the trouble 
 to meddle in such a work ; one hardly knows how to 
 speak it to a gentleman, but don't touch the affairs of so 
 impudent a liar. 
 
 Y. Book. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — Why, madam, have they 
 told you of the marriage too ? Well, I was hard put to 
 it there. I had like to have been gravelled, faith. You 
 were more beholden to me for that than anything. Had 
 it not been for that, they had married me to Mrs. Pene- 
 lope, old Getwel's granddaughter, the great fortune ; but 
 I refused her for you — who are a greater. \Aside. 
 
 Lat. Sir ! sir ! pray sir, one word 
 
 Pen. and Vict. Stand off, sirrah. 
 
 Vict. You shan't come near him ; none of your dumb 
 signs. 
 
 Pe7i. Then you have refused Penelope, though a great 
 fortune ! What could you dislike in her ? 
 
 Y. Book. The whole woman. Her person, nor carri- 
 age please me. She is one of those women of condition, 
 who do and say what they please with an assured air, and 
 think that's enough, only to be called fine mistress such- 
 a-one's manner. 
 
 Pen. This is not to be endured. — I do assure you, sir, 
 Mrs. Penelope has refused your betters. 
 
 Y. Book. I don't much value my betters in her judg- 
 ment, but am sorry to see you concerned for her. When 
 I have been at church, where I first saw you, I've seen 
 the gay giddy thing in a gallery watching eyes to make 
 curtsies. She is indeed a very ceremonious churchwoman, 
 and never is guilty of a sin of omission to any lady of 
 quality within eye-shot. In short, I don't like the 
 woman, and would go to Tunis or Aleppo for a wife 
 before I'd take her. 
 
 Vict. I cannot bear this of my friend ; if you go on,
 
 SCENE II.] OR, 7 HE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 153 
 
 sir, at this rate, Tunis or Aleppo are the properest 
 places for you to show your gallantry in j 'twill never 
 be received by any here — I hope she believes me. 
 
 \^ A side. 
 
 Pen. The lady's in the right on't ; who can confide in 
 a known common impostor ? 
 
 Y. Book} Ah, madam ! how can you use a man that 
 loves you so unjustly ? But call me what you will, liar, 
 cheat, impostor — do but add, your servant, and I am 
 satisfied. I have, indeed, madam, ran through many 
 shifts in hopes to gain you, and could be contented to 
 run through all the shapes in Ovid's Metamorphoses, could 
 I but return to this on my bended knees, of my fair one's 
 humble servant. 
 
 Vict. Prithee let us leave him, as you told me ; I 
 wonder you can suffer him to entertain you so long. 
 Leave him, let him kneel to the trees and call to the woods 
 if he will. — Oh, I could brain him — how ugly he looks 
 kneeling to her ! \Aside. 
 
 Fen. No, I'll stay to plague him more. — But what 
 opinion can I have of this sudden passion ? You hardly 
 know me, I believe, or my circumstances? 
 
 Y. Book. No, no, not 1 3 I don't know you. Your 
 mother was not Alderman Sterling's daughter ; your 
 father, Mr. Philips, of Gray's Inn, who had an estate 
 and never practised ? You had not a brother killed at 
 Landen ? Your sister Diana is not dead? nor you are 
 not co-heiress with Miss Molly ? No, madam, I don't 
 know you ; no, nor love you. 
 
 Fen. I wish I had taken her advice in going ; he means 
 ■her all this while [Aside.] — Pshaw, this is downright 
 fooling. Let's go, my dear ; leave him to the woods, as 
 you say — I wish 'twas full of bears. [Aside. 
 
 Vict. No; now I'll stay to plague him. 
 
 1 The ensuing dialogue, down to the exit of the ladies, follows 
 generally ihat in Le Alenteur, III. v.
 
 1 54 THE L YING L O VER. [act iti. 
 
 Pen. No, you shan't stay. — Sir, we have given ourselves 
 the diversion to see you, and confront you in your false- 
 hoods ; in which you have entangled yourself to that 
 degree, you know not even the woman you pretend to ; 
 and therefore, sir, I so far despise you, that if you should 
 come after me with your fiddles, I'll have a porter — 
 ready to let you in. \^Aside. 
 
 Vict. I don't know how to threaten a gentleman in that 
 manner, but I'm sure I shall never entertain any man 
 that has disobliged my friend, while my name's Victoria ! 
 
 \Ex(tmt arm in arm. 
 
 Lat. Master, methinks these ladies don't understand 
 wit. They were very rough with you. 
 
 Y. Book. Ay, they were somewhat dull. But really 
 Victoria discovered herself at her going, methinks, 
 agreeably enough. 
 
 Lat. I believe they are irrecoverably lost. Pox on't, 
 when I gave you so many signs, too. 
 
 Y. Book. Well, hang thinking. Let's to the tavern, 
 and in every glass name a new beauty, till I either 
 forget, or am inspired with some new project to attain 
 her. 
 
 While in a lovely bowl I drown my care. 
 
 She'll cease to be, or I to think her, fair. \E-\cunt.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE \.—Covcnt Garden. 
 
 Enter Young Bookwit and Latine. 
 
 OUNG BOOK. This Roebuck has 
 
 almost done my business. Rigby's an 
 
 honest fellow, and would not poison 
 
 us. The wine had good - humour, 
 
 mirth, and joy in it. My blood beats 
 
 high and frolic. What says my dear 
 
 lackey ? Ha ! 
 
 Lot. Why, sir, I say, sir, that I am in so noble, so 
 
 exalted a condition, that I almost forget I am your 
 
 honour's footman. 
 
 Y. Book. Do but your business well to-night. 
 Lat. Who says the tongue stutters, legs falter, and eyes 
 fail with drink ? 'Tis false, my dear master, my tongue 
 runs faster than ever; my legs so brisk and nimble, that 
 I can't stand still ; and my eyes are better than ever they 
 were ; for I see everything double — But the letter, the 
 letter, I warrant I give it her. 
 
 Y. Book. Here, here, Jack, take it. 
 Lat. Let's come nearer the lamp. This is the foul 
 copy of it that 'tis wrapped in. Let me judge. Now 
 I'll be sedate. Let me read it again. 
 
 Y. Book. But you look cursedly fluttered ; they'll
 
 156 THE LYING LOVER: [act iv. 
 
 aay you're drunk. Let's see, I must comb your wig a 
 little. 
 
 Lat. I shall be kicked for this letter here about the 
 middle. You should not talk of joys so soon ; you 
 should write miserable a fortnight or three weeks longer 
 — I shall be kicked. 
 
 Y. Book. What then ? what then ? A man of your 
 philosophy must needs remember, the body's but the 
 mere organ of the mind. Kicks come under the topic 
 of things without. What shall I do for powder for this 
 smart bob ? \Comhs out his oivn wig into Lat's. 
 
 Lat. 'Tis no matter, sir ; powder comes under the 
 notion of things without. 
 
 Y. Book. Oh ! but ladies are no philosophers ; but as 
 to being drubbed (these stockings too), you must fix your 
 imagination upon some other object, and you may, by 
 force of thought, suspend your feeling. The body is but 
 the instrument of the mind, and you may command an 
 instrument, 
 
 Lat. No, sir, I'll have you to know, I'll save my car- 
 cass by mere dint of eloquence. You have no oUier 
 orders ? 
 
 Y. Book. No ; but may persuasion, grace, and elocu- 
 tion hang on thy lips. But if you can come in to Vic- 
 toria, she and the wine yoa've drank will inspire you. 
 Farewell. \Exit. 
 
 Lat. This is the enchanted castle which the lady fair 
 inhabits. Ha ! Mr. Simon, sir, I am your most humble 
 servant. My dear friend 
 
 Enter Simon. 
 
 Sim. Your servant, good sir; my lady is with Madam 
 Victoria at cards. She'll lie here to-night — but all's 
 ruined ; they are both huge angry with your master. 
 But Lettice, having taken a fancy to you, Mr. John, 
 spoke up rarely, that she did indeed.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 157 
 
 Lat. Can't one come to the speech of her? 
 
 Sim. I was ordered to have a strict eye to the door, 
 and let nobody in whatever. I don't care for going up, 
 because she'll see I have made a cap of one of the finest 
 napkins, for which she'll make a plaguy noise. 
 
 Lat. Nay, nay, you are exactly of my mind ; I love to 
 avoid anger. 
 
 Sim. You are a little disguised in drink, though, Mr. 
 John — but I ain't seen you, not I. Go straight up : Mrs. 
 Lettice is in the ante-chamber. 
 
 Lat. I thank you, dear friend. My master bids me 
 upon these occasions \Gives him money. 
 
 Sim. I beg your pardon, good Mr. John. 
 
 Lat. Look you, I am a servant as well as you ; what 
 do you mean, Mr. Simon ? Come, come, time's precious. 
 When your lady's married, all these vails will end. 
 
 Sim. Nay, I said behind your back, Mr. John, that 
 you were very well spoken. Well, put up briskly. I'll 
 stand your friend as much as one servant can to another, 
 against all masters and mistresses whatever. 
 
 Lat. Thanks, good Mr. Simon. [Exacnt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Penelope's Lodgings. 
 
 Lettice, discovered readitig, by a small catidle ; tzoo large 
 ones by her unlighted. 
 Lett. 'Tis a most sad thing, one dare not light a large 
 candle except company's coming in, and I scarce can see 
 to read this piteous story. Well, in all these distresses 
 and misfortunes, the faithful Argalus was renowned all 
 over the plains of Area — Area — Arcadia — for his loyal 
 and true affection to his charming paramour, Parthenia.i 
 
 ^ The story will be found in Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. The 
 tale of Aigalus and Pailiieiiia was put into vcisc by I'Vancis yuarlcs.
 
 158 THE LYING LOVER: [act iv. 
 
 Blessings on his heart for it ; there are no such suitors 
 nowadays. [ IVeeping.] But I hope they'll come together 
 again at the end of the book, and marry, and have 
 several children. Oh ! Bless me ! A man here ! [Tur/is 
 over ^/le leaves.] — The gentleman's pretty man [Aside. 
 
 Enter Latin e. 
 I wonder by what means, with that impudence, you could 
 offer to come upstairs at this time of the night, and my 
 lady in the next room. I protest I'll cry out. 
 
 \In a low voice all. 
 
 Lat. Dear Mrs. Lettice, my love to you. [Aloud. 
 
 Lett. Hist, hist ! I am, methinks, however, loth to 
 discover you, because servants must do as they're bid ; 
 for I know it was not to see me, but some message from 
 your master you came about. 
 
 Lat. I offered to bring a letter from him, in hopes to 
 see you, my dearest. I'll not give it at all ; I don't care, 
 my dearest. [Kisses her hand. 
 
 Lett. Pho ! pho ! now you are rude, because you know 
 one dare not discover you. You do what you will. — How 
 he kisses one's hand : I warrant he has kissed his betters. 
 [Aside.] — Pray, did you never live in a lady's service ? 
 
 Lat. No ; nor do I value any of the sex but your dear 
 self, Mrs. Lettice. — I would be discovered. [Aside.] — 
 I'm in a rapture ! in a flame ! 
 
 J^en. [ Within:] Who's there ? 
 
 Lett. Hist, hist ! could not you have forced a kiss 
 cjuietly ? — Madam ! madam ! — Hold me fast. Show the 
 letter, my lady's coming. — I tell you, sir, she will receive 
 no message at all. Get you downstairs, you impudent ! 
 — Hold me faster yet ; she loves your master. 
 
 [Softly aside to Latin e. 
 
 ^///fr Penelope atid Victoria. 
 Pen. What can this mean ? What fellow's that has 
 seized the wench?
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 159 
 
 Lett. Madam, madam, here's Mr. Bookwit's footman 
 drunk, and has directly stole upstairs with some ill de- 
 sign, I fear, on me — but has a letter from his master to 
 your ladyship. 
 
 Pen. Call up the servants : Simon, William, Kate, Alf ! 
 I'll have the rascal well basted for his insolence — served 
 just as his master deserves. 
 
 Lat. [lO/ce/v/g.] Let not those lips, more sweet than 
 labour of Hyblasan bees, utter a sentence, as if a Libyan 
 lioness on a mountain gave thee suck, and thou wert the 
 obdurate offspring of a rock. 
 
 Vict. Hyblasan ! Libyan ! Obdurate ! Ridiculous. 
 The fellow has got his master's cant ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Pen. I'll put him out of it, I'll warrant you. What, 
 will no one come up there ? 
 
 Enter Servants with brooms, &=€. 
 
 Lat. Oh ! for the force of eloquence to allay and 
 reconcile the passion of this angry mansion ! — I had like 
 to have said plain house, which had been against the laws 
 of buskin, in which I would at present talk. \Aside. 
 
 Fen. Did you ever hear anything like this ? Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Maid. Madam, shall I beat him ? 
 
 Lat. Ah ! culinary fair, compose thy rage ; thou whose 
 more skilful hand is still employed in offices for the 
 support of nature, descend not from thyself, thou bright 
 
 cookmaid There I sunk again ! \Aside.\ — With 
 
 heightened gusts and quickening tastes, by you what 
 would be labour else is made delight. Thou great robust, 
 let not thy hand all red assault a life it rather should 
 preserve. 
 
 Maid. Good madam, excuse me, I can't touch him 
 
 1 have bowels for him. [^IVeeping. 
 
 Sim. 1 wish 1 had his learning. I'll warrant he buys in 
 everything wherever he lives. 
 
 Lat. This, madam, this faithful paper tells you the
 
 i6o THE L YING L O VER : [act \\. 
 
 passions of the tenderest heart that ever bled for cruel 
 maid. Oh, Victoria ! did you but hear his sighs, his 
 restless hours ! — how often he repeats Victoria ! 
 
 Lett. Victoria ! Then I find this is none on't meant to 
 my lady — nor to me neither ; the master and man are 
 both rogues. \Aside. 
 
 Pen. Receive your seasonable epistle now at midnight! 
 
 Vict. He can't mean me To you he all along 
 
 addressed. — Would I could read it without her. \Asidc. 
 
 Pen. To show you I value neither author nor bearer of 
 it — kick the fellow down ! 
 
 Lat. Nay, madam, since matters must come to extre- 
 mities, I'd rather have the honour of your ladyship's 
 command to be cudgelled by your good family than have 
 it from my master. A disappointed lover in his rage will 
 strike stone walls and things inanimate, much more a 
 poor live footman ; therefore I must deliver my message. 
 I'll read it to you, ladies, for I see you are friends. 
 
 Pen. Away with him. 
 
 Lat. " If the sincerity of my intentions were not " 
 
 Lett. Get out, false wretch. 
 
 Lat. " Demonstrable, in spite of " 
 
 Maid. Take that 
 
 Lat. " These accidents in which I have been involved, 
 I should not dare to tell you how alternately joys, rap- 
 tures, ecstasies, miseries, doubts, and anxieties do attack 
 a breast devoted to you." 
 Whither shall injured virtue fly for shelter. 
 When love and honour suffer thus in me ? 
 Oh ! I could rage, call elements about me, spout cata- 
 racts 
 
 Must I be drubbed with broom-staves ? \Exit. Lat. 
 
 Pen. Come in, my dear, again. The night is cold. 
 
 \Excuni.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. i6i 
 
 SCENE III. — Covent Garden. 
 Enter Lovemore and Frederick. 
 
 Love. It is so pleasant a night that I will see you over 
 the Garden to your lodgings. 
 
 Fred. That compliment won't pass upon me. Your 
 reason for sauntering this way is that 'tis near Penelope's. 
 Love. I come for her sake ! No ; should she write, 
 beseech, kneel to me, I think I ne'er should value her 
 more. No, I'll be no longer her tool, her jest ; she shall 
 not dally with a passion she deserves not. 
 
 Fred. 'Twere very well were this resolution in your 
 power ; but believe me, friend, one smile, one glance 
 that were but doubtful whether favourable, would conquer 
 all your indignation. 
 
 Love. Faith, I'm afraid what you say is true. 
 Fred. Then strive not to be rationally mad, which 
 you attempt if you think you can at once be at your own 
 command and at another's. Would you be master of 
 yourself and have a mistress ? 
 
 Love. But I can rebel against that mistress. 
 Fred. Do if you can. Nay, I'm sure 'tis in your power, 
 because to-morrow morning you are to fight a rival for 
 her — because though you know she lies backwards, and 
 you can't so much as see her chamber window, you 
 must needs walk hither. Well, I protest I'm of your 
 mind ; there is, me thinks, now a particular amiable gloom 
 about that house — though, perhaps, to ordinary beholders 
 it is exactly like the others. 
 
 Love. You are very witty, I must confess, at your 
 friend's follies, Mr. Frederick. 
 
 Fred. I won't then any longer disturb your meditation, 
 but e'en go home like a dull rogue as I am, and without 
 love enough to any woman, or hatred enough to any man, 
 to keep me awake, fall fast asleep — I was going to wish 
 you rest, but you are above all that. If it should rain, 
 
 Steele. M
 
 1 62 THE L YING LO VER : [ACT IV. 
 
 I'd advise you not to forget it does, but go into the 
 Piazza, [ExiL 
 
 Love. 'Tis very well, I'm deservedly laughed at. But 
 the door opens — Book wit's footman ! [Latine crosses 
 the stage^ The master, I suppose, is there too. I'll 
 
 watch for his coming out The morning approaches 
 
 too slowly. He shall not sleep to-night except it be for 
 ever Oh, revenge ! Oh, jealousy! 
 
 Enter Young Bookwit, with bottle and glass, singing} 
 
 Y. Book. Since the day of poor man, 
 That little, little span, 
 Though long it can't last, 
 For the future and past 
 Is spent with remorse and despair. 
 
 With such a full glass 
 Let that of life pass, 
 'Tis made up of trouble, 
 A storm though a bubble. 
 There's no bliss but forgetting your care. 
 
 I wonder what's become of poor Latine. I wish he had 
 a bumper of this \prinks. 
 
 Love. I have no patience to observe his insolent 
 jollity; how immoderately joyful my misery has made 
 him ! — Bookwit ! 
 
 Y. Book. Love more ! 
 
 Love. What, sir ! are you diverting the thought of to- 
 morrow morning's business with midnight riot ? Or is it 
 an assignation keeps you out of bed thus late ? 
 
 Y. Book. An hour or two till morning is not much in 
 either of our lives ; therefore I must tell you now, sir, 
 I am ready for your message. 
 
 Love. That conscious light and stars are witnesses 
 
 of 
 
 1 Leveridge composed the music for this song.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, I HE LADIES' I'RIENDSHIP. 103 
 
 Y. Book. I want no witnesses. I have a sword, as 
 you bid me meet you. \They draw and fight. 
 
 Love. You've done my business. \Fans. 
 
 Y. Book. Then I've done what you desired me. But 
 this is no place for me. \_Exit. 
 
 Enter Constable and Watchmen. 
 
 Const. Where, where was this clashing of swords ? 
 So-ho ! So-ho ! You, sir, what, are you dead ? Speak, 
 friend; what are you afraid of? If you are dead, the 
 law can't take hold of you. 
 
 Watch. I beg your pardon, Mr. Constable, he ought 
 by the law to be carried to the Round-house for being 
 dead at this time of night. 
 
 Const. Then away with him, you three And you, 
 
 gentlemen, follow me to find out who killed him. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Simon. 
 
 Sim. What's the matter, good gentlemen, what's the 
 matter? Oh, me ! Mr. Lovemore killed ! Oh, me ! My 
 mind gives me that it must be about our young lady. 
 
 Watch. Does it so, sir? Then you must stay with us. 
 
 \Some hold Simon, whilst others carry Lovemore off. 
 
 Sim. I stay with you ! Oh, gemini ! Indeed, I 
 can't They can't be without me at our house. 
 
 Watch. But they must, friend Harkee, friend — I 
 
 hope you'll be hanged. [ Whispers him. 
 
 Sim. I hanged ! Pray, sir, take care of your words. 
 Madam Penelope's, our young lady's servant, hanged ! 
 Take care what you say. 
 
 Enter Latin E. 
 
 Lat. Whither can this Bookwit be gone? 
 
 Sim. Oh ! Mr. John, Mr. Lovemore is killed just now.
 
 1 64 THE LYING LOVER : [act iv. 
 
 since you went out of our house ; and you and your 
 master must have an hand in it. 
 
 Lat. How? Lovemore killed ! \They seize 'Lk'^^l^^. 
 
 Enter others ivith Young Bogkwit. 
 
 Y. Book. Hands off, you dirty midnight rascals. Let 
 me go, or 
 
 Const. Sir, what were you running so fast for? There's 
 a man killed in the Garden, and you're a fine gentleman, 
 and it must be you — for good honest people only beat 
 one another 
 
 Lat. Nay, nay, we are all in a fair way to be fine 
 gentlemen, Mr. Simon and all. 
 
 CoJist. Hands off", rascals, you said just now — do you 
 know what a constable is ? 
 
 Y. Book. The greatest man in the parish when all the 
 rest are asleep. 
 
 Const. Come, come, I find they are desperate fellows ; 
 we'll to the justice, and commit 'em immediately. I'll 
 teach rascals to speak high-treason against a petty con- 
 stable [Exeunt. ^ 
 
 Enter Frederick and Old Bogkwit. 
 
 O. Book. You well may be surprised at my waiting 
 here for your coming home. But you'll pardon me, since 
 it is to ease me of an anxiety that keeps me waking. 
 
 Fred. I shall be very glad if I am capable of doing 
 that. 
 
 O. Book? You knew my Tom at Oxford, and I be- 
 lieve were not so hard a student, but you made some 
 acquaintance in the town — therefore, pray tell me, do 
 
 1 It is interesting to compare this constable with the Dogberry 
 and Verges of Much Ado about Nothing, especially Act IV. 
 Scene ii. 
 
 2 The following dialogue is adapted from Le Menteur, V» i. Cf. 
 Foote's Liar, II. iv.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIE.YDSHI P. 165 
 
 you know Mr. Newtown there — his family, descent, and 
 fortune ? 
 
 Fred. What Newtown ? 
 
 O, Book. rU tell you, sir, Avhat you young fellows take 
 most notice of old ones for — a token that you needs must 
 know him by — he's the father of the fair Matilda, your 
 celebrated beauty of that town. 
 
 Fi-cd. I assure you, sir, I never heard of the father or 
 daughter till this instant ; therefore I'm confident there's 
 no such beauty. 
 
 O. Book. Oh, sir, I know your drift — you're tender of 
 informing me for my son's sake ! He told me all him- 
 self. I know all the progress of his love with the young 
 lady ; how he was taken in the night in her bedchamber 
 by his pistol going off, the family disturbance that was 
 raised upon it, which he composed by marrying— I know- 
 it all. 
 
 Fred. Is Tom Bookwit then married at Oxford ? 
 O. Book. He is, indeed, sir; therefore our affairs are 
 now so linked that 'twill be an ill office both to the New- 
 towns and to us to conceal anything from me that relates 
 to them. 
 
 Fred. A man can't be said to conceal what he does 
 
 not know ■ But it seems it was Mr. Bookwit gave 
 
 you this account himself. 
 
 O. Book. Yes, sir; I told you, sir, I had it from himself. 
 Fred. Then I'm sure there was nothing left out ; he 
 never tells a story by halves. 
 
 O. Book. Why, then, you think my son's a liar. 
 Fred. Oh fie, sir, but he enlivens a mere narration with 
 variety of accidents ; to be plain, his discourse gains him 
 more applause than credit. You could not, I believe, 
 have married your son to a less expensive lady in Eng- 
 land than this Mrs. Matilda. I'll be sworn you'll avoid 
 all the charge of gay dress, high play, and stately child- 
 birth. You understand me, sir?
 
 ibb 
 
 THE L YING L O VER 
 
 [ACT IV. 
 
 O. Book. I never could see anything in my son that's 
 disingenuous, to put his aged father to this shame. 
 
 Fred. Never fret or grieve for it. He told Lovemore 
 this morning such a relation of his feasting ladies, and I 
 know not what, that he has brought a tilt upon his hands 
 to-morrow morning; therefore keep him at home. I'll 
 to his adversary, so we'll convince him of a fault which 
 has so ill (though not intended) consequences. 
 
 O. Book. You'll highly oblige me, sir ; I'll trouble you 
 no longer. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IN.— Newgate. 
 
 Young Bookwit, Latine, Simon, Storm, with the 
 crott'd of Gaol-birds. 
 
 Storm. I apprehend, sir, by Mr. Turnkey, the gentle- 
 man there with a broken nose, that you're brought in for 
 murder, I honour you, sir ; I don't question but 'twas 
 done like a gentleman. 
 
 Y. Book. I hope it will appear so. 
 
 Stortn. I come, I fear, sir, to your acquaintance with 
 some prejudice, because you see me thus in irons. But 
 affliction is the portion of the virtuous and the gallant. 
 
 Y. Book. It does not depress, sir, but manifest the 
 brave. 
 
 Storm. Right, sir, I find you're noble. You may, per- 
 haps, have heard of me. My name is Storm. This 
 person, my friend, who is called Faggot, and myself, 
 being exposed by an ungrateful world to feel its cruelty 
 and contempt of ragged virtue, made war upon it, and in 
 open day infested their high road. 
 
 Y. Book. Your humble servant, gentlemen, I do con-
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 167 
 
 ceive you. Your spirits could not stoop to barter on the 
 change, to sneer in courts, to he, to flatter, or to creep 
 for bread. You, therefore, chose rather to prey hke 
 Hons, then betray hke crocodiles, or fawn like dogs. You 
 took upon you to interrupt the commerce of a cheating 
 world, to unload the usurer of his anxious pelf, and save 
 the thoughtless landed boy he travelled to undo, with a 
 thousand such good actions ; by which means you two 
 are infamous, for what two millions of you had been 
 glorious. 
 
 Storm. Right, sir; I see you're knowing, sir, and 
 learned in man. This gentleman, Mr. Charcoal, the 
 chemist, was our secret correspondent, and as we never 
 robbed a poor man, so he never cheated a fool, but still 
 imposed on your most sprightly wits and genius — fellows 
 of fire and metal, whose quick fancies and eager wishes 
 formed reasons for their undoing. He is a follower of 
 the great Raimundus Lullius ; the public think to frighten 
 him into their own purposes. But he'll leave the ungrate- 
 ful world without the secret. 
 
 Char. You know, sir, he that first asserted the Anti- 
 podes died for that knowledge ; and I, sir, having found 
 out the melioration of metals, the ignorant will needs call 
 it coining ; and I am to be hanged for it, would you 
 think it ? 
 
 Y. Book. When, pray sir, are you to be immortal? 
 
 Char. On Friday next. I'm very unhappy our 
 acquaintance is to be short. I'm very sorry your busi- 
 ness is not over, sir, that, if it must be, we might go 
 together. 
 
 y. Book. I'm highly obliged to you, sir. 
 
 CJiar. Yet let me tell you, sir, because by secret sym- 
 pathy I'm yours, I must acquaint you, if you can obtain 
 the favour of an opportunity and a crucible, I can show 
 projection — directly Sol, sir, Sol, sir, more bright than 
 that high luminary the Latins called so — wealth shall
 
 1 68 THE LYING LOVER : [act IV. 
 
 be yours ; we'll turn each bar about us into golden in- 
 gots. ' Sir, can you lend me half-a-crown ? 
 
 Y. Book. Oh, sir, a trifle between such old acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Storm. You'll be indicted, sir, to-morrow. I would 
 advise you, when your indictment's read, to one thing : 
 that is, don't cavil at false Latin ; but if by chance there 
 should be a word of good, except to that, and puzzle the 
 whole court. 
 
 Y. Book. Sir, I'm obliged 
 
 Storm. I defy the world to say I ever did an ill thing ; 
 I love my friend. But there is always some little trifle 
 given to prisoners they call garnish ; we of the road are 
 above it, but o't'other side of the house, silly rascals that 
 
 came voluntarily hither such as are in for fools, 
 
 signed their own mittimus, in being bound for others, 
 — may perhaps want it. I'll be your faithful almoner. 
 Y. Book. Oh, by all means, sir. \_Gives him money. 
 
 Storm. Pray, sir, is that your footman ? 
 Y. Book. He is my friend, sir. 
 
 Storm. Look you, sir, the only time to make use of a 
 friend is in extremity. Do you think you could not hang 
 him and save yourself? Sir, my service to you; your 
 own health. 
 
 \st Pris. Captain, your health. 
 
 \Gives it to the next prisoner. 
 2?id Pris. Captain, your health. 
 
 Storm. But perhaps the captain likes brandy better. 
 So-ho ! brandy there. [£>rinks.'\ But you don't, per- 
 haps, like these strong liquors. Cider^ ho ! [^Drinks to 
 himinit.'\ Gentlemen all ! But, captain, I see you don't 
 love cider neither. You and I will be for claret then. 
 Ay, marry ! I knew this would please \^Dri?iks^ you. 
 [Drinks again.^ Faith, we'll make an end on't ; I'm 
 glad you like it. 
 
 1 Steele liimsell made experiments in alchemy.
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. i6g 
 
 Turn. I'm sorry, Captain Storm, to see you impose on 
 a gentleman, and put him to charge in his misfortune. 
 
 If a petty larceny fellow had done this but one of 
 
 the road ! 
 
 Storm. I beg your pardon, sir, I don't question but the 
 captain understands there is a fee to you for going to the 
 keeper's side. [Book, and Latine give him money. 
 Exeunt with Turnkey, Simon /^//i^w/;/^-.] Nay, nay, you 
 must stay here. 
 
 Sim. Why, I am Simon, Madam Penelope's man. 
 
 Storm. Then Madam Penelope's man must strip for 
 garnish.' Indeed, Master Simon, you must. 
 
 Sim. Thieves ! Thieves ! Thieves ! 
 
 Storm. Thieves ! Thieves ! Why, you senseless dog, 
 tlo you think there's thieves in Newgate ? Away with 
 him to the tap-house. \Pushcs him off\ We'll drink 
 his coat off. Come, my little chemist, thou shalt trans- 
 mute this jacket into liquor ; liquor that will make us 
 forget the evil day. And while day is ours, let us be 
 merry. 
 
 For little villains must submit to fate, 
 
 That great ones may enjoy the world in state. 
 
 \^Exeuiit. 
 
 1 There is a similar scene in Fielding's Amelia, Book I., chap, 
 iii., and particulars of the system of garnish may be found in the 
 works of John Howard. 
 
 (5^lf^ ,^
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE l.—Nezvgafe. 
 
 BoOKWiT discovered on a couch asleep, Latin E looking 
 071 him. 
 
 t^i^^^^^^-' AT. How quietly he rests ! Oh that I 
 
 y^^rms^} could, 
 
 
 fc 
 
 '' '^\^yi'^', By watching him, hanging thus over 
 
 Mil 
 
 ^%V| him, 
 
 ''' ' And, feeling all his care, protract his 
 sleep ! 
 Oh, sleep ! thou sweetest gift of 
 Heaven to man. 
 Still in thy downy arms embrace my friend, 
 Nor loose him from his inexistent trance 
 'J'o sense of yesterday and pain of being; 
 In thee oppressors soothe their angry brow. 
 In thee the oppressed forget tyrannic power, 
 
 In thee • 
 
 The wretch condemned is equal to his judge, 
 And the sad lover to his cruel fair ; 
 Nay, all the shining glories men pursue. 
 When thou art wanted, are but empty noise. 
 Who then would court the pomp of guilty power, 
 When the mind sickens at the weary show, 
 And flies to temporary death for ease ;
 
 SCENE I.] THE L YING L O VER. 1 7 1 
 
 When half our Hfe's cessation of our being 
 
 He wakes 
 
 How do I pity that returning life, 
 
 Which I could hazard thousand lives to save ! 
 
 Y. Book. How heavily do I awake this morning ! Oh, 
 this senseless drinking ! To suffer a whole week's pain 
 for an hour's jollity ! Methinks my senses are burning 
 round me. I have but interrupted hints of the last 
 night Ha ! in a gaol ! Oh, I remember, I re- 
 member. Oh, Lovemore ! Lovemore ! I remember 
 
 Lat. You must have patience, and bear it like a man. 
 
 y. Book. Oh, whither shall I run to avoid myself? 
 Why all these bars ? These bolted iron gates ? 
 They're needless to secure me Here, here's my 
 
 rack, 
 
 My gaol, my torture 
 
 Oh, I can't bear it. I cannot bear the rushing of new 
 
 thoughts ; 
 Fancy expands my senses to distraction, 
 And my soul stretches to that boundless space 
 To which I've sent my wretched, wretched friend. 
 Oh, Latine ! Latine ! Is all our mirth and humour come 
 
 to this ? 
 Give me thy bosom, close in thy bosom hide me 
 From thy eyes ; I cannot bear their pity or reproach. 
 
 Lat. Dear Bookwit, how heartily I love you — I don't 
 know what to say. But pray have patience. 
 
 Y. Book. If you can't bear my pain that's but comnm- 
 nicated by your pity, how shall I my proper inborn woe, 
 my wounded mind ? 
 
 Lat. In all assaults of fortune that should be serene. 
 Not in the power of accident or chance 
 
 Y. Book. Words ! words ! all that is but mere talk. 
 Perhaps, indeed, to undeserved affliction 
 Reason and argument may give relief, 
 Or in the known vicissitudes of life
 
 1 7 2 THE L YING L O VER : [act v. 
 
 We may feel comfort by our self-persuasion ; 
 
 But oh ! there is no taking away guilt : 
 
 This divine particle will ache for ever. 
 
 There is no help but whence I dare not ask ; 
 
 When this material organ's indisposed 
 
 Juleps can cool and anodynes give rest ; 
 
 But nothing mix with this celestial drop, 
 
 But dew from that high Heaven of which 'tis part. 
 
 Lat. May that high Heaven compose your mind, 
 And reconcile you to yourself. 
 
 Y. Book. How can I hope it ? 
 
 No I must descend from man, 
 
 Grovel on earth, nor dare look up again ! 
 
 Oh, Lovemore ! Lovemore ! Where is he now ? 
 
 Oh, thinking, thinking, why didst thou not come sooner ? 
 
 Or not now ! 
 
 My thoughts do so confuse me now — as my folly 
 and pleasures did before this fatal accident — that I cannot 
 recollect whence Lovemore was provoked to challenge 
 me. 
 
 Lat. You know, dear Bookwit, I feared some ill from 
 a careless way of talking. But alas ! I dreamt not of so 
 great 
 
 Y. Book. Ay, there it was ; he was naturally a little 
 jealous. Heavens, do I say he was ? I talked to him 
 of ladies, treats, and he might possibly believe 'twas 
 
 where he had engaged I remember his serious 
 
 behaviour on that subject. Oh, this unhappy tongue of 
 
 mine ! 
 
 Thou lawless, voluble, destroying foe, 
 
 That still run'st on, nor wait'st command of reason, 
 
 Oh, I could tear thee from me 
 
 Lat. Did you not expostulate before the action ? 
 Y. Book. He would have don't ; but I, flushed with 
 
 the thoughts of duelling, pressed on Thus for the 
 
 empty praise of fools, I'm solidly unhappy.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 173 
 
 Lat. You take it too deeply. Your honour was con- 
 cerned. 
 
 Y. Book. Honour ! The horrid application of that 
 sacred word to a revenge against friendship, law, and 
 reason is a damned last shift of the damned envious foe 
 of human race. The routed fiend projected this, but 
 since the expansive glorious law from Heaven came down 
 Forgive.^ 
 
 Efitcr Turnkey. 
 
 Turn. Gentlemen, I come to tell you that you have 
 the favour to be carried in chairs to your indictment, to 
 which you must go immediately. 
 
 Lat. We are ready, sir, 
 
 Y. Book. How shall I bear the eyeshot of the crowd 
 in court ? \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II.— Frederick's Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Lovemore, /;/ a sergcaiifs go7V7i, and Frederick. 
 
 Love. Mankind is infinitely beholden to this noble 
 styptic, that could produce such wonderful effects so 
 suddenly. But though my wound was very slight, I'm 
 weak by the eftusion of so much blood. 
 
 Ercd. Yet after all, you have not lost enough to cool 
 your passion. Your heart still beats, Penelope, Pene- 
 lope But in this disguise you have opportunity for 
 
 observation. You'll see whether you ought still to value 
 her or not. I'm glad you thought of being brought 
 hither as soon as you came to yourself. I expect old 
 Bookwit every moment here 
 
 ' This condemnation of duelling is the first of a long series in 
 Steele's works.
 
 174 THE LYING LOVER : [act v. 
 
 Enter Old Bookwit. 
 There he is 
 
 0. Book. Oh, Mr, Frederick ! too late, too late was 
 our care ; they met last night, and then the fatal act was 
 
 done. You'll excuse, sir, a father's sorrow I can't 
 
 speak much, but you may guess what I hope from 
 you. 
 
 Fred. You may depend upon ingenuous usage in the 
 prosecution. I'm going instantly to Penelope's with this 
 learned gentleman, to know what she can say to this 
 matter. I desired you, in the note I sent you, to pur- 
 chase the favour of your son's being brought thither, 
 where he and you may be witnesses of what shall pass. 
 I seek not his blood, nor would neglect a justice to my 
 deceased friend. 
 
 O. Book. I believe my son and the rest are going 
 thither ere this ; and I desire this worthy sergeant's 
 favour and advice, since we both mean the same thing 
 — only to act with honour, if his life may be saved. 
 
 Love. I'll do what's just to the deceased and the sur- 
 vivor. 
 
 O. Book. I'll leave you, but will take care to come in 
 just afore the criminals arrive. \_Exit. 
 
 Love. The poor old gentleman ! Prithee, let's go ; 
 I long to see my lovely torment, Penelope. 
 
 Fred. I'll but leave word within. \Exciint. 
 
 SCENE III.— Penelope's Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Penelope and Victoria. 
 Pen. It seems Simon lay out all night, and was carried 
 away by the watch with some gentlemen in a quarrel. 
 Vid. I fancy the men who are always for showing
 
 SCENE III.] OR, THE LADIES' FRTENDSHTP. 175 
 
 their valour are like the women who are always talking 
 of their chastity, because they are conscious of their 
 defect in it. 
 
 Pen. Right ; for we are not apt to raise arguments but 
 about what we think is disputable. 
 
 Vict. Ay, ay, they whose honour is a sore part are 
 more fearful of being touched than they in whom 'tis only 
 a tender one. But tell me honestly, Penelope, should 
 poor Lovemore be in this rencounter, and that for your 
 sake, would it have no eflfect upon you in his favour ? 
 
 Pen. I don't know how to answer you ; but I find 
 something in that reflection which acquaints me 'tis very 
 hard for one to know one's own heart. \Sighs. 
 
 Vict. However, let your heart answer me one question 
 more, as well as it can. Does it love me as well as ever 
 it did? 
 
 Pen. Does not, madam, that question proceed from a 
 change in your own ? 
 
 Vict. It does, Penelope; I own it does • I had 
 
 a long conflict with myself on my pillow last night. 
 
 Pen. What were your thoughts there ? 
 
 Vid. That I owed it to our friendship to acknowledge 
 to you that all the pleasure I once had in you is vanished. 
 Ah, Penelope ! I'm sorry for every good quality you 
 have. 
 
 Pen. Since you are so frank, I must confess to you 
 something very Hke this. But however I envied that 
 sprightly, ingenuous, native beauty of yours, I see it now 
 so much the figure of your mind that I can conquer, 
 I think I can, any inclination in myself that opposes the 
 happiness of so sincere a friend. 
 
 Vict. Explain yourself, my dear. 
 
 Pen. I'll discountenance this Bookwit's ambiguous 
 addresses ; and if Lovemore can forgive my late ill- 
 usage 1 need say no more.
 
 1 76 THE L YING L O J 'ER : [act v. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Mr. Frederick below desires to see you on some 
 extraordinary business. 
 
 Vict. I have not time, my dearest friend, to applaud 
 
 or thank you, but must run in He comes from 
 
 Lovemore remember. \Exit. 
 
 Pen. Let him come up Now can't I for my life 
 
 forbear a little tyranny. 
 
 Enter Frederick and Lovemore. 
 
 Pen. Good morrow, sir. I believe I know your busi- 
 ness : you're officious for your friend But I am deaf. 
 
 Fred. I know you are, and have been ; but I come 
 only to do him a last office. He'll trouble you no more, 
 but I must conjure you to read this, and inform this 
 learned gentleman what you know of this misfortune. 
 
 Pen. [Eeading.] " 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? 
 
 Ered. 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 deUver 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 !
 
 SCENE III.] OR, THE LADIES- FRIENDSHIP. i;; 
 
 Love. [ To Fred.'] Oh, ecstasy ! Why was I angry at 
 her rejoicing at my sorrow, when hers to me is such 
 a perfect bliss ? 'Tis barbarous not to discover myself. 
 
 Fred. \_To Love.] Do, and be used barbarously 
 
 But, madam, you must be composed. Your life, for 
 ought I know, is at stake ; for there is no such thing as 
 accessories in murder ; and it can be proved you knew 
 of Lovemore's threatening to fight Bookwit. You must 
 either take your trial yourself, or be Mr. Bookwit's 
 witness. 
 
 Fen. I his witness ! No, I'll swear anything to hang 
 him. 
 
 Fred. Ah, madam, you must consider yourself, how- 
 ever 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 " 
 
 Fen. '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. 
 
 Fen. 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. \_lVeeps. 
 
 Love. [To Fred.] I tremble I shall disoblige her too 
 much. 
 
 Fred. [To Love.] You shan't discover yourself, you shall 
 go through her soul, now 'tis moved on our side. Win 
 her now, or see my face no more ; I'll not have my wine 
 spoiled every night with your recitals of love, and asking 
 
 Steele. N
 
 1 78 THE L YING LO VER : [ACT v. 
 
 advice, though you never mean to take it, Uke 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." 
 
 Pe7i. Oh, the too generous man ! Ungrateful I ! 
 Curses on him first flattered with his tongue, 
 
 On her that first dissembled in her silence 
 
 What miseries have they entailed on life 
 
 To bring in fraud and diffidence of love ! 
 
 Simplicity's the dress of honest passion, 
 
 Then why our arts, why to a man enamoured, 
 
 That at her feet effuses all his soul, 
 
 Must woman cold appear, false to herself and him ? 
 
 Fred. [To Zove.] Do you see there ? You'd have spoke 
 before she considered that. 
 
 Fen. 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. [Fxif. 
 
 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. ,^^e shall lament till her glass is of our side — 
 till its preVty nies be all blubbered ; its heart must heave
 
 SCENE III.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 179 
 
 and pant with perfect anguish before 'twill feel the sor- 
 row of another's. Don't you know, pride, scorn, affecta- 
 tion, and a whole train of ills must be sobbed away 
 before a great beauty's mortified to purpose ? 
 
 Etiier Servant. 
 
 Serv. Old Mr. Bookwit enquires for you here, Mr, 
 Frederick. 
 
 Fred. Pray, let him come up. 
 
 Enter Old Bookwit. 
 
 Love. What's the matter? You seem more discom- 
 posed than you were at Mr. Frederick's. Something 
 still new ? 
 
 O. Book. I saw the boy a-coming in a chair ; he looks 
 so languid and distressed, poor lad ! He has all his 
 mother's softness, by nature of the sweetest disposition. 
 Oh, gentlemen, you know not what it is to be a father ! 
 
 To see my only child in that condition My grief 
 
 quickened at the sight of him. I thought I could have 
 patience till I saw him. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. There are two or three in chairs desire admit- 
 tance by appointment. 
 O. Book. 'Tis right, sir. 
 
 Enter Bookwit, Latin e, and Gaoler. 
 
 Oh, my dear child ! Oh, Tom ! are all thy aged 
 father's hopes, then, come to this, that he can't see thee, 
 his only son, but guarded by a gaoler ? Thy mother's 
 happy that lived not to see this day. Is all the nurture 
 that she gave thy infancy, the erudition she bequeathed 
 thy youth, thus answered ? Oh, my son ! my son ! rise 
 and support thy father ! I sink with tenderness, my 
 child ; come to my arms while thou art mine. 
 
 K Book. Oh, best of fathers !
 
 i8o THE L YING L O VER : [act v. 
 
 Let me not see your tears, 
 
 Don't double my afflictions by your woe 
 
 There's consolation when a friend laments us, but 
 
 When a parent grieves, the anguish is too native, 
 
 Too much our own to be called pity. 
 
 Oh, sir, consider ; I was born to die. 
 
 'Tis but expanding thought, and life is nothing. 
 
 Ages and generations pass away, 
 
 And with resistless force, like waves o'er waves. 
 
 Roll down the irrevocable stream of time 
 
 Into the insatiate ocean for ever Thus we are gone. 
 
 But the erroneous sense of man — 'tis the lamented 
 That's at rest, but the survivor mourns. 
 All my sorrows vanish with that thought. 
 But Heaven grant my aged father patience ! 
 
 O. Book. Oh, child ! \T7trnmg 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. 
 
 V. 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.
 
 SCEN E III .] OR, THE LA DIES' FRIENDSHIP. 1 8 1 
 
 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. \Sivoons. 
 
 V. Book. Good Heav'n forbid it — guard him and pro- 
 tect him. 
 
 He faints, he's cold, he's gone ; \Running to him. 
 
 He's gone, and with his last breath called me parricide. 
 "You've broke your father's heart ! " Oh, killing sound ! 
 I'm all contagion ; to pity me is death : 
 My griefs to all are mortal but myself. 
 " You've broke your father's heart ! " If I did so, 
 Why thus serene in death, thou smiling clay ? 
 Why that calm aspect to thy murderer ? 
 
 Oh, big unutterable grief merciful Heaven ! 
 
 I don't deserve this ease of tears to melt 
 
 With penitence — Oh, sweet, sweet remorse ; 
 
 Now all my powers give way 
 
 To my just sorrow, for the best of fathers. \Aloiid. 
 
 Thou venerable fountain of my life. 
 
 Why don't I also die, derived from thee ? 
 
 Sure you are not gone — Is the way out of life 
 
 Thus easy, which you so much feared in me ? 
 
 \Takes him by the hand. 
 Why stay I after .? But I deserve to stay. 
 To feel the quick remembrance of my follies. 
 Yet if my sighs, my tears, my anguish can atone 
 
 Re-enter Frederick, Lovemore, Latine, Gaoler, 
 Victoria, and Penelope. 
 
 J^red. 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.
 
 i82 THE L YING L O VER : [act v. 
 
 I think he breathes — yes, he returns. You must com- 
 pose 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 gentle- 
 man of a plentiful fortune. I am thus dressed to carry 
 on such gay pursuits as should offer in this town. Not 
 to detain you, Mr. Bookwit sent me late last night with 
 a letter to one of these ladies. Coming from thence, as 
 I crossed, I saw Lovemore in the Garden. He stopped 
 me, and, after some questions concerning my message to 
 this house, to which he did not like my answers, he struck 
 me. We fought — I left him dead upon the spot ; of 
 which this gentleman is guiltless. 
 
 O. Book. How ! was it you, then, that killed Mr. 
 Lovemore ? 
 
 Lat. 'Twas this unhappy hand gave him his death, 
 but so provoked — 
 
 Y. Book. Who could believe that any pleasing passion 
 Could touch a breast loaded with guilt like mine ? 
 But all my mind is seized with admiration 
 Of thy stupendous friendship. What then — 
 Could'st thou hold thy innocent hand up at a bar 
 With felons, to save thy friend ? 
 How shall I chide or praise thy brave imposture ? 
 Ah, sir, believe him not ! He cannot bear the loss of 
 me whom he o'ervalues ; therefore with highest gallantry 
 he offers a benefit which ^twere the meanest baseness to 
 receive. 
 But death's more welcome than a life so purchased.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 183 
 
 Lat. We all know you can talk, and gild things as you 
 please, but the lady's servant knows I was taken near the 
 body when you 
 
 Y. Book. Sir, do but hear me — \Pushing away Lat. 
 
 Lat. I'll easily convince you — \Pushing atvay Book. 
 
 Y. Book. Pray mind him not, his brain is touched — 
 
 Lat. I am the man, he was not near the place 
 
 Love. I can hold out no longer. — Lovemore still lives 
 to adore your noble friendship, and begs a share in't. 
 Be not amazed ! but let me grasp you both, who, in an 
 age degenerate as this, have such transcendent virtue — 
 
 F. 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 ? 
 
 0. Book. Oh, the best burthen upon earth ! — I beg 
 your pardon, sir — I never was so taken with a man in 
 my life at first sight. \Kisses Love.] Let me be known 
 to you too. \_To Lat. 
 
 Lat. Sir, you do me honour. 
 
 O. Book. But you, ladies, are the first cause of the 
 many errors we have been in, and you only can extricate 
 us with satisfaction. Such is the force of beauty. The 
 wounds the sw.ord gave this gentleman were slight, but 
 you've transfixed a vital and a noble part — his heart. 
 Had I known his pretences, I had not interposed for 
 my son. 
 
 Fred. Come, madam, no more of the cruel — go on, 
 Lovemore ; o' my conscience, the man's afraid 'tis impu- 
 dence to be alive again. You see him now, madam ; now 
 you may press his livid lips, and call him back to life 
 with your complaints. 
 
 Love. I stand, methinks, on the brink of fate, in an 
 ambiguous interval of life, and doubt to accept of being 
 till you smile. In every human incident besides
 
 1 84 THE L YING L O VER : [act \-. 
 
 I am superior, and can choose or leave ; 
 
 But in minutest things that touch my love, 
 
 My bosom's seized with anguish or with transport. 
 
 I'en. You've shown your passion to me with such 
 honour that if I am confused, I know I should not be, 
 to say I approve it ; for I know no rules should make 
 me insensible of generous usage. My person and my 
 mind are yours for ever. 
 
 Love. Then doubts, and fears, and anxious cares be 
 gone, 
 All ye black thoughts that did corrode my breast ; 
 Here enter faith, and confidence, and love ! 
 Love that can't live with jealousy, but dwells 
 With sacred marriage, truth, and mutual honour. 
 I knew not where you would bestow your vows, 
 But never doubted of your faith when given. 
 
 [Kissing her hand. 
 
 O. Book. You see, my son, how constancy's rewarded ! 
 You have from nature every quality 
 To make you well become what fortune gave you ; 
 But neither wit nor beauty, wealth nor courage, 
 Implicitly deserve the world's esteem ; 
 They're only in their application good. 
 How could you fight a man you knew not why ? 
 You don't think that 'tis great merely to dare ? 
 'Tis that a man is just he should be bold. 
 Indeed you've erred. 
 
 Lat. You give my friend, methinks, too much com- 
 punction for a little levity in his actions — when he's too 
 severe in his own reflections on 'em. 
 
 Fen. Well, Victoria, you see I take your advice at 
 last in choice of Lovemore. 
 
 Vici. I congratulate your missing of the other. 
 
 Fai. 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 pros-
 
 SCENE III.] OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP. 185 
 
 pect as this fair one. \To Victoria.] I doubt not but 
 his future carriage would deserve her. 
 
 Vict. I believe I may safely promise to approve of all 
 the truth he tells me. 
 
 Y. Book. You've promised, then, to like all 1 shall say. 
 
 O. Book, These unexpected good events deserve our 
 celebration with some mirth and fiddles. 
 
 Fred. I foresaw this happy turn, therefore have pre- 
 pared 'em. Call in the dancers. 
 
 Song, by Mr. Leveridge. 
 
 The rolling years the joys restore, 
 Which happy, happy Britain knew, 
 When in a female age before 
 Beauty the sword of justice drew. 
 
 II. 
 
 Nymphs and fawns, and rural powers, 
 Of crystal floods and shady bowers. 
 
 No more shall here preside ; 
 The flowing wave and living green, 
 Owe only to their present queen 
 
 Their sal'ety and their pride. 
 
 United air and pleasures bring. 
 
 Of tender note and tuneful string, 
 
 All your arts devoted are 
 
 To move the innocent and fair. 
 
 While they receive the pleasing wound, 
 
 Echo repeats the dying sound.
 
 1 86 
 
 THE L YING L O VER. 
 
 [act v. 
 
 Y. Book. Since such deserved misfortunes they must 
 share, 
 Who with gay falsehoods entertain the fair ; 
 Let all with this just maxim guide their youth, 
 There is no gallantry in love but truth. \Exeimt.
 
 Our too advent'rous author soared to-night 
 
 Above the Httle praise, mirth to excite, 
 
 And chose with pity to chastise deh'ght. 
 
 For laughter's a distorted passion, born 
 
 Of sudden self-esteem and sudden scorn ; 
 
 Which, when 'tis o'er, the men in pleasure wise. 
 
 Both him that moved it and themselves despise; 
 
 While generous pity of a painted woe 
 
 Makes us ourselves both more approve and know. 
 
 What is that touch within which nature gave 
 
 For man to man e'er fortune made a slave ? 
 
 Sure it descends from that dread Power alone, 
 
 Who levels thunder from His awful throne. 
 
 And shakes both worlds — yet hears the wretched 
 
 groan. 
 'Tis what the ancient sage could ne'er define, 
 Wondered — and called part human, part divine ; 
 'Tis that pure joy which guardian angels know, 
 When timely they assist their care below, 
 When they the good protect, the ill oppose; 
 'Tis what our sovereign feels when she bestows. 
 Which gives her glorious cause such high success, 
 That only on the stage you see distress.
 
 THE TEUXPET{ HUS'BqAUHJ): 
 
 OR 
 
 THE dACCOmVLISHET) FOOLS. 
 
 " Oportet ut is qui audiat cogitet plura quam videat." 
 
 Cicero de Oratore. 
 
 The bearer should ponder over more things than he sees.
 
 STEELE'S third play, The Tender Hus- 
 band : or, the Accomplished Fools, a 
 Comedy, was given to Rich, of the 
 Theatre Royal, in March, 1705, and 
 was produced on April 23, when it 
 ran for five nights, " with several 
 entertainments of singing by Mrs. Tofts, and dancing " ; 
 and again in May and June. The profits were but small. 
 The play was published by Tonson on the 9th of May. 
 It was acted several times nearly every year between 1705 
 and 1736, and occasionally afterwards. In 1760, Garrick 
 appeared as Sir Harry Gubbin, and in 1802, Charles 
 Kemble and Mrs. Jordan acted in the piece. Mills 
 (Clerimont, Sen.), Wilks (Capt. Clerimont), Estcourt 
 (Pounce), Bullock (Sir Harry Gubbin), 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 Moliere's Sicilien : on, P Amour Peintre, and 
 possibly to Gibber's Careless Husband, which had re- 
 cently appeared. In No. 555 of the Spectator he said 
 that " many applauded strokes " in the piece were from 
 Addison's hand. Fielding, Goldsmith, and Sheridan 
 had Steele's play in view when tliey created the charac- 
 ters of Squire Western, Tony Lumpkin, and Lydia 
 Languish. The phrase " accomplished fools " had been 
 used by Steele in the Lyim^ Lover (p. 148).
 
 To 
 
 MR. ADDISON.^ 
 
 OU'LL be surprised, in the midst of a 
 
 daily and familiar conversation, with 
 
 an address which bears so distant an 
 
 air as a public dedication. But to 
 
 put you out of the pain which I know 
 
 this will give you, I assure you I do 
 
 not design in it, what would be very 
 
 needless, a panegyric on yourself, or what, perhaps, is 
 
 very necessary, a defence of the play. In the one I 
 
 should discover too much the concern 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. 
 
 1 When this dedication was written, Addison had recently 
 (December, 1704) pubHshed his successful poem, The Campaign, 
 and was preparing his Remarks on Italy for the press.
 
 THE TENDER HUSBAND. 
 
 193 
 
 I should not offer it to you as such, had I not been 
 very careful to avoid everything that might look ill- 
 natured, immoral, or prejudicial to what the better part 
 of mankind hold sacred and honourable. 
 
 Poetry, under such restraints, is an obliging service to 
 human society ; especially when it is used, like your 
 admirable vein, to recommend more useful qualities 
 in yourself, or immortalise characters truly heroic in 
 others. I am here in danger of breaking my promise to 
 you, therefore shall take the only opportunity that can 
 offer itself of resisting my own inclinations, by complying 
 with yours. I am. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Your most faithful. 
 
 Humble Servant, 
 
 Richard Steele. 
 
 Stt-ek
 
 _^^^^_fl 
 
 %f PROLOGUE. ':^ 
 
 m 
 
 WrWen by Mr. Addison. 
 
 Spoken by Mr. Wilks.^ 
 
 In the first rise and infancy of farce, 
 
 When fools were many, and when plays were scarce, 
 
 The raw, unpractised authors could, with ease, 
 
 A young and unexperienced audience please \ 
 
 No single character had e'er been shown, 
 
 But the whole herd of fops was ail their own ; 
 
 Rich in originals, they set to view. 
 
 In every piece, a coxcomb that was new. 
 
 But now our British theatre can boast 
 Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host ! 
 Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows 
 Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and beaux; 
 Rough-country knights are found of every shire, 
 Of every fashion gentle fops appear; 
 And punks of different characters we meet, 
 As frequent on the stage as in the pit. 
 Our modern wits are forced to pick and cull, 
 And here and there by chance glean up a fool ; 
 Long ere they find the necessary spark, 
 They search the Town and beat about the Park ; 
 To all his most frequented haunts resort. 
 Oft dog him to the Ring,^ and oft to Court ; 
 
 1 Wilks was Captain Clerimont. 
 
 2 "The next place of resort wherein tlie servile world are let 
 loose, is at the entrai;ce of Hyde Park, while the gentry are at the
 
 THE TENDER HUSBAND. 195 
 
 As love of pleasure or of place invites, 
 
 And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's.' 
 
 However, to do you right, the present age 
 Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage, 
 That scorn the paths their dull forefadiers 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, die nymph from danger, 
 And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger. 
 
 Ring" [Spectator, No. 88). This favourite drive and promenade 
 was partly destroye i when the Serpentine was formed. The ser- 
 vants gathered round the gate, while their masters and mistresses 
 stared at or ogled each other in the Ring. 
 
 ' White's Chocolate-house, on the west side of St. James's Street, 
 was founded about 1698, and the original building was Ijuint down 
 in 1733. Ifi the first number of the Tatler, Steele announctd that 
 "all accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and cntei tainment, sliall be 
 under the article of White's Chocolate-house." See, too. Spectator, 
 No. 88, and Itogarth's Rake's Progress, Pt. IV. There was much 
 gambling at White's, and Swift calls it " the common rendezvous 
 of infamous sharpers and noble cullies."
 
 A Song 
 Designed for the Fourth Act, but not set. 
 
 See, Britons, see, with awful eyes, 
 
 Britannia from her seas arise ! 
 
 Ten thousand billows round me roar, 
 
 While winds and waves engage, 
 That break in froth upon my shore, 
 
 And impotently rage. 
 Such were the terrors which of late 
 Surrounded my afflicted state ; 
 United fury thus was bent 
 
 On my devoted seats, 
 Till all the mighty force was spent 
 
 In feeble swells, and empty threats. 
 
 But now, with rising glory crowned. 
 My joys run high, they know no bound ; 
 Tides of unruly pleasure flow 
 
 Through every swelling vein, 
 New raptures in my bosom glow. 
 
 And warm me up to youth again. 
 
 Passing pomps my streets adorn ; 
 
 Captive spoils, in triumph borne, 
 Standards of Gauls, in fight subdued, 
 Colours in hostile blood embrued, 
 
 Ensigns of tyrannic might, 
 
 Foes to equity and right,
 
 THE TENDER HUSBAND. 197 
 
 In courts of British justice wave on high, 
 
 Sacred to law and liberty. 
 My crowded theatres repeat, 
 In songs of triumph, the defeat. 
 
 Did ever joyful mother see 
 
 So bright, so brave a progeny ! 
 Daughters with so much beauty crowned, 
 Or sons for valour so renowned ! 
 
 But oh, I gaze and seek in vain 
 To find, amidst this warlike train, 
 My absent sons, that used to grace 
 With decent pride this joyous place : 
 Unhappy youths ! how do my sorrows rise. 
 Swell my breast, and melt my eyes. 
 While I your mighty loss deplore ? 
 Wild, and raging with distress 
 I mourn, I mourn my own success, 
 And boast my victories no more. 
 Unhappy youths ! far from their native sky, 
 On Danube's banks interred they lie. 
 Germania, give me back my slain, 
 Give me my slaughtered sons again. 
 Was it for this they ranged so far, 
 To free thee from oppressive war ? 
 Germania, &c. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Tears of sorrow while I shed 
 O'er the manes of my dead, 
 Lasting altars let me raise 
 To my living heroes' praise; 
 Heaven give them a longer stay, 
 As glorious actions to display, 
 Or perish on as great a day.
 
 0m:3_ 
 
 Sir Harry Gubbin, brother-in-law to Mr. Tipkin. 
 Humphry Gubbin, son of Sir Harry Gubbin, and 
 
 suitor to Biddy Tipkin, his cousin. 
 Mr. Tipkin, a banker, Biddy Tipkin's uncle. 
 Clerimont, Sen. 
 
 Capt. Clerimont, brother of Clerimont, Sen. 
 Mr. Pounce, a lawyer, Fainlove's brother. 
 Mrs. Clerimont. 
 Aunt (Mrs. Tipkin). 
 
 Niece (Biddy Tipkin), Mr. Tipkin's niece. 
 Fainlove, mistress to Clerimont, Sen. 
 Jenny, maid to Mrs. Clerimont. 
 
 SCENE.— London.
 
 THE TEU^T)E\ HUS'BqAVXV: 
 
 OR 
 
 THE oACCOmTLISHEV FOOLS. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. — Clerimont, Sen.'s House. 
 
 Enter Clerimont, Sen. mid Fainlove. 
 
 LER. SEN. Well, Mr. Fainlove, how do 
 
 you go on in your amour with my 
 wife ? 
 
 Fain. I am very civil and very dis- 
 tant ; if she smiles or speaks, I bow and 
 gaze at her ; then throw down my 
 eyes, as if oppressed by fear of offence, 
 then steal a look again till she again sees me. This is 
 my general method. 
 
 Cler. Sen. And it is right. For such a fine lady has 
 no guard to her virtue but her pride; therefore you 
 must constantly apply yourself to that. But, dear Lucy, 
 as you have been a very faithful but a very costly wench 
 to me, so my spouse also has been constant to my bed, 
 but careless of my fortune. 
 
 Fain. Ah ! my dear, how could you leave your poor
 
 200 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act I. 
 
 Lucy, and run into France to see sights, and show your 
 gallantry with a wife ? Was not that unnatural ? 
 
 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 grace- 
 fully, to admire every vanity in our sex, and contemn 
 every virtue in her own, which, with ten thousand other 
 perfections, are the ordinary improvements of a travelled 
 lady. Now I can neither mortify her vanity, that I may 
 live at ease with her, or quite discard her, till I have 
 catched her a little enlarging her innocent freedoms, as she 
 calls 'em. For this end I am content to be a French 
 husband, though now and then with the secret pangs of 
 an Italian one ; and therefore, sir, or madam, you are thus 
 equipped to attend and accost her ladyship. It concerns 
 you to be diligent. If we wholly part — I need say no 
 more. If we do not — I'll see thee well provided for. 
 
 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 wi'e 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. \I nutates each.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 20 t 
 
 Cler. Sen. Ay, ay, that's my man — thou dear rogue. 
 
 Fatn. Let me alone ; I'll lay my life I'll horn you — 
 that is, I'll make it appear I might if I could. 
 
 Cler. Sen. Ay, that will please me quite as well. 
 
 Fain. To show you the progress I have made, I last 
 night won of her five hundred pounds, which I have 
 brought you safe. [Ghung him bills. 
 
 Cler. Sen. Oh the damned vice ! That women can 
 imagine all household care, regard to posterity, and fear 
 of poverty, must be sacrificed to a game at cards ! Sup- 
 pose she had not had it to pay, and you had been 
 capable of finding your account another way ? 
 
 Fain, That's but a suppose — 
 
 Cler. Sen. I say, she must have complied with every- 
 thing you asked. 
 
 Fai7i. But she knows you never limit her expenses. — 
 I'll gain him from her for ever if I can. \Aside. 
 
 Cler. Se?i. With this you have repaid me two thousand 
 pounds, and if you did not refund thus honestly, I could 
 not have supplied her. We must have parted. 
 
 Fain. Then you shall part — if t'other way fails — 
 [Aside.] — However, I can't blame your fondness of her 
 she has so many entertaining qualities with her vanity. 
 Then she has such a pretty unthinking air, while she 
 saunters round a room, and prattles sentences. 
 
 Cler. Sen. That was her turn from her infancy ; she 
 always had a great genius for knowing everything but 
 what it was necessary she should. The wits of the age, 
 the great beauties, and short-lived people of vogue, were 
 always her discourse and imitation. Thus the case 
 stood when she went to France ; but her fine follies 
 improved so daily, that though I was then proud of her 
 being called Mr. Clerimont's wife, I am now as much 
 out of countenance to hear myself called Mrs. Cleri- 
 mont's husband, so much is tlie superiority of her 
 side.
 
 202 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [ACT I. 
 
 Faiji. I am sure if ever I gave myself a little liberty, I 
 never found you so indulgent. 
 
 Cler. Sen. I should have the whole sex on my back, 
 should I pretend to retrench a lady so well visited as 
 mine is. Therefore I must bring it about that it shall 
 appear her own act, if she reforms ; or else I shall be 
 pronounced jealous, and have my eyes pulled out for 
 being open. But I hear my brother Jack coming, who, 
 I hope, has brought yours with him — Hist, not a word. 
 
 Enter Captain Clerimont and Pounce. 
 
 Cler. I have found him out at last, brother, and 
 brought you the obsequious Mr. Pounce ; I saw him at a 
 distance in a crowd, whispering in their turns with all 
 about him. He is a gentleman so received, so courted, 
 and so trusted 
 
 Pounce. I am very glad if you saw anything like that, 
 if the approbation of others can recommend me (where 
 I much more desire it) to this company. 
 
 Cler. Oh, the civil person — But, dear Pounce, you know 
 I am your professed admirer ; I always celebrated you for 
 your excellent skill and address, for that happy knowledge 
 of the world, which makes you seem born for living with 
 the persons you are with, wherever you come. Now my 
 brother and I want your help in a business that requires 
 a little more dexterity than we ourselves are masters of. 
 
 Pounce. You know, sir, my character is helping the 
 distressed, which I do freely and without reserve ; while 
 others are for distinguishing rigidly on the justice of the 
 occasion, and so lose the grace of the benefit. Now 'tis 
 my profession to assist a free-hearted young fellow against 
 an unnatural long-lived father ; to disencumber men of 
 pleasure of the vexation of unwieldy estates ; to support 
 a feeble title to an inheritance ; to 
 
 Cler. Sen. I have been well acquainted with your 
 merits, ever since I saw you with so much compas-
 
 SCKNEI.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 203 
 
 sion prompt a stammering witness in Westminster Hall, 
 that wanted instruction. I love a man that can venture 
 his ears with so much bravery for his friend. 
 
 Pounce. Dear sir, spare my modesty, and let me know 
 to what all this panegyric tends. 
 
 Cler. Sen. Why, sir, what I would say is in behalf of 
 my brother, the Captain, here, whose misfortune it is that 
 I was born before him. 
 
 Pounce. I am confident he had rather you should have 
 been so than any other man in England. 
 
 Cler. You do me justice, Mr. Pounce, but though 'tis 
 to that gentleman, I am still a younger brother, and you 
 know we that are so, are generally condemned to shops, 
 colleges, or inns of court. 
 
 Pounce. But you, sir, have escaped 'em, you have been 
 trading in the noble mart of glory. 
 
 Cler. That's true. But the general makes such haste 
 to finish the war, that we red coats may be soon out of 
 fashion ; and then I am a fellow of the most easy 
 indolent disposition in the world ! I hate all manner of 
 business. 
 
 Poimce. A composed temper, indeed ! 
 
 Cler. In such a case I should have no way of liveli- 
 hood, but calling over this gentleman's dogs in the 
 country, drinking his stale beer to the neighbourhood, 
 or marrying a fortune. 
 
 Cler. Sen. To be short, Pounce — I am putting Jack 
 upon marriage, and you are so public an envoy, or 
 rather plenipotentiary, from the very different nations of 
 Cheapside, Covent Garden, and St. James's ; you have, 
 too, the mien and language of each place so naturally, 
 that you are the properest instrument I know in the 
 world, to help an honest young fellow to favour in one 
 of 'em, by credit in the other. 
 
 Pounce. By what I understand of your many prefaces, 
 gentlemen, the purpose of all this is, that it would not
 
 204 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [act I. 
 
 in the least discompose this gentleman's easy indolent 
 disposition to fall into twenty thousand pounds, though 
 it came upon him never so suddenly. 
 
 Cle7\ You are a very discerning man ; how could 
 you see so far through me, as to know I love a fine 
 woman, pretty equipage, good company, and a clean 
 habitation ? 
 
 Pounce. Well, though I am so much a conjurer — what 
 then? 
 
 Cler. Sen. You know a certain person, into whose 
 hands you now and then recommend a young heir, to be 
 relieved from the vexation of tenants, taxes, and so 
 forth 
 
 Pounce. What ! My worthy friend and city patron 
 Hezekiah Tipkin, banker in Lombard Street; would the 
 noble Captain lay any sums in his hands ? 
 
 Cler. No ; but the noble Captain would have treasure 
 out of his hands. You know his niece? 
 
 Pounce. To my knowledge ten thousand pounds in 
 money. 
 
 Cler. Such a stature, such a blooming countenance, so 
 easy a shape ! 
 
 Pounce. In jewels of her grandmother's five thousand. 
 
 Cler. Her wit so lively, her mien so alluring ! 
 
 Pounce. In land a thousand a year. 
 
 Cler. Her lips have that certain prominence, that 
 swelling softness that they invite to a pressure ; her eyes 
 that languish, that they give pain, though they look only 
 inclined to rest; her whole person that one charm 
 
 Pounce. Raptures ! Raptures ! 
 
 Cler. How can it, so insensibly to itself, lead us 
 through cares it knows not, through such a wilderness 
 of hopes, fears, joys, sorrows, desires, despairs, ecstasies 
 and torments, with so sweet, yet so anxious vicissitude ! 
 
 Pounce. Why, I thought you had never seen her ? 
 
 Cler. No more I ha'n't.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 205 
 
 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 acquain- 
 tance, one that has much more in him than he appears to 
 have. You shall know him better, sir ; this is Mr. Pounce ; 
 Mr. Pounce, this is Mr. Fainlove ; I must desire you to 
 let him be known to you and your friends. 
 
 Pounce, I sliall be proud. Well then, since we may 
 be free, you must understand, the young lady, by being 
 kept from the world, has made a world of her own. She 
 has spent all her solitude in reading romances, her head 
 is full of shepherds, knights, flowery meads, groves, and 
 streams, so that if you talk like a man of this world to 
 her, you do nothing. 
 
 Cler. Oh, let me alone — I have been a great traveller 
 in fairy-land myself, I know Oroondates ; Cassandra, 
 Astrsea and Clelia' are my intimate acquaintance. 
 
 Go my heart's envoys, tender sighs make haste, 
 And with your breath swell the soft zephyr's blast ; 
 Then near that fair one if you chance to fly, 
 Tell her, in whispers, 'tis for her I die. 
 
 ' Astrcea was a French romance by Honor6 d'Urfc, translated ibr 
 the second time in 1657. Clelia was by Madame de bcudeiy, who 
 lived until 1701. Cassandra, by Gautier de Costes, Sei<;neur de la 
 Calprenede, was translated in 1652. These translations were all in 
 folio ; and they are all in the list of a lady's library {^iven liy 
 Addison in the Spectator, No. 37, together with Steele's Christian 
 Hero. Oroondates, in Cassandra, was the only son oi a Scythian 
 king.
 
 2o6 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act I. 
 
 Pounce. That would do, that would do — her very lan- 
 guage. 
 
 Clcr. 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. 
 
 Clcr. Sen. Ay, dear Pounce, consider but that — the 
 justice of the thing. 
 
 Pounce. Besides, he is just come from the glorious 
 Blenheim ! ^ Look ye. Captain, I hope you have learned 
 an implicit obedience to your leaders. 
 
 Cler. 'Tis all I know. 
 
 Pounce. Then, if I am to command, make not one 
 step without me. And since we may be free, I am also 
 to acquaint you, there will be more merit in bringing 
 this matter to bear than you imagine. Yet right measures 
 make all things possible. 
 
 Cler. We'll follow yours exactly. 
 
 Pounce. But the great matter against us is want of 
 time, for the nymph's uncle, and 'squire's father, this 
 morning met, and made an end of the matter. But the 
 
 1 This and another reference to the battle of Blenheim, fought in 
 August, 1704, ought to have butn sufficieiit to prevent wnlers 
 constantly lepeating the statement that the Tender Husband was 
 produced in 1703.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE A CCOMPLTSHED FOOLS. 207 
 
 difficulty of a thing, Captain, shall be no reason against 
 attempting it. 
 
 Cler. I have so great an opinion of your conduct, that 
 I warrant you we conquer all. 
 
 Pounce. I am so intimately employed by old Tipkin, 
 and so necessary to him, that I may, perhaps, puzzle 
 things yet. 
 
 Cler. Sen. I have seen thee cajole the knave very 
 dexterously. 
 
 Pounce. Why, really, sir, generally speaking, 'tis but 
 knowing what a man thinks of himself, and giving him 
 that, to make him what else you please. Now Tipkin is 
 an absolute Lombard Street wit, a fellow that drolls on 
 the strength of fifty thousand pounds. He is called on 
 change, Sly-boots, and by the force of a very good 
 credit, and very bad conscience, he is a leading person. 
 But we must be quick, or he'll sneer old Sir Harry out 
 of his senses, and strike up the sale of his niece imme- 
 diately. 
 
 Cler. But my rival, what's he ? 
 
 Pounce. There's some hopes there, for I hear the 
 booby is as averse as his father is inclined to it. One is 
 as obstinate as the other is cruel. 
 
 Cler. Sen. He is, they say, a pert blockhead, and very 
 lively out of his father's sight. 
 
 Pounce. He that gave me his character called him a 
 docile dunce, a fellow rather absurd, than a direct fool. 
 When his father's absent, he'll pursue anything he's put 
 upon. But we must not lose time. Pray be you two 
 brothers at home to wait for any notice from me, while 
 that pretty gentleman and I, whose face I have known, 
 take a walk and look about for 'em — So, so, young lady. 
 \^Aside to Fainlove.] \Excimt.
 
 ao8 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act i. 
 
 SCENE 11.—^/. 'James's Park. 
 
 Enter Sir Harry Gubbin and Tipkin. 
 
 Sir Har. Look ye, brother Tipkin, as 1 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, m.ere drugs. 
 
 Tip. Look ye. Sir Harry, let girls be what they will, a 
 thousand pounds a year, is a thousand pounds a year"; and 
 a thousand pounds a year is neither girl nor boy. 
 
 Sir Har, Look ye, Mr. Tipkin, the main article with 
 me is, that foundation of wive's rebellion, and husband's 
 cuckoldom, that cursed pin-money. Five hundred pounds 
 per annum pin-money ! 
 
 Tip. The word pin-money, Sir Harry, is a term. 
 
 Sir Har. It is a term, brother, we never had in our 
 family, nor ever will. Make her jointure in widowhood 
 accordingly large, but four hundred pounds a year is 
 enough to give no account of. 
 
 Tip. Well, Sir Harry, since you can't swallow these 
 pins, I will abate to four hundred pounds. 
 
 Sir Har. And to mollify the article, as well as specify 
 the uses, we'll put in the names of several female 
 utensils, as needles, knitting-needles, tape, thread, scis- 
 sors, bodkins, fans, play-books, with other toys of that
 
 SCENE II.] OR,THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 209 
 
 nature. And now, since we have as good as concluded 
 on the marriage, it will not be improper that the young 
 people see each other. 
 
 Tip. I don't think it prudent till the very instant of 
 marriage, lest they should not like one another. 
 
 Sir Har. They shall meet — As for the young girl, she 
 cannot dislike Numps ; and for Numps, I never suffered 
 him to have anything he liked in his life. He'll be here 
 immediately ; he has been trained up from his childhood 
 under such a plant as this in my hand — I have taken 
 pains in his education. 
 
 Tip. Sir Harry, I approve your method ; for since you 
 have left off hunting you might otherwise want exercise, 
 and this is a subtle expedient to preserve your own health 
 and your son's good manners. 
 
 Sir Har. It has been the custom of the Gubbins to 
 preserve severity and discipline in their families : I my- 
 self was caned the day before my wedding. 
 
 Tip. Ay, Sir 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 v/ithin yourselves. 
 
 Sir Har. Oh, yonder, I see Numps is coming — I 
 have dressed him in the very suit I had on at my own 
 wedding ; 'tis a most becoming apparel. 
 
 Enter Humphry Gubbin. 
 
 Tip. Truly, the youth makes a good marriageable 
 figure. 
 
 Sir Har. Come forward, Numps ; this is your uncle 
 Tipkin, your mother's brother, Numps, that is so kind as 
 to bestow his niece upon you. — Don't be so glum, sirrah, 
 
 Steele. 1'
 
 210 THE TEXDER HUSBAND: [act I. 
 
 don't bow to a man with a face as if you'd knock him 
 down, don't, sirrah. \Apart. 
 
 Tip. I am glad to see you, cousin Humphry. — He is 
 not talkative, I observe already. 
 
 Sir Har, He is very shrewd, sir, when he pleases. — 
 Do you see this crab-stick, you dog ? [Apari.] — Well, 
 Numps, don't be out of humour. — Will you talk ? [Aparf.] 
 — 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. 
 
 ITuwp. 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 Humphr3^ 
 
 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 caper- 
 ing under a French dancing-master. He does not mince 
 it. He has not learned to walk by a courant or a boree^ 
 His paces are natural. Sir Harry. 
 
 Hii77ip. I don't know, but 'tis so we walk in the West 
 of England. 
 
 ^ "The corant is a melody or air consisting of three crotchets ia 
 a bar, but moving by quavers, in the measure of J, with two strains 
 or reprises, each beginning with an odd quaver. Of dance tunes it 
 is said to be the most solemn." " The bouree is supposed to come 
 from Auvergne, in France ; it seldom occurs but in compositions of 
 French mas'ers." (Hawkins's History of Music, IV. 387 — 8, 390).
 
 SCENE 11.] OR, THE A CCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 2 1 1 
 
 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 ? [Aj>arf.] 
 
 [Afeasuring his shoulders. 
 
 Tip. I presume this is not the first time, Sir Harry, 
 you have measured his shoulders with your cane. 
 
 Sir Har. Look ye, brother, two foot and a-half in the 
 shoulders. 
 
 Tip. Two foot and a-half? We must make some 
 settlement on the younger children. 
 
 Sir Har. Not like him, quotha' ! 
 
 Tip. He may see his cousin when he pleases. 
 
 Hump. But harkee, uncle, I have a scruple I 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.'' 
 
 Sir Har. Harkee, harkee, Numps, we have got a 
 way to solve all that.— Sirrah ! Consider this cudgel ! 
 Your cousin ! suppose I'd have you marry your grand- 
 mother ; what then ? \Apart. 
 
 Tip. Well, has your father satisfied you in the point, 
 Mr. Humphry ? 
 
 Hump. Ay, ay, sir, very well. I have not the least 
 scruple remaining ] no, no — not in the least, sir. 
 
 Tip. Then harkee, brother, we'll go take a whet and 
 settle the whole affair. 
 
 ^ Tony Lumpkin, like Humphry, "boggled a little" at mairying 
 his cousin. See She Stoops to Conqrter, Act I., Scene II. : — 
 
 " lony. Wli:it do you follow me for, cousin Con ? I wonder 
 you're 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 I ]<now what sort of a relation you want to 
 m.ake me, lhouj;h ; but it won't do. I tell you, cousin Con, it 
 won't do ; so I beg you'll keep your distance ; I want no nearer 
 relationship."
 
 212 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [act I. 
 
 Sir Har. Come, we'll leave Numps here : he knows 
 the way — Not marry your own relations, sirrah ! \Apart. 
 
 \Exainf. 
 
 Hump. Very fine, very fine ! How prettily this park- 
 is stocked with soldiers, and deer, and ducks, and ladies ! 
 — Ha ! where are the old fellows gone ? where can they 
 be tro' I'll ask these people. 
 
 Enter Pounce and Fainlove. 
 
 Hump. Ha, you pretty young gentleman, did you see 
 my father ? 
 
 Fam. Your father, sir ? 
 
 Hump. A weazel-faced cross old gentleman with spin- 
 dle-shanks ? 
 
 Fain. No, sir. 
 
 Huvip. A crab-tree stick in his hand ? 
 
 Pounce. We han't met anybody with these marks ; but 
 sure I have seen you before — Are not you Mr. Hum- 
 phry Gubbin, son and heir to Sir Henry Gubbin ? 
 
 Hmnp. I am his son and heir — but how long I shall 
 
 be so I can't tell, for he talks every day of disinheriting 
 
 me. 
 
 Pounce. Dear sir, let me embrace you — Nay, don't be 
 
 offended if I take the liberty to kiss you. Mr. Fainlove, 
 
 pray [Fainlove kisses] kiss the gentleman— Nay, dear 
 
 sir, don't stare and be surprised, for I have had a desire 
 
 to be better known to you ever since I saw you one day 
 
 clinch your fist at your father when his back was turned 
 
 upon you ; for I must own I very much admire a young 
 
 gentleman of spirit. 
 
 Hump. Why, sir, would it not vex a man to the heart 
 to have an old fool snubbing a body every minute afore 
 company ? 
 
 Pounce. Oh fie, he uses you like a boy. 
 
 Hump. Like a boy ! He lays me on now and then 
 as if I were one of his hounds. You can't think what a
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 213 
 
 rage he was in this morning because I boggled a little at 
 marrying my own cousin. 
 
 Pounce. A man can't be too scrupulous, Mr. Hum- 
 phry — a man can't be too scrupulous. 
 
 Hump. Sir, I could as soon love my own flesh and 
 blood ; we should squabble like brother and sister ; do 
 
 you think we should not ? Mr. Pr'iy> gentlemen, 
 
 may I crave the favour of your names ? 
 
 Poimce. Sir, I am the very person that has been 
 employed to draw up the articles of marriage between 
 you and your cousin. 
 
 Hump. Ay, say you so ? Then you can inform me in 
 some things concerning myself — Pray, sir, what estate 
 am I heir to ? 
 
 Pounce. To fifteen hundred pounds a year, an entailed 
 estate. 
 
 Hump. I am glad to hear it with all my heart ; and 
 can you satisfy me in another question — Pray how old 
 am I at present ? 
 
 Pounce. Three-and-twenty last March. 
 
 Hump. Why, as sure as you are there, they have kept 
 me back. I have been told by some of the neighbour- 
 hood that I was born the very year the pigeon-house 
 was built, and everybody knows the pigeon-house is 
 three-and-twenty. Why ! I find there have been tricks 
 played me. I have obeyed him all along, as if I had 
 been obliged to it. 
 
 Pounce. Not at all, sir ; your father can't cut you out 
 of one acre of fifteen hundred pounds a year. 
 
 Hump. What a fool have I been to give him his head 
 so long! 
 
 Pounce. A man of your beauty and fortune may find 
 out ladies enough that are not akin to you. 
 
 Hump. Look ye, Mr. what d'ye call — as to my 
 beauty, I don't know but tlicy may take a liking to that. 
 But, sir, mayn't I crave your name ?
 
 214 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [act I. 
 
 Foufice. 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 every- 
 body 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 treat- 
 ment. — Mr. Humphry, I'm afraid you want money. 
 There's for you — What, a man of your accomplish- 
 ments ! \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. Hum- 
 phry, while I have it, Mr. Humphry ; but, dear friend, I 
 must take my leave of you ; I have some extraordinary
 
 SCENE II .] OR, THE A CCOIJPLISHED FOOLS. 1 1 5 
 
 business on my hands. I can't stay; but you must not 
 say a word. 
 
 Fain. But you must be in the way half-an-hour hence, 
 and I'll introduce you at Mrs. Clerimont's. 
 
 Pounce. Make 'em believe you are willing to have your 
 cousin Bridget, till opportunity serves. Farewell, dear 
 friend. \Exit Pounce and Fain. 
 
 Hump. Farewell, good I\Ir. Samuel Pounce. — But 
 let's see my cash — 'tis very true, the old saying, a man 
 meets with more friendship from strangers than his own 
 relations — Let's see my cash : i, 2, 3, 4, there on that 
 side ; i, 2, 3, 4, on that side; 'tis a foolish thing to put 
 all one's money in one pocket; 'tis like a man's v/hole 
 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.
 
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 xVCT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE.— 77-!^ P^r.^. 
 
 Enter Pounce, ami Captain Clerimont wWi his arm 
 in a scarf. 
 
 OUNCE. You are now well enough 
 instructed both in the aunt and 
 niece to form your behaviour. 
 
 Cler. But to talk with her apart is 
 the great matter. 
 
 Pounce. The antiquated virgin has 
 a mighty atTectation for youth, and is 
 a great lover of men and money — One of these, at least, 
 I am sure I can gratify her in, by turning her pence in 
 the annuities, or the stocks of one of the companies; 
 some way or other I'll find to entertain her, and engage 
 you with the young lady. 
 
 Clcr. Since that is her ladyship's turn, so busy and 
 fine a gentleman as Mr. Pounce must needs be in her 
 good graces. 
 
 Pounce. So shall you too — but you must not be seen 
 
 with me at first meeting ; I'll dog 'em, while you watch 
 
 at a distance. \Excwit. 
 
 Enter Aunt and Niece. 
 
 Niece. Was it not my gallant that whistled so charm-
 
 SCENE I.] THE TENDER HUSBAND. 217 
 
 ingly ill the parlour before he went out this niorning ? 
 He's a most accompUshed cavaUer. 
 
 Aunt. Come, niece, come ; you don't do well to make 
 sport with your relations, especially with a young gentle- 
 man that has so much kindness for you. 
 
 Niece. Kindness for me ! What a phrase is there to 
 express the darts and flames, the sighs and languishings, 
 of an expecting lover ! 
 
 Aunt. Pray, niece, forbear this idle trash, and talk like 
 other people. Your cousin Humphry will be true and 
 hearty in what he says, and that's a great deal better 
 than the talk and compliment of romances. 
 
 Niece. Good madam, don't wound my ears with such 
 expressions ; do you think I can ever love a man that's 
 true and hearty ? What a peasant-like amour do these 
 coarse words import ! True and hearty ! Pray, aunt, 
 endeavour a little at the embellishment of your style. 
 
 Aunt. Alack-a-day, cousin Biddy, these idle romances 
 have quite turned your head.^ 
 
 Niece. How often must I desire you, madam, to lay 
 aside that familiar name, cousin Biddy? I never hear it 
 without blushing — Did you ever meet with a heroine 
 in those idle romances, as you call 'em, that was termed 
 Biddy ? 
 
 Aunt. Ah ! cousin, cousin, these are mere vapours, 
 indeed ; nothing but vapours. 
 
 Niece. No, the heroine has always something soft and 
 engaging in her name ; something that gives us a notion 
 of the sweetness of her beauty and behaviour ; a name 
 that glides through half-a-dozen tender syllables, as 
 
 1 LaJy Mary Wortley Montagu, in a letter dated Feb. 26, 1711, 
 to her future husband, proposing that their engagement should 
 cease, says that she had foolishly despised women who looked for 
 their happiness in trifles, and thought, as Diyden puts it, that true 
 happiness was to be found in privacy and love. "These notions 
 had corrupted my judgment as much as that of Mrs. Biddy 
 Tipkiii's."
 
 2] 8 THE TENDER II U SB AND: [act ii. 
 
 Elismonda, Clidamira, Deidamia, that runs upon vowels 
 oft' the tongue ; not hissing through one's teeth, or break- 
 ing them with consonants. 'Tis strange rudeness those 
 familiar names they give us, when there is Aurelia, 
 Sacharissa, Gloriana, for people of condition ; and Celia, 
 Chloris, Corinna, Mopsa, for their maids and those of 
 lower rank. 
 
 Aunt. Look ye, Biddy, this is not to be supported. I 
 know not where you learned this nicety ; but I can tell 
 you, forsooth, as much as you despise it, your mother 
 was a Bridget afore you, and an excellent house-wife. 
 
 Niece. Good madam, don't upbraid me with my mother 
 Bridget, and an excellent house-wife. 
 
 Aunt. Yes, I say she was ; and spent her time in better 
 learning than you ever did — not in reading of figlits and 
 battles of dwarfs and giants, but in writing out receipts 
 for broths, possets, caudles, and surfeit- waters, as became 
 a good country gentlewoman. 
 
 Niece. My mother, and a Bridget ! 
 
 Aufit. Yes, niece, I say again, your mother, my sister, 
 was a Bridget ! the daughter of her mother Margery, of 
 her mother Sisly, of her mother Alice. 
 
 Niece. Have you no mercy? Oh, the barbarous 
 genealogy ! 
 
 Aunt. Of her mother Winifred, of her mother Joan. 
 
 Niece. Since you will run on, then I must needs tell 
 you I am not satisfied in the point of my nativity. Many 
 an infant has been placed in a cottage with obscure 
 parents, till by chance some ancient servant of the 
 family has known it by its marks. 
 
 Aujit. Ay, you had best be searched — That's like 
 your calling the winds the fanning gales, before I don't 
 know how much company ; and the tree that was blown 
 by it had, forsooth, a spirit imprisoned in the trunk 
 of it. 
 
 Niece. Ignorance I
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE A CCOAIPLISHED FOOLS. 219 
 
 Aunt. Then a cloud this morning had a flying dragon 
 in it. 
 
 Niece. What eyes had you, that you could see nothing? 
 For my part I look upon it to be a prodigy, and expect 
 something extraordinary will happen to me before night. 
 — But you have a gross relish of things. What noble de- 
 scriptions in romances had been lost, if the writers had 
 been persons of your gout ? 
 
 Aunt. I wish the authors had been hanged, and their 
 books burnt, before you had seen 'em. 
 
 Niece. Simplicity ! 
 
 Aiint. A parcel of improbable lies. 
 
 Niece. Indeed, madam, your raillery is coarse 
 
 Aunt. Fit only to corrupt young girls, and fill their 
 heads with a thousand foolish dreams of I don't know 
 what. 
 
 Niece. Nay, now, madam, you grow extravagant. 
 
 Aunt. What I say is not to vex, but advise you for 
 your good. 
 
 Niece. What, to burn Philocles, Artaxeres, Oroon- 
 dates, and the rest of the heroic lovers, and take my 
 country booby, cousin Humphry, for a husband ! 
 
 Aunt. Oh dear, oh dear, Liddy ! Pray, good dear, 
 learn to act and speak like the rest of the world ; come, 
 come, you shall marry your cousin and live comfortably. 
 
 Niece. Live comfortably ! What kind of life is that ? 
 A great heiress live comfortably ! Pray, aunt, learn to- 
 raise your ideas— AVhat is, I wonder, to live comfort- 
 ably ? 
 
 Aunt. To live comfortably is to live with prudence 
 and frugality, as we do in Lombard Street. 
 
 Niece. As we do ! That's a line life, indeed, with one 
 servant of each sex. Let's see how many things our 
 coachman is good for — He rubs down his horses, 
 lays the cloth, whets the knives, and sometimes makes 
 beds.
 
 220 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act II. 
 
 Aujit. A good servant should turn his hand to every- 
 thing in a family. 
 
 Niece. Nay, there's not a creature in our family that 
 has not two or three different duties. As John is butler, 
 footman, and coachman, so Mary is cook, laundress, 
 and chamber-maid. 
 
 Aunt. Well, and do you laugh at that ? 
 
 Niece. No, not I ; nor at the coach-horses, though one 
 has an easy trot for my uncle's riding, and t'other an 
 easy pace for your side-saddle. 
 
 Aunt. And so you jeer at the good management of 
 your relations, do you ? 
 
 Niece. No, I'm well satisfied that all the house are 
 creatures of business ; but, indeed, was in hopes that my 
 poor little lap-dog might have lived with me upon my 
 fortune without an employment; but my uncle threatens 
 every day to make him a turn-spit, that he too, in his 
 sphere, may help us to live comfortably. 
 
 Aunt. Hark ye, cousin Biddy. 
 
 Niece. I vow I'm out of countenance when our butler, 
 with his careful face, drives us all stowed in a chariot 
 drawn by one horse ambling and t'other trotting, with 
 his provisions behind for the family, from Saturday night 
 till Monday morning, bound for Hackney — then we 
 make a comfortable figure, indeed. 
 
 Aunt. So we do, and so will you always, if you marry 
 your cousin Humphry. 
 
 Niece. Name not the creature. 
 
 Aunt. Creature ! What, your own cousin a creature 1 
 
 Niece. Oh, let's be going. I see yonder another crea- 
 ture that does my uncle's law business, and has, I believe, 
 made ready the deeds — those barbarous deeds ! 
 
 Aujit. What, Mr. Pounce a creature too ! Nay, now 
 I'm sure you're ignorant. You shall stay, and you'll learn 
 more wit from him in an hour, than in a thousand of your 
 foolish books in an age Your servant, Mr. Pounce.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE A CCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 221 
 
 Enter Pounce. 
 
 Pounce. Ladies, I hope I don't interrupt any private 
 discourse. 
 
 Aunt. Not in the least, sir. 
 
 Pounce. I should be loth to be esteemed one of those 
 who think they have a privilege of mixing in all com- 
 panies, without any business but to bring forth a loud 
 laugh or vain jest. 
 
 Niece. He talks with the mien and gravity of a Paladin. 
 
 \Aside. 
 
 Pounce. Madam, I bought the other day at three and a- 
 half, and sold at seven 
 
 Aunt. Then pray sir, sell for me in time. Niece, mind 
 him ; he has an infinite deal of wit. 
 
 Pounce. This that I speak of was for you. I never 
 neglect such opportunities to serve my friends. 
 
 Aunt. Indeed, Mr. Pounce, you are, I protest without 
 flattery, the wittiest man in the world. 
 
 Pounce. I assure you, madam, I said last night, before 
 an hundred head of citizens, that Mrs. Barsheba Tipkin 
 was the most ingenious young lady in the Liberties. 
 
 Aunt. Well, Mr. Pounce, you are so facetious — But 
 you are always among the great ones ; 'tis no wonder 
 you have it. 
 
 Niece. Idle ! Idle ! 
 
 Pounce. But, madam, you know Alderman Grey-Goose, 
 he's a notable joking man. Well, says he, here's Mrs. 
 Barsheba's health ; she's my mistress. 
 
 Aujit. That man makes me split my sides with laugh- 
 ing, he's such a wag. — Mr. Pounce pretends Grey-Goose 
 said all this, but I know 'tis his own wit, for he's in love 
 with me. [Aside. 
 
 Pounce. But, madam, there's a certain affair I should 
 communicate to you. [Apart. 
 
 Aunt. Ay, 'tis certainly so — he wants to break his 
 mind to me. [Aside.] [Captain Clerimotut />assin£.
 
 222 THE TENDER IIUSBAXD: [act ii. 
 
 Fouucc. Oh, Mr. Clerimont, ]\Ir. Clerimont Ladies, 
 
 pray let me introduce this young gentleman ; he's my 
 friend, a youth of great virtue and goodness, for all he's 
 in a red coat. 
 
 Awnt. If he's your friend we need not doubt his virtue. 
 
 Clcr. Ladies, you are taking the cool breath of the 
 morning. 
 
 Niece. A pretty phrase. \Aside. 
 
 Aunt. That's the pleasantest time this warm weather. 
 
 Clcr. Oil, 'tis the season of the pearly dews and gentle 
 zephyrs. 
 
 Niece. Ay ! ])ray mind that again, aunt. \Aside. 
 
 Pounce. Shan't we repose ourselves on yonder seat? 
 I love improving company, and to communicate. 
 
 Aunt. 'Tis certainly so. He's in love with me, and 
 wants opportunity to tell me so \Aside.'\ — I don't care if 
 we do — He's a most ingenious man. \Aside, 
 
 [Exeunt Aunt and Pounce. 
 
 Clcr. We enjoy here, madam, all the pretty landscapes 
 of the country without the pains of going thither. 
 
 Niece. Art and nature are in a rivalry, or rather a con- 
 federacy, to adorn this beauteous park with all ihe agree- 
 able variety of water, shade, walks, and air. What can 
 be more charming than these flowery lawns? 
 
 Cler. Or these gloomy shades 
 
 Niece. Or these embroidered valleys • 
 
 Cler. Or that transparent stream 
 
 Niece. Or these bowing branches on the banks of it, that 
 seem to admire their own beauty in the crystal mirror ? 
 
 Clcr. I am surprised, madam, at the delicacy of your 
 phrase. Can such expressions come from Lombard Street? 
 
 Niece. Alas, sir ! what can be expected from an inno- 
 cent virgin that has been immured almost one-and-twenty 
 years from the conversation of mankind, under the care 
 of an Urganda' of an aunt? 
 
 ^ Urganda was an enchantiess ia the Amadis and Pdlmeria 
 romances.
 
 sc E N E I . ] OR, THE A ceo M PL J SHED FO OL S. 2 2^:, 
 
 Clcr. Bless me, madam, how have you been abused ! 
 Many a lady before your age has had an hundred lances 
 broken in her service, and as many dragons cut to 
 pieces in honour of her. 
 
 Niece. Oh, the charming man ! \Aside. 
 
 Cler. Do you believe Pamela was one-and-twenty 
 before she knew MusidorusP^ 
 
 Niece. I could hear him ever. [Aside. 
 
 Cler. A lady of your wit and beauty might have given 
 occasion for a whole romance in folio before that age. 
 
 Niece. Oh, the powers ! Who can he be? — Oh, youth 
 unknown — But let me, in the first place, know whom I 
 talk to, for, sir, I am wholly unacquainted both with your 
 person and your history. You seem, indeed, by your 
 deportment, and the distinguishing mark of your bravery 
 which you bear, to have been in a conflict. May I not 
 know what cruel beauty obliged you to such adventures 
 till she pitied you? 
 
 Clcr. Ob, the pretty coxcomb ! \Aside?[ — Oh, Blen- 
 heim, Blenheim ! Oh, Cordelia, Cordelia ! 
 
 Niece. You mention the place of battle. I would fain 
 hear an exact description of it. Our public papers are 
 so defective ; they don't so much as tell us how the 
 sun rose on that glorious day — Were there not a great 
 many flights of vultures before the battle began ? 
 
 Cler. Oh, madam, they have eaten up half my ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 Niece. Certainly never birds of prey were so feasted ; 
 by report, they might have lived half-a-year on the very 
 legs and arms our troops left behind 'em. 
 
 Clcr. Had we not fouglit near a wood we should never 
 have got legs enough to have come home upon. The 
 joiner of the Foot Guards has made his fortune by it. 
 
 Niece. I shall never forgive your General. He has put 
 
 1 Musidorus, in Sir P. Sidney's Arcadia, is the Prince of 
 Thessaly, and in love with Pamela.
 
 224 2HE TENDER HUSBAND: [act ii. 
 
 all my ancient heroes out of countenance ; he has pulled 
 down Cyrus and Alexander, as much as Louis-le-Grand — 
 But your own part in that action ? 
 
 Cler. Only that slight hurt, for the astrologer said at 
 my nativity, nor fire, nor sword, nor pike, nor musket 
 
 shall destroy this child, let him but avoid fair eyes 
 
 But, madam, mayn't I crave the name of her that has 
 so captivated my heart ? 
 
 Niece. I can't guess whom you mean by that descrip- 
 tion ; but if you ask my name, I must confess you put 
 me upon revealing what I always keep as the greatest 
 secret I have — for would you believe it, they have called 
 me — I don't know how to own it, but they have called 
 me — Bridget. 
 
 Cler. Bridget? 
 
 Niece. Bridget. 
 
 Cler. Bridget? 
 
 Niece. Spare my confusion, I beseech you, sir; and if 
 you have occasion to mention me, let it be by Parthenissa,' 
 for that's the name I have assumed ever since I came to 
 years of discretion. 
 
 Cler. The insupportable tyranny of parents, to fix names 
 on helpless infants which they must blush at all their lives 
 after ! I don't think there's a surname in the world to 
 match it. 
 
 Niece. No ! What do you think of Tipkin ? 
 
 Cler. Tipkin ! Why, I think if I was a young lady that 
 had it I'd part with it immediately. 
 
 Niece. Pray, how would you get rid of it ? 
 
 Cler. I'd change it for another. I could recommend 
 to you three very pretty syllables — What do you think 
 of Clerimont ? 
 
 Niece. Clerimont ! Clerimont ! Very well — but what 
 
 right have I to it ? 
 
 1 Parthenissa was the heroine of a romance of that name by 
 Roger Boyle, Earl of Orrery, the first two parts of which appeared 
 in 1651.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 225 
 
 Cler. If you will give me leave, I'll put you in posses- 
 sion of it. By a very few words I can make it over to 
 you, and your children after you. 
 
 Niece. O fie! Whither are you running? You know 
 a lover should sigh in private, and languish whole years 
 before he reveals his passion; he should retire into some 
 solitary grove, and make the woods and wild beasts his 
 confidants. You should have told it to the echo half-a- 
 year before you had discovered it, even to my handmaid. 
 And yet besides — to talk to me of children ! Did you 
 ever hear of a heroine with a big belly ? 
 
 Cler. What can a lover do, madam, now the race of 
 giants is extinct ? Had I lived in those days there had 
 not been a mortal six foot high, but should have owned 
 Parthenissa for the paragon of beauty, or measured his 
 
 length on the ground Parthenissa should have been 
 
 heard by the brooks and deserts at midnight, the echo's 
 burden and the river's murmur. 
 
 Niece. That had been a golden age, indeed ! But see, 
 my aunt has left her grave companion and is coming 
 toward us I command you to leave me. 
 
 Cler. Thus Oroondates, when Statira^ dismissed him 
 her presence, threw himself at her feet, and implored per- 
 mission but to live. \Ojferiiig to kneel. 
 
 Niece. And thus Statira raised him from the earth, per- 
 mitting him to live and love. \Exit Cler. 
 
 Enter Aunt. 
 Au)it. Is not Mr. Pounce's conversation very improv- 
 ing, niece? 
 
 Niece. Is not Clerimont a very pretty name, aunt ? 
 Aimt. He has so much prudence. 
 Niece. He has so much gallantry. 
 Aunt. So sententious in his expressions. 
 
 ' Statira, in Cassandra, was the widow of Alexander the Great, 
 and the daufjhter of Darius. She married Oroondates after many 
 difficulties had been oveicome, 
 
 Steele. <i
 
 226 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [ACT II. 
 
 Niece, So polished in his language. 
 
 Atait. All he says is, methinks, so like a sermon. 
 
 Niece. All he speaks savours of romance. 
 
 Ainit. Romance, niece? ]\Ir. Pounce! uhat savours 
 of romance ? 
 
 Niece. No, I mean his friend, the accomplished j\Ir. 
 Clerimont. 
 
 Aunt. Fie, for one of your years to commend a young 
 fellow ! 
 
 Niece. One of my years is mightily governed by 
 example ! You did not dislike Mr. Pounce. 
 
 Aiint. What, censorious too ? I find there is no 
 trusting you out of the house — A moment's fresh air 
 does but make you still the more in love with strangers, 
 and despise your own relations. 
 
 Niece. I am certainly by the power of an enchantment 
 placed among you, but I hope I, this morning, employed 
 one to seek adventures, and break the charm. 
 
 Aunt. Vapours, Biddy, indeed ! Nothing but vapours. 
 Cousin Humphry shall break the charm. 
 
 Niece. Name him not — Call me still Biddy rather than 
 name that brute. \Exeujit Aunt and Niece. 
 
 Enter Captain Clerimont and Pounce. 
 
 Clir. A perfect Quixote in petticoats! I tell thee, 
 Pounce, she governs herself wholly by romance — it has 
 got into her very blood. She starts by rule, and blushes 
 by example. Could I but have produced one instance 
 of a lady's complying at first sight, I should have gained 
 her promise on the spot. How am I bound to curse the 
 cold constitutions of the Philocleas and Statiras? I am 
 undone for want of precedents. 
 
 Pounce. I am sure I laboured hard to favour your 
 conference, and plied the old woman all the while with 
 something that tickled either her vanity or her covetous- 
 ness j I considered all the stocks, Old and New Company,
 
 SCENE r.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 22; 
 
 her own complexion and youth, partners for sword-blades, 
 Chamber of London, banks for charity, and mine adven- 
 tures, till she told me I had the repute of the most face- 
 tious man that ever came to Garraway's ' — For you must 
 know public knaves and stock-jobbers pass for wits at her 
 end of the town, as common cheats and gamesters do at 
 yours. 
 
 Clcr. I pity the drudgery you have gone through ; 
 but what's next to be done towards getting my pretty 
 heroine ? 
 
 Fou/ice. What should next be done in ordinary method 
 of things ? You have seen her ; the next regular approach 
 is that you cannot subsist a moment without sending 
 forth musical complaints of your misfortune by way of 
 serenade. 
 
 Cler. I can nick you there, sir. I have a scribbling 
 army friend that has writ a triumphant, rare, noisy song 
 in honour of the late victory, that will hit the nymph's 
 fantasque to a hair. I'll get everything ready as fast as 
 possible. 
 
 Pounce. While you are playing ui)on tlie fort, I'll be 
 \vithin and observe what execution you do, and give you 
 intelligence accordingly. 
 
 Clcr. You must have an eye ui)on Mr. Humi)hry while 
 
 I feed the vanity of Parthenissa; for I am so experienced 
 
 in these matters that I know none but coxcombs think 
 
 to win a woman by any desert of their own — No, it 
 
 must be done rather by complying with some prevailing 
 
 humour of your mistress, than exerting any good quality 
 
 in yourself. 
 
 'Tis not the lover's merit wins the field. 
 
 But to themselves alone the beauteous yield. 
 
 ^ Garra way's coffKC house, in Change Alley. Thomas Garraway, • 
 tobacconist and coffee-man, was the first to retail tea, which he 
 ^•ecommencled for the cure of all tlisorders. See Taller, No. 147 ; 
 Spectator, Nos. 403, 457. Garraway's was the resarl of injrcluints.
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. —Mrs. Clerimont's Room. 
 
 EfiterMxs. Clerlmont, Fainlove {carrying her laJ}-dog), 
 and Jenny. 
 
 EN. Madam, the footman that's recom- 
 mended to you is below, if your lady- 
 ship will please to take him. 
 
 Mrs. Clcr. O fie ; don't believe 
 I'll think on't. It is impossible he 
 should be good for anything — The 
 English are so saucy with their liberty — I'll have all my 
 lower servants French. There cannot be a good foot' 
 man born out of an absolute monarchy. 
 
 Ten. I am beholden to your ladyship for believing so 
 well of the maidservants in England. 
 
 Mrs. Clcr. Indeed, Jenny, I could wish thou wert 
 really French ; for thou art plain English in spite of 
 example. Your arms do but hang on, and you move 
 perfectly upon joints ; not with a swim of the whole 
 person — But I am talking to you, and have not adjusted 
 myself to-day : What pretty company a glass is, to have 
 another self ! \Kisses the dog."] To converse in soliloquy ! 
 • To have company that never contradicts or displeases us ! 
 The pretty visible echo of our actions ! \_Kisscs the dog?[ 
 How easy, too, it is to be disencumbered with stays,
 
 SCENE I.] THE TENDER HUSBAND. 229 
 
 where a woman has anythuig like shape ; if no shape, a 
 good air — But I look best when I'm talking. 
 
 \Kisses the lap-dog in Fainlove's arms, 
 
 /en. You always look well. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. For I'm always talking, you mean so ; that 
 disquiets thy sullen English temper ; but I don't really 
 look so well when I am silent. If I do but offer to speak, 
 then I may say that — Oh, bless me, Jenny, I am so pale, 
 I am afraid of myself — I have not laid on half red 
 enough — What a dough-baked thing was I before I im- 
 proved myself, and travelled for beauty ! However, my 
 face is very prettily designed to-day. 
 
 Fain. Indeed, madam, you begin to have so fine 
 an hand, that you are younger every day than other. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. The ladies abroad used to call me 
 Mademoiselle Titian, I was so famous for my colouring ; 
 but prithee, wench, bring me my black eyebrows out of 
 the next room.^ 
 
 len. Madam, I have 'em in my hand. 
 
 1 Prior has several poems on this subject :^ 
 
 " From her own native France, as old Alison passed, 
 
 She reproached English Nell with neglect or with malice, 
 That the slattern had left in the hurry and haste 
 Her lady's complexion and eyebrows at Calais." 
 
 And, again, 
 
 *' Helen was just slipped into bed, 
 Her eyebrows on the toilette lay, 
 Away the kitten with them fled, 
 As fees belonging to her prey. 
 For this misfortune careless Jane, 
 Assure yourself, was loudly rated. 
 And madam getting up again, 
 With her own hand the niousc-lrap baited. 
 On little things as sages write. 
 Depends our human joy or sorrow ; 
 If we don't catch a mouse to-night, 
 Alas ! no eyebrows for to-morrow." 
 
 And on another occasion, when her eyebrow box was lost, Helen 
 
 sa)s ; — 
 
 •' I can behold no mortal now, 
 For what's an eye without a brow r "
 
 230 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act in. 
 
 Fain. It would be liappy for all that are to see you 
 to-day, if you could change your eyes, too. 
 
 Mrs. Clcr. Gallant enough — no, hang it, I'll wear 
 these I have on ; this mode of visage takes mightily. I 
 had three ladies last week came over to my complexion, 
 I think to be a fair woman this fortnight, till I find I'm 
 aped too much — I believe there are an hundred copies 
 of me already. 
 
 Jen. Dear madam, won't your ladyship please to let 
 me be of the next countenance you leave off? 
 
 IFrs. Clcr. You may, Jenny ; but I assure you it is a 
 very pretty piece of ill-nature, for a woman that has any 
 genius for beauty to observe the servile imitation of her 
 manner, her motion, her glances, and her smiles. 
 
 Fain. Ay, indeed, madam, nothing can be so ridiculous 
 as to imitate the inimitable. 
 
 Airs. Cler. Indeed, as you say, Fainlove, the French 
 mien is no more to be learned than the language, with- 
 out going thither. Then, again, to see some poor ladies 
 who have clownish, penurious, English husbands, turn 
 and torture their old clothes into so many forms, and 
 dye 'em into so many colours, to fellow me — What say'st, 
 Jenny ? What say'st ? Not a word ? 
 
 Jen. Why,madam, all that I can say 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Nay, I believe, Jenny, thou hast nothing to 
 say anymore than the rest of thy country-women. The 
 splenatics speak just as the weather lets 'em; they are 
 mere talking barometers. Abroad the people of quality 
 go on so eternally, and still go on, and are gay and enter- 
 tain. In England discourse is made up of nothing but 
 question and answer. I was t'other day at a visit, where 
 there was a profound silence, for, I believe, the third part 
 of a minute. 
 
 J'en. And your ladyship there ? 
 
 Mrs. Cler. They infected me with their dulness ; who 
 can keep up their good humour at an English visit ? They
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 231 
 
 sit as at a funeral, silent in the midst of many candles. 
 One, perhaps, alarms the room — "'Tis very cold 
 weather" — then all the mutes play their fans till some 
 other question happens, and then the fans go off again. 
 
 Boy. Madam, your spinet-master is come. 
 
 Mrs. Ckr. Bring him in ; he's very pretty company. 
 
 Faiu. His spinet is ; he never speaks himself. 
 
 Mrs. Ckr. Speak, simpleton ! What then ; he keeps 
 out silence, does not he? — Oh, sir, you must forgive me; 
 1 have been very idle. Well, you pardon me. S^Maskr 
 boK's^ Did you think I was perfect in the song ? \Boios\ 
 
 — but pray let me hear it once niore. Let us see it 
 
 {Reads. 
 
 Song. 
 
 With studied airs, and practised smiles, 
 Flavia my ravished heart beguiles ; 
 The charms we make, are ours alone. 
 Nature's works are not our own ; 
 Her skilful hand gives every grace, 
 And shows her fancy in her face. 
 She feeds with art an amourous rage, 
 Nor fears the force of coming age. 
 
 You sing it very well ; but, I confess, I wish you'd give 
 more in to the French manner — Observe me hum it a-la- 
 Fran^aise. 
 
 " With studied airs," &c. 
 
 The whole person, every limb, every nerve sings. The Eng- 
 lish way is only being for that time a mere musical instru- 
 ment, just sending forth a sound without knowing they do 
 so. Now I'll give you a little of it, like an Englishwoman : 
 You are to suppose I've denied you twenty times, looked 
 silly, and all that — then, with hands and face insensible 
 • — I have a mighty cold. 
 
 "With studied airs," &c.
 
 232 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [ACT ill. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Scr. Madam, Captain Clerimont and a very strange 
 gentleman are come to wait on you, 
 
 Mrs. Clcr. Let him and the very strange gentleman 
 come in. 
 
 Faiji. Oh ! madam, that's the country gentleman I 
 was telling you of. 
 
 Enter Humphry and Captain Clerimont. 
 
 Fa'm. Madam, may I do myself the honour to recom- 
 mend Mr. Gubbin, son and heir to Sir Harry Gubbin, to 
 your ladyship's notice ? 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Mr. Gubbin, I am extremely pleased with 
 your suit ; 'tis antique, and originally from France. 
 
 Hujnp. It is always locked up, madam, when I'm in 
 the country. My father prizes it mightily. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. 'Twould make a very pretty dancing suit in 
 a masque. Oh! Captain Clerimont, I have a quarrel with 
 you. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Madam, your ladyship's husband desires to know 
 whether you see company to-day or not? 
 Mrs. Cler. Who, you clown ? 
 Ser. Mr. Clerimont, madam. 
 Airs. Cler. He may come in. 
 
 Etiter Clerimont, Sen. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Your very humble servant. 
 
 Cler. Sen. I am going to take the air this morn- 
 ing in my coach, and did myself the honour, before 
 I went, to receive your commands, finding you saw 
 company. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. At any time when you know I do, you 
 may let me see you. Pray, how did you sleep last night ? 
 — If I had not asked him that question they might have
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 233 
 
 thought we lay together. \Aside. Here Fainloye, look- 
 ing through a perspective, boivs to Clerimont, Sen.] — But 
 captain, I have a quarrel with you — I have utterly forgot 
 those three coupees' you promised to come again and 
 show me. 
 
 Cler. Sen. Then, madam, you have no commands this 
 morning ? 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Your humble servant, sir — But, oh ! \^As 
 she is going to be led by the Captai?i.'\ Have you signed 
 that mortgage to pay ofif my Lady Faddle's winnings at 
 ombre ? 
 
 Cler. Sen. Yes, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Then all's well ; my honour's safe. \_Exit 
 Clerimont, Sen.] Come, captain, lead me this step, 
 for I'm apt to make a false one; you shall show me. 
 
 Cler. I'll show you, madam ; 'tis no matter for a 
 fiddle ; I'll give you 'em the French way, in a teaching 
 tune. Pray, more quick — Oh, mademoiselle, que faites- 
 vous ? — A moi — There again — Now slide, as it were, 
 with and without measure — There you outdid the 
 gipsy ; and you have all the smiles of the dance to a 
 tittle. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Why, truly, I think that the greatest part. 
 I have seen an English woman dance a jig with the 
 severity of a vestal virgin. 
 
 HujHp. If this be French dancing and singing, I fancy 
 I could do it. Haw ! haw ! [Capers aside. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. I protest, Mr. Gubbin, you have almost 
 the step, without any of our country bashfulness. Give 
 me your hand. Haw ! haw ! So, so ; a little quicker. 
 That's right, haw ! — Captain, your brother delivered this 
 spark to me, to be diverted here till he calls for him. 
 
 \Kxit Clerimont. 
 
 ^ A coupee is a motion in dancing, when one leg is a little bent, 
 and raised from the ground, while a forward motion is made with 
 the other leg.
 
 2^^]. TUB TB.VDFJ^ I/C'SBA.VD: [act in. 
 
 Hiwip. This cutting so high makes one's money jingle 
 confoundedly. I'm resolved I'll never carry above one 
 pocketful hereafter. 
 
 Mrs. Chr. You do it very readily ; you amaze me. 
 
 Hump. Are the gentlemen in France generally so 
 well bred as we are in England ? Are they, madam, 
 ha? — But, young gentleman, when shall I see this 
 sister ? Haw ! haw ! haw ! Is not tlie higher one 
 jumps the better ? 
 
 Fain. She'll be mightily taken with you, I'm sure. One 
 would not think 'twas in 3'ou — you're so gay, and dance 
 so very high. 
 
 Hump. What should ail me ? Did you think I 
 was wind-galled ? I can sing, too, if I please ; but 
 I won't till I see your sister — This is a mighty pretty 
 house. 
 
 Mrs. Clcr. Well, do you know that I like this gentleman 
 extremely ? I sliould be glad to inform him — But were 
 you never in France, Mr. Gubbin ? 
 
 Hump. No ; but I'm always thus pleasant, if my 
 father's not by. — \To Fainlove.] I protest I'd advise 
 your sister to have me : I'm for marrying her at once. 
 Why should I stand shilly-shally, like a country 
 bumpkin ? 
 
 Fain. Mr. Gubbin, I daresay she'll be as forward as 
 you ; we'll go in and see her. '[Apart. 
 
 Mrs. Clcr. Then he has not yet seen the lady he is in 
 love with ! I protest very new and gallant — Mr. Gub- 
 bin, she must needs believe you a frank person — Fain- 
 love, I must see this sister, too, I'm resolved she shall 
 like him. 
 
 There needs not time true passion to discover j 
 The most believing is the most a lover.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE A CCOMPLTSHED FOOLS, 235 
 
 SCENE II. — Niece's Lodgings. 
 Enter Niece. 
 
 Niece. Oil, Clerimont ! Clerimont! To be struck at 
 first sight ! I'm ashamed of my weakness ; I find in my- 
 self all the symptoms of a raging amour. I love solitude, 
 I grow pale, I sigh frequenti}', I call upon the name of 
 Clerimont when I don't think of it — His person is ever in 
 my eyes, and his voice in my ears — Methinks I long to 
 lose m3'self in some pensive grove, or to hang over the 
 head of some warbling fountain, with a lute in my hand, 
 softening the murmurs of the water. 
 
 Enter Aunt. 
 
 Aunt. Biddy, Biddy; where's Biddy Tipkin? 
 
 Niece. Whom do you inquire for? 
 
 Au)it. Come, come ; he's just a-coming at the Park 
 door. 
 
 Niece. Who is coming ? 
 
 Aunt. Your cousin Humphry. Who should be 
 coming ? Your lover, your husband that is to be — -Pray, 
 my dear, look well, and be civil for your credit, and mine 
 too. 
 
 Niece. If he answers my idea, I shall rally the rustic to 
 death. 
 
 Aunt. Hist — Here he is. 
 
 Enter Humphry. 
 
 Hump. Aunt, your humble servant. Is that — ha ! 
 Aunt? 
 
 Aunt. Yes, cousin Humphry, that's your cousin 
 Bridget — Well, I'll leave you together. 
 
 \_Exit Aunt. T/iey sit. 
 
 Hump. Aunt docs as she'd be done by, cousin Bridget, 
 does not she, cousin ? Ha ! What, are you a Londoner, 
 and not speak to a gentleman ? Look ye, cousin, the
 
 236 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [act ill. 
 
 old folks resolving to many us, I thought it would be 
 proper to see how I liked you, as not caring to buy a pig 
 in a poke, for I love to look before I leap. 
 
 Niece. Sir, your person and address bring to my mind 
 the whole history of Valentine and Orson. ^ What, would 
 they marry me to a wild man? Pray answer me a 
 question or two. 
 
 Hump. Ay, ay ; as many as you please, cousin 
 Bridget. 
 
 Niece. What wood were you taken in ? How long 
 have you been caught? 
 
 Hump. Caught ! 
 
 Niece. Where were your haunts ? 
 
 Hump. My haunts ! 
 
 Niece. Are not clothes very uneasy to you ? Is this 
 strange dress the first you ever wore ? 
 
 Hump. How ? 
 
 Niece. Are you not a great admirer of roots, and raw 
 flesh ? Let me look upon your nails — Don't you love 
 blackberries, haws, and pig-nuts, mightily ? 
 
 Hump. How ? 
 
 Niece. Can'st thou deny that thou wert suckled by a 
 wolf? You have not been so barbarous, I hope, since 
 you came among men, as to hunt your nurse, have 
 you ? 
 
 Hump. Hunt my nurse? Ay, 'tis so, she's distracted, 
 as sure as a gun. Hark ye, cousin, pray will you let me 
 ask you a question or two ? 
 
 Niece. If thou hast yet learned the use of language, 
 speak, monster. 
 
 Hump. How long have you been thus ? 
 
 Niece. Thus ! What would'st thou say ? 
 
 Hump. What's the cause of it ? Tell me truly, now ; 
 did you never love anybody before me ? 
 
 1 Valentine and Orson, the two twin sons of Alexander, Emperor 
 of Constantinople, in the old romance, were born in a wood,
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 237 
 
 Niece. Go, go, thou'rt a savage. {^Rises. 
 
 Hump. They never let you go abroad, I suppose. 
 
 Niece. Thou'rt a monster, I tell thee. 
 
 Hianp. Indeed, cousin, though 'tis a folly to tell thee 
 so — I am afraid thou art a mad woman. 
 
 Niece. I'll have thee carried into some forest. 
 
 Hump. I'll take thee into a dark room. 
 
 Niece. I hate thee. 
 
 Hump. I wish you did — There's no hate lost, I assure 
 you, cousin Bridget. 
 
 Niece. Cousin Bridget, quoth'a ! I'd as soon claim 
 kindred with a mountain bear — I detest thee. 
 
 Hump. You never do any harm in these fits, I hope. 
 ^But do you hate me in earnest ? 
 f Niece. Dost thou ask it, ungentle forester? 
 
 Hump. Yes; for I've a reason, look ye. It happens 
 very well if you hate me and are in your senses, for, to 
 tell you truly, I don't much care for you ; and there is 
 another fine woman, as I am informed, that is in some 
 hopes of having me. 
 
 Niece. This merits my attention. \Aside. 
 
 Hump. Look ye, d'ye see — as I said, since I don't 
 care for you, I would not have you set your heart on me ; 
 but if you like anybody else let me know it, and I'll find 
 out a way for us to get rid of one another, and deceive 
 the old folks that would couple us. 
 
 Niece. This wears the face of an amour. — There is 
 something in that thought which makes thy presence less 
 insupportable. 
 
 Hump. Nay, nay, now you're growing fond ; if 
 you come with these maid's tricks, to say you hate 
 at first and afterwards like me, you'll spoil the whole 
 design. 
 
 Niece. Don't fear it — When I think of consorting with 
 thee, may the wild boar defile the cleanly ermine; may 
 the tiger be wedded to the kid.
 
 238 THE TENDER HUSBAND. [act hi. 
 
 Hump. When I of thee, may the pole-cat caterwaul 
 with the civet. 
 
 Niece. When I harbour the least thought of thee, may 
 the silver Thames forget its course. 
 
 Hump. \Vhen I like thee, may I be soused over head 
 and ears in a horsepond — But do you hate me ? 
 
 Enter Aunt. 
 
 Niece. For ever; and you me? 
 
 Hump. Most heartily. 
 
 Aunt. Ha ! I like this. They are come to promises and 
 protestations. \Aside. 
 
 Hump. I am very glad I have found a way to please 
 you. 
 
 Niece. You promise to be constant? 
 
 Hump. Till death. 
 
 Niece. Thou best of savages ! 
 
 Hump. Thou best of savages ! Poor Biddy. 
 
 Aunt. Oh! the pretty couple, joking on one another 
 • — Well, how do you like your cousin Humphry now? 
 
 Niece. Much better than I thought I should. He's 
 quite another thing than what I took him for — We have 
 both the same passion for one another. 
 
 Hump. We wanted only an occasion to open our 
 hearts, aunt. 
 
 Aunt. Oh, how this will rejoice my brodier and Sir 
 Harry ! we'll go to 'em. 
 
 Hump. No, I must fetch a walk with a new acquaint- 
 ance, Mr. Samuel Pounce. 
 
 Aunt. An excellent acquaintance for your husband ; 
 come, niece, come. 
 
 Niece. Farewell, rustic. 
 
 Hump. Bye, Biddy. 
 
 Aunt. Rustic ! Biddy ! Ha ! ha ! pretty creatures, 
 
 \^E.\eunt.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE.— ^ Sired. 
 
 Enter Captain Clerimont and Pounce. 
 
 LER. Does she expect me then, at tliis 
 very instant ? 
 
 Pounce. I tell you, she oideied me 
 to bring the painter at this very hour, 
 precisely, to draw her niece ; for, to 
 make her picture peculiarly charming 
 she has now that downcast pretty 
 shame, that warm cheek, glowing with the fear and hope 
 of to-day's fate, with the inviting, coy affection of a bride, 
 all in her face at once. Now I know you are a pretender 
 that way. 
 
 Cler. Enough, I warrant, to personate the character 
 on such an inspiring occasion. 
 
 Pounce. You must have the song I spoke of performed 
 at this window, at the end of which I'll give you a signal. 
 Everything is ready for you ; your pencil, your canvas 
 
 stretched, your Be sure you play your jjart in humour. 
 
 To be a painter for a lady, you're to have the excessive 
 flattery of a lovei", the ready invention of a poet, and 
 the easy gesture of a player. 
 
 Clcr. Come, come, no more instructions, my imagina- 
 tion out-runs all you can say. Be gone, be gone ! 
 
 \Exit Pounce.
 
 240 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act iV. 
 
 A Song. 
 I. 
 Why, lovely charmer, tell me why, 
 So very kind, and yet so shy ? 
 Why does that cold forbidding air 
 Give damps of sorrow and despair ? 
 Or why that smile my soul subdue, 
 And kindle up my flames anew ? 
 
 II. 
 
 In vain you strive with all your art. 
 By turns to freeze and fire my heart : 
 When I behold a face so fair, 
 So sweet a look, so soft an air, 
 My ravished soul is charmed all o'er, 
 I cannot love thee less nor more. 
 
 \After the song Pounce appears beckoning the Captain.] 
 Pounce. Captain, captain. \Exit Captain. 
 
 SCENE II. — Niece's Lodgings; hvo chairs and a table. 
 Enter Aunt and Niece. 
 
 Aunt. Indeed, niece, I am as much overjoyed to see 
 your wedding day as if it were my own. 
 
 Niece. But why must it be huddled up so ? 
 
 Aunt. Oh, my dear, a private wedding is much better; 
 your mother had such a bustle at hers, with feasting and 
 fooling. Besides, they did not go to bed till two in the 
 morning. 
 
 Niece. Since you understand things so well, I wonder 
 you never married yourself. 
 
 Aunt. My dear, I w^as very cruel thirty years ago, and 
 nobody has asked me since.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 241 
 
 Niece. Alas-a-day ! 
 
 Aunt. Yet, I assure you, there was a great many 
 matches proposed to me : There was Sir Gilbert Jolly, 
 but he, forsooth, could not please ; he drank ale and 
 smoked tobacco, and was no fine gentleman, forsooth — 
 But then, again, there was young Mr. Peregrine Shapely, 
 who had travelled, and spoke French, and smiled at all I 
 said ; he was a fine gentleman — but then he was con- 
 sumptive. And yet again, to see how one may be mis- 
 taken ; Sir Jolly died in half-a-year, and my Lady 
 Shapely has by that thin slip eight children, that should 
 have been mine — but here's the bridegroom. — So, cousin 
 Humphry ! 
 
 .£«/^/* Humphry. 
 
 Hump. Your servant, ladies. So, my dear 
 
 Niece. So, my savage — 
 
 Aunt. O fie, no more of that to your husband, 
 Biddy. 
 
 Hump. No matter, I like it as well as duck or love ; 
 I know my cousin loves me as well as I do her. 
 
 Aunt. I'll leave you together ; I must go and get ready 
 an entertainment for you when you come home. \Exit. 
 
 Hump. Well, cousin, are you constant ? Do you hate 
 me still ? 
 
 Niece. As much as ever. 
 
 Hu7np. What an happiness it is, when peoples' incli- 
 nations jump! I wish I knew what to do with you. Can 
 you get nobody, d'ye think, to marry you ? 
 
 Niece. Oh ! Clerimont, Clerimont ! Where art thou ? 
 
 \Asidc. 
 
 Enter Aunt and Captain Clerimont, disguised. 
 Aunt. This, sir, is the lady whom you are to draw. 
 You see, sir, as good flesh and blood as a man would 
 desire to put in colours — 1 must have her maiden pic- 
 ture. 
 
 Steele, U
 
 242 THE TENDER HUSBAAW : [act IV. 
 
 Htanp. Then the painter must make haste. Ha, 
 cousin ! 
 
 Niece. Hold thy tongue, good savage. 
 
 Cler. Madam, I'm generally forced to new-mould 
 every feature, and mend nature's handiwork ; but here 
 she has made so finished an original, that I despair of my 
 copies coming up to it. 
 
 Aunt. Do you hear that, niece ? 
 
 Niece. I don't desire you to make graces where you 
 find none. 
 
 Clcr. To see the difference of the fair sex ! I protest 
 to you, madam, my fancy is utterly exhausted with in- 
 venting faces for those that sit to me. The first enter- 
 tainment I generally meet with, are complaints for want 
 of sleep j they never looked so pale in their lives, as 
 when they sit for their pictures. Then so many touches 
 and retouches, when the face is finished. That wrinkle 
 ought not to have been, those eyes are too languid, that 
 colour's too weak, that side-look hides the mole on the 
 left cheek. In short, the whole likeness is struck out — 
 But in you, madam, the highest I can come up to will be 
 but rigid justice. 
 
 Hump. A comical dog this ! 
 
 Aunt. Truly, the gentleman seems to understand his 
 business. 
 
 Niece. Sir,^ if your pencil flatters like your tongue, you 
 are going to draw a picture that won't be at all like me — 
 Sure I have heard that voice somewhere. [Aside. 
 
 Cler. Madam, be pleased to place yourself near me ; 
 nearer still, madam, here falls the best light. You must 
 know, madam, there are three kinds of airs which the 
 ladies most delight in : There is your haughty, your 
 mild, and your pensive air. The haughty may be ex- 
 
 1 Cf. Moliere's Le Sicilicn, scene xiii. : — " Si votre pinceau^ 
 flatte autant que voire langue, vous allez me faire un portrait qui 
 ne me resemblera point."
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE A CCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 243 
 
 pressed with the head a little more erect than ordinary, 
 and the countenance with a certain disdain in it, so as 
 she may appear almost, but not quite, inexorable. This 
 kind of air is generally heightened with a little knit- 
 ting of the brows — I gave my lady Scornwell the choice 
 of a dozen frowns before she could find one to her 
 liking. 
 
 Niece. But what's the mild air ? 
 
 Cler. The mild air is composed of a languish, and a 
 smile — But, if I might advise, I'd rather be a pensive 
 beauty; the pensive usually feels her pulse, leans on one 
 arm, or sits ruminating with a book in her hand ; which 
 conversation she is supposed to choose rather than the 
 endless importunities of lovers. 
 
 Hump. A comical dog ! 
 
 Aunt. Upon my word he understands his business 
 well ; I'll tell you, niece, how your mother was drawn : 
 she had an orange in her hand,^ and a nosegay in her 
 bosom, but a look so pure and fresh-coloured you'd have 
 taken her for one of the Seasons. 
 
 Cler. You seem indeed, madam, most inclined to the 
 pensive. The pensive delights also in the fall of waters, 
 pastoral figures, or any rural view suitable to a fair lady 
 who, with a delicate spleen, has retired from the world, as 
 sick of its flattery and admiration. 
 
 Niece. No ; since there is room for fancy in a picture, 
 I would be drawn like the amazon Thalestris, with a 
 spear in my hand, and an helmet on a table before me. 
 At a distance behind let there be a dwarf, holding by the 
 bridle a milk-white palfrey. 
 
 1 Sec the Vicar of Wakefield, Chap. XVI. :— "As for our 
 neij^hbour's family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn 
 with seven oranges, a thinf^ quite out of taste, no variety in life, 
 no compo^ition in the world." The vicar's wife was painted as 
 Venus, with two Cupids ; the vicar, in <jown and band, presenting 
 her with his books on thj Wliistonian controversy. Olivia was an 
 atnizon, Sophia a shepherdes-j, "with as many sheep as the painter 
 could put ill for nothing."
 
 244 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [ACT IV. 
 
 Cler. Madam, ihe thought is full of spirit, and if you 
 please, there shall be a Cupid stealing away your helmet, 
 to show that love should have a part in all gallant 
 actions. 
 
 Niece. That circumstance may be very picturesque. 
 
 Cler. Here, madam, shall be your own picture, here 
 the palfrey, and here the dwarf — The dwarf must be 
 very little, or we shan't have room for him. 
 
 Niece. A dwarf cannot be too little. 
 
 Cler. I'll make him a blackamoor to distinguish him 
 from the other too powerful dwarf [6"^^/^] — the Cupid — 
 I'll place that beauteous boy near you, 'twill look very 
 natural — He'll certainly take you for his mother Venus. 
 
 Niece. I leave these particulars to your own fancy. 
 
 Cler. 'Please, madam, to uncover your neck a little ; 
 a little lower still — a little, little lower. 
 
 Niece. I'll be drawn thus, if you please, sir, 
 
 Cler. Ladies, have you heard the news of a late mar- 
 riage between a young lady of great fortune and a 
 younger brother of a good family ? 
 
 Aunt. Pray, sir, how is it ? 
 
 Cler. This young gentleman, ladies, is a particular 
 acquaintance of mine, and much about my age and 
 stature (look me full in the face, madam) ; he accident- 
 ally met the young lady, who had in her all the per- 
 fections of her sex (hold up your head, madam, that's 
 right) ; she let him know that his person and discourse 
 were not altogether disagreeable to her. The difficulty 
 was how to gain a second interview (your eyes full 
 upon mine, madam); for never was there such a sigher in 
 
 * Compare Le Stcilien, scene xiii. : — " Adraste. Levez-vous un 
 peu, s'il vous plait. Un peu plus de la c6te-la. Le corps 
 lourne ainsi. La tete un peu levee, afin que la beaute du cou 
 paraisse. Ceci un peu plus decouvert. (II decouvre un peu plus 
 sa gorge). Bon. La, un peu davantage ; encore tant soit peu. . . • 
 Vos yeux toujours tournes vers moi, je vous en prie ; vos regards 
 attaches aux miens."
 
 SCENE II.] OR,THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 245 
 
 all the valleys of Arcadia as that unfortunate youth, 
 during the absence of her he loved. 
 
 Aunt, Alack-a-day ! poor young gentleman ! 
 
 Niece, It must be he— what a charming amour is tliis ! 
 
 \Aside. 
 
 Cler. At length, ladies, he bethought himself of an 
 expedient; he dressed himself just as I am now, and 
 came to draw her picture (your eyes full upon mine, 
 pray, madam). 
 
 Htimp. A subtle dog, I warrant him. 
 
 Cler. And by that means found an opportunity of 
 carrying her off, and marrying her. 
 
 Aunt. Indeed, your friend was a very vicious young 
 man. 
 
 Niece. Yet perhaps the young lady was not displeased 
 at what he had done. 
 
 Cler. But, madam, what were the transports of the 
 lover when she made him that confession ? 
 
 Niece. I daresay she thought herself very happy when 
 she got out of her guardian's hands. 
 
 Aimt. 'Tis very true, niece ; there are abundance ot 
 those headstrong young baggages about town, 
 
 Cler. The gentleman has often told me, he was 
 strangely struck at first sight, but when she sat to him 
 for her picture, and assumed all those graces that are 
 proper for the occasion, his torment was so exquisite, his 
 passion so violent, that he could not have lived a day, 
 had he not found means to make the charmer of his 
 heart his own. 
 
 Hump. 'Tis certainly the foolishest thing in the 
 world to stand shilly-shally about a woman, when one 
 has a mind to marry her. 
 
 Cler. The young painter turned poet on the subject; 
 I believe I have the words by heart. 
 
 Niece. A sonnet ! pray repeat it.' 
 
 I This song was set to music by Daniel Purcell.
 
 246 THE TENDER HUSBAND: [ACT iv, 
 
 While gentle Parthenissa walks, 
 And sweetly smiles, and gaily talks, 
 A thousand shafts around her fly, 
 A thousand swains unheeded die. 
 
 If then she labours to be seen, 
 With all her killing air and mien ; 
 From so much beauty, so much art, 
 V)'hat mortal can secure his heart ? 
 
 Hump. I fancy if 'twas sung, 'twould make a very 
 pretty catch. 
 
 Clcr. My servant has a voice; you shall hear it. 
 
 \Hcre if is sun^. 
 
 Aunt. Why this is pretty ! I think a painter should 
 never be without a good singer, it brightens the features 
 strangely — I profess I'm mightily pleased. I'll but just 
 step in, and give some orders, and be with you presently. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Niece, Was not this adventurous painter called Cleri- 
 mont ? 
 
 Clcr. It was Clerimont, the servant of Parthenissa; 
 but let me beseech that beauteous maid to resolve, and 
 make the incident I feigned to her a real one. Con- 
 sider, madam, you are environed by cruel and treacher- 
 ous guards, which would force you to a disagreeable 
 marriage ; your case is exactly the same with the princess 
 of the Leontines in Clelia. 
 
 Niece. How can we commit such a solecism against all 
 rules ? What, in the first leaf of our history to have the 
 marriage? You know it cannot be. 
 
 Cler. The pleasantest part of the history will be after 
 marriage. 
 
 Niece. No ! I never yet read of a knight that entered
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE A CCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 247 
 
 tilt or tournament after wedlock; 'tis not to be expected : 
 when the husband begins, the hero ends ; all that noble 
 impulse to glory, all the generous passion for adventures, 
 is consumed in the nuptial torch ; I don't know how it 
 is, but Mars and Hymen never hit it. 
 
 Hump. \Listening?^ Consumed in the nuptial torch ! 
 Mars and Hymen ! What can all this mean ? I am very 
 glad I can hardly read. They could never get these 
 foolish fancies into my head, I had always a strong 
 brain [Aside.] — Hark ye, cousin, is not this painter a 
 comical dog? 
 
 Niece. I think he's very agreeable company. 
 
 Hump. Why then I tell you what : marry him — a 
 painter's a very genteel calling. He's an ingenious 
 fellow, and certainly poor. 1 fancy he'd be glad on't ; 
 I'll keep my aunt out of the room a minute or two, that's 
 all the time you have to consider. \Exit. 
 
 Cler. Fortune points out to us this only occasion of 
 our happiness : Love's of celestial origin, and needs no 
 long acquaintance to be. manifest. Lovers, like angels, 
 speak by intuition ; their souls are in their eyes. 
 
 Niece. Then I fear he sees mine. [Asidc?^ — But I 
 can't think of abridging our amours, and catting off all 
 farther decoration of disguise, serenade, and adventure. 
 
 Cler. Nor would I willingly lose the merit of long 
 services, midnight sighs, and plaintive solitudes, were 
 there not a necessit)'. 
 
 Niece. Then to be seized by stealth ! 
 
 Cler. Why, madam, you are a great fortune, and 
 should not be married the common way. Indeed, 
 madam, you ought to be stolen, nay, in strictness, I 
 don't know but you ought to be ravished. 
 
 Niece. But then our history will be so short. 
 
 Cler. I grant it ; but you don't consider there's a device 
 in another's leading you instead of this person that's to 
 have you ; and, madam, though our aniours can't f unish
 
 248 THE TENDER HUSBAND. [ACT IV 
 
 out a romance, they'll make a very pretty novel — Why 
 smiles my fair ? 
 
 Niece. I am almost of opinion that had Oroondates 
 been as pressing as Clerimont, Cassandra had been but 
 a pocket-book^ ; but it looks so ordinary, to go out at a 
 door to be married. Indeed, I ought to be taken out of 
 a window, and run away with. 
 
 Enter Humphry and Pounce. 
 
 Hwnp. Well, cousin, the coach is at the door. If you 
 please I'll lead you. 
 
 Niece. I put myself into your hands, good savage ; but 
 you promise to leave me. 
 
 Hump. I tell you plainly, you must not think of having 
 me. 
 
 Pounce. [To Cler.] You'll have opportunity enough to 
 carry her off; the old fellows will be busy with me. I'll 
 gain all the time I can, but be bold and prosper. 
 
 Niece. Clerimont, you follow us. 
 
 C/er. Upon the wings of love. 
 
 ^ Cf. Moliere's Precietises Ridicules, in which Mademoiselle 
 Magdalen says, " Si d'abord Cyrus epousait Mandane, et qu'Aronce 
 de plain-pied fiit marie a Clclie ! "
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I.— Clerimont, Sen.'s House, 
 Enitr Clerimont, Sen. and Fainlove. 
 
 LER.. SEN. Then she gave you this 
 letter, and bid you read it as a paper 
 of verses ? 
 
 Fai7i. This is the place, the hour, 
 the lucky minute. Now am I rub- 
 bing up my memory, to recollect all 
 you said to me when you first ruined 
 me, that I may attack her right. 
 
 Cler. Sen. Your eloquence would be needless ; 'tis so 
 unmodish to need persuasion : Modesty makes a lady 
 embarrassed ; but my spouse is above that, as for exam- 
 ple \Reading her letter\ — "Fainlove, you don't seem to 
 want wit; therefore I need say no more than that dis- 
 tance to a woman of the world is becoming in no man 
 but a husband : an hour hence come up the back stairs 
 to my closet. *' Adieu, Mon Mignon." 
 
 I am glad you are punctual ; FU conceal myself to 
 
 observe your interview. — O torture ! but this wench 
 
 must not see it. \Aside. 
 
 Fain. Be sure you come time enough to save my 
 
 reputation.
 
 250 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act v. 
 
 Chr. Sen. Remember your orders, " distance becomes 
 no man but a husband." 
 
 Fain. I am glad you are in so good humour on the 
 occasion ; but you know me to be but a bully in love, 
 that can bluster only till the minute of engagement — 
 but I'll top my part, and form my conduct by my own 
 sentiments. If she grows coy, I'll grow more saucy — 
 'twas so I was won myself. 
 
 Ckr. Sen. Well, my dear rival, your assignation draws 
 nigh ; you are to put on your transport, your impatient 
 throbbing heart won't let you wait her arrival. Let the 
 dull family-thing and husband, who reckons his moments 
 by his cares, be content to wait ; but you are a gallant, 
 and measure time by ecstasies. 
 
 Fain. I hear her coming — To your post — good hus- 
 band, know your duty, and don't be in the way when 
 your wife has a mind to be in private^To your post, 
 into the coal-hole. 
 
 Enter INIrs. Clerimont. 
 
 Welcome, my dear, my tender charmer, oh ! to my 
 longing arms — feel the heart pant, that h\h and rises as 
 you smile or frown. Oh, the ecstatic moment ! — I think 
 that was something like what has been said to me. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Ckr. Very well, Fainlove.- — I protest I value 
 myself for my discerning. I knew you had fire through 
 all the respect you showed me ; but how came j'ou to 
 make no direct advances, young gentleman ? Why was 
 I forced to admonish your gallantry? 
 
 Fain. Why, madam, I knew you a woman of breed- 
 ing, and above the senseless niceties of an English wife. 
 The French way is, you are to go so far, whether you are 
 agreeable or not. If you are so happy as to please, 
 nobody that is not of a constrained behaviour is at a loss 
 to let vou know it — Besides, if the humble servant makes
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 251 
 
 the first approaches, he has the impudence of making a 
 request, but not the honour of obeying a command. 
 
 Mrs. Clcr. Right ; a woman's man should conceal 
 passion in a famlh'ar air of indifference. Now there's 
 Mr, Clerimont ; I can't allow him the least freedom, but 
 the unfashionable fool grows so fond of me he cannot 
 hide it in public. 
 
 Fain. Ay, madam, I have often wondered at your 
 ladyship's choice of one that seems to have so little of 
 the beau monde in his carriage, but just what you force 
 
 him to, while there were so many pretty gentlemen 
 
 \panci71g. 
 
 Mrs. Clcr. Oh, young gentleman, you are mightily 
 mistaken, if you think such animals as you, and pretty 
 Beau Titmouse, and pert Billy Butterfly, though I suffer 
 you to come in, and play about my rooms, are any ways 
 in competition with a man whose name one would wear. 
 
 Fain. O madam ! then I find we are 
 
 ■ Mrs. Cler. A v/oman of sense must have respect for 
 a man of that character; but alas! respect — what is 
 respect? Respect is not the thing. Respect has some- 
 thing too solemn for soft moments — you things are 
 more proper for hours of dalliance. 
 
 Clcr. Sen. [Pec/>ing:] How have I wronged tliis fine 
 lady ! I find I am to be a cuckold out of her pure 
 esteem for me. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Besides, those fellows for whom we have 
 respect have none for us. I warrant on such an occasion 
 Clerimont would have ruffled a woman out of all form, 
 while you 
 
 Cler. Sen. A good hint — now my cause comes on. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Fain. Since then you allow us fitter for soft moments, 
 why do we misemploy 'em ? Let me kiss that beauteous 
 hand and clasp that graceful frame. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. How, Fainlove ! Wiiat, you don't design
 
 252 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act v. 
 
 to be impertinent — But my lips have a certain roughness 
 on 'em to-day, han't they ? 
 
 Fain, \Kissiug^ No, they are all softness ; their 
 delicious sweetness is inexpressible. Here language 
 fails ; let me applaud thy lips, not by the utterance, but 
 by the touch of mine. 
 
 E7iter Clerimont, Sen., drawing his sword, 
 
 Cler. Sen, Ha, villain ! Ravisher ! Invader of my bed 
 and honour ! draw. 
 
 31rs. Cler, What means this insolence — this intrusion 
 into my privacy? What, do you come into my very 
 closet without knocking? Who put this into your 
 head ? 
 
 Cier. Sen. My injuries have alarmed me, and I'll bear 
 no longer, but sacrifice your bravado, the author of 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Oh ! poor Mr. Fainlove ! Must he die for 
 his complaisance and innocent freedoms with me ? How 
 could you, if you might? Oh! the sweet youth! 
 What, fight Mr. Fainlove? What will the ladies say? 
 
 Fain. Let me come at the intruder on ladies' private 
 hours. The unfashionable monster ! I'll prevent all 
 future interruption from him — Let me come. 
 
 \prawing his sioord. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Oh the brave pretty creature ! Look at 
 his youth and innocence — he is not made for such 
 rough encounters. Stand behind me — Poor Fainlove ! — 
 There is not a visit in town, sir, where you shall not be 
 displayed at full length for this intrusion. I banish you 
 for ever from my sight and bed. 
 
 Cler. Sen. I obey you, madam, for7distance is be- 
 coming in no man but a husband \Giving her the letter^ 
 which she reads, and falls into a swoon.] — I've gone too 
 far — [/hissing her.] — The impertinent was guilty of nothing 
 but what my indiscretion led her to. This is the first 
 kiss I've had these six weeks — but she awakes. Well,
 
 SCENE I.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 253 
 
 Jenny, you topped your part, indeed. Come to my 
 arms, thou ready, willing, fair one. Thou hast no 
 vanities, no niceties ; but art thankful for every instant 
 of love that I bestow on thee. \Evibracing her. 
 
 Mrs. Ckr. What, am I then abused ? Is it a wench 
 then of his ? Oh me ! ^Vas ever poor abused wife, 
 poor innocent lady, thus injured ! 
 
 \Riins and seizes Fainlove's sword, 
 
 Cler. Sen. Oh the brave pretty creature ! Hurt Mr. 
 Fainlove ! Look at his youth, his innocence — Ha 1 ha ! 
 
 \Interposiiig. 
 
 Fain. Have a care, have a care, dear sir — I know by 
 myself she'll have no mercy. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. I'll be the death of her ] let me come on. 
 Stand from between us, Mr. Clerimont— I would not 
 hurt you. [Pushing and crying, 
 
 Cler. Sen. Run, run, Jenny. \Exit Jenny.] [Looks 
 at her tipbraidingly before he spcaks^^ Well, madam, 
 are these the innocent freedoms you claimed of 
 me ? Have I deserved this ? How has there been a 
 moment of yours ever interrupted with the real pangs 
 I suffer ? The daily importunities of creditors, who 
 became so by serving your profuse vanities : did I ever 
 murmur at supplying any of your diversions, while I 
 believed 'em (as you call 'em) harmless ? Must, then, 
 those eyes that used to glad my heart with their familiar 
 brightness hang down with guilt ? Guilt has transformed 
 
 thy whole person ; nay, the very memory of it- Fly 
 
 from my growing passion ! 
 
 Mrs, Cler. I cannot fly, nor bear it. Oh ! look not 
 
 Cler. Sen. What can you say ? Speak quickly. 
 
 [Offering to draw. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. I never saw you moved before. Don't 
 murder me impenitent ; I'm wholly in your power as a 
 criminal, but remember 1 have been so in a tender regard. 
 
 Cler, Sen. But how have you considered that regard ?
 
 254 I^HE TENDER HUSBAND : [act V. 
 
 Mrs. Clcr. Is it possible you can forgive what you 
 ensnared me into ? Oh, look at me kindly ! You know 
 I have only erred in my intention, nor saw my danger, 
 till, by this honest art, you had shown me what 'tis to 
 venture to the utmost limit of what is lawful. You laid 
 that train, I'm sure, to alarm, not to betray, my inno- 
 cence. Mr. Clerimont, scorn such baseness ! There- 
 fore I kneel — I weep — I am convinced. \Knecls. 
 
 \Takcs her tip, embracing her. 
 
 Cler. Sen. Then kneel, and weep no more, my fairest 
 — my reconciled ! Be so in a moment, for know I cannot 
 (without wringing my own heart) give you the least com- 
 punction. Be in humour. It shall be your own fault if 
 ever there's a serious word more on this subject. 
 
 Mrs. Cier. I must correct every idea that rises in my 
 mind, and learn every gesture of my body anew — I 
 detest the thing I was. 
 
 Cler. Sen. No, no; you must not do so. Olu' joy 
 and grief, honour and reproach, are the same ; you ^must 
 slide out of your foppery by degrees, so that it may 
 appear your own act. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. But this wench ! 
 
 Cler. Sen. She is already out oi your way ; you shall 
 see the catastrophe of her fate yourself. But still keep 
 up the fine lady till we go out of town ; you may return 
 to it with as decent airs as you please. — And now I have 
 shown you your error, I'm in so good humour as to 
 repeat you a couplet on the occasion — 
 
 They only who gain minds, true laurels wear : 
 'Tis less to conquer, than convince, the fair. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE A CCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 255 
 
 SCENE II.— Tli'KiN's House. 
 
 Enter PoUxVCE with paf>ers ; a table, chairs, pea, ink, 
 and paper. 
 
 Pounce. 'Tis a delight to ga,ll these old rascals, and set 
 'em at variance about stakes, which I know neither of 
 'em will ever have possession of. 
 
 Enter Tipkin and Sir Harry. 
 
 Tip. Do you design, Sir Harry, that they shall have an 
 estate in their own hands, and keep house themselves, 
 l^oor things ? 
 
 Sir Har. No, no, sir, I know better ; they shall go 
 down into the country, and live with me, not touch a 
 farthing of money j but, having all things necessary 
 provided, they shall go tame about the house, and 
 breed. 
 
 Tip. Well, Sir Harry, then considering that all human 
 things are subject to change, it behoves every man that 
 has a just sense of mortality to take care of his money. 
 
 Sir Har. I don't know what you mean, brother. 
 What do you drive at, brother ? 
 
 Tip. This instrument is executed by you, your son, 
 and my niece, which discharges me of all retrospects. 
 
 Sir TTar. It is confessed, brother; but what then ? 
 
 Tip. All that remains is, that you pay me for the 
 young lady's twelve years' board, as also all other 
 charges, as wearing-apparel, &c. 
 
 Sir Har. What is this you say ? Did I give you my 
 discharge from all retrospects, as you call it ? and after 
 all do you come with this and t'other, and all that ? I 
 find you are — I tell you, sir, to your face — I find you 
 arc 
 
 'Jip. I find loo what you are. Sir Harry. 
 
 Sir Har. What am I, sir ? AVhat am I ?
 
 256 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act v. 
 
 Tip. Why, sir, you are angry. 
 
 Sir Har. Sir, I scorn your words ; I am not angry. 
 Mr. Pounce is my witness ; I am as gentle as a lamb. 
 Would it not make any flesh alive angry, to see a close 
 hunks come after all with a demand of 
 
 Tip. Mr, Pounce, pray inform Sir Harry in this point. 
 
 Pounce. Indeed, Sir Harry, I must tell you plainly, 
 that Mr. Tipkin, in this, demands nothing but what he 
 may recover. For though this case may be considered 
 inidtifariam — that is to say, as 'tis usually, commonly, 
 vicatim, or vulgarly expressed — yet, I say, when we 
 only observe that the power is settled as the law re- 
 quires, assensu patris, by the consent of the father, that 
 circumstance imports you are well acquainted with the 
 advantages which accrue to your family by this alliance, 
 which corroborates Mr. Tipkin's demand, and avoids all 
 objections that can be made. 
 
 Sir Har. Why then, I find you are his adviser in all 
 this. 
 
 Pounce. Look ye, Sir Harry, to show you I love to pro- 
 mote among my clients a good, understanding'; though 
 Mr. Tipkin may claim four thousand pounds, I'll engage 
 for him, and I know him so well, that he shall take three 
 thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight pounds, four 
 shillings and eightpence farthing. 
 
 Tip. Indeed, Mr. Pounce, you are too hard upon me. 
 
 Potince. You must consider a little, Sir Harry is your 
 brother. 
 
 Sir Har. Three thousand nine hundred and ninety- 
 eight pounds, four shillings and eightpence farthing ! For 
 what, I say ? For what, sir ? 
 
 Poimce. For what, sir ! for what she wanted, sir; a fine 
 lady is always in want, sir — her very clothes would 
 come to that money in half the time. 
 
 Sir Har. Three thousand nine hundred and ninety- 
 eight pounds, four shillings and eightpence farthing for
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE A CCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 257 
 
 clothes ! Pray how many suits does she wear out iri a 
 year ? 
 
 Pounce. Oh ! dear sir, a fine lady's clothes are not old 
 by being worn, but by being seen. 
 
 Sir Har. Well, I'll save her clothes for the future, 
 after I have got her into the country. I'll warrant her 
 she shall not appear more in this wicked town, where 
 clothes are worn out by sight — And as to what you 
 demand, I tell you, sir, 'tis extortion. 
 
 Tip. Sir Harry, do you accuse me of extortion? 
 
 Sir Har. Yes, I say extortion. 
 
 Tip. Mr. Pounce, write down that ; there are" very 
 good laws provided against scandal and caluinny — Loss 
 of reputation may tend to loss of money. 
 
 Foufice. Item, "for having accused Mr. Tipkin of extor- 
 tion." 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, if you come to your items — look ye, 
 Mr. Tipkin, this is an inventory of such goods as were 
 left to my niece, Bridget, by her deceased Aither, and 
 which I expect shall be forthcoming at her marriage to my 
 son : Imprimis, " a golden locket of her mother's, with 
 something very ingenious in Latin on the inside of it " ; 
 item, "a couple of muskets, with two shoulder-belts and 
 bandoleers"; item, "a large silver caudle-cup, with a true 
 story engraven on it." 
 
 Pounce. But, Sir Harry 
 
 Sir Har. Item, " a base viol, with almost all the 
 strings to it, and only a small hole on the back." 
 
 Potince. But nevertheless, sir 
 
 Sir Har. This is the furniture of my brother's bed- 
 chamber that follows : — " A suite of tapestry hangings, 
 with the story of Judith and Holofernes, torn only where 
 the head should have been off; an old bedstead, curiously 
 wrought about the posts, consisting of two load of timber; 
 a hone, a basin, three razors, and a comb-case" — Look 
 ye, sir, you see I can item it. 
 
 Steele. S
 
 258 THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act v. 
 
 Pounce. Alas, Sir Harry, if you had ten quire of items, 
 'tis all answered in the word retrospect. 
 
 Sir Har. Why then, Mr. Pounce and Mr. Tipkin, you 
 are both rascals. 
 
 Tip. Do you call me rascal, Sir Harry ? 
 
 Si)- Har. Yes, sir. 
 
 Tip. Write it down, ]\Ir. Pounce, at the end of the 
 leaf. 
 
 Sir Har. If you have room, jNIr. Pounce, put down 
 "villain, son of a whore, curm.udgeon, hunks, and scoun- 
 drel" 
 
 Trp, Not so fast, Sir Harry, he cannot write so fast ; 
 you are at the word " villain "' ; " son of a whore," I take 
 it, was next — You may make the account as large as you 
 please, Sir Harry. 
 
 Sir Har. Come, come, I won't be used thus. Hark 
 ye, sirrah, draw — what do you do at this end of the town 
 without a sword? Draw, I say — • 
 
 Tip. Sir Harry, you are a military man, a colonel of 
 the Militia. 
 
 Sir Har. I am so, sirrah, and will run such an extorting 
 dog as you through the guts, to show the Militia is useful. 
 
 Foicnce. O dear, O dear ! How am I concerned to 
 see persons of your figure thus moved — The wedding is 
 coming in, we'll settle these things afterwards. 
 
 Tip. I am calm. 
 
 Sir Har. Tipkin, live these two hours, but expect — 
 
 Enier Humphry, hading Niece ; Mrs. Clerimont, led by 
 Fainlove ; Captain Clerimont and Clerimont, Sen. 
 
 Pounce. Who are these ? Hey-day, who are these. Sir 
 Harry? Ha! 
 
 Sir Har. Some frolic, 'tis wedding-day ; no matter. 
 
 Hump. Haw ! haw ! father, master uncle, come, you 
 must stir your stumps, you must dance — Come, old lads, 
 kiss the ladies.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 259 
 
 Mrs. CIcr. Mr. Tipkin, Sir Harry, I beg pardon for 
 an introduction so malapropos ; I know sudden familiarity 
 is not the English way. Alas, Mr. Gubbin, this father 
 and uncle of yours must be new modelled ; how they 
 stare, both of them ! 
 
 Sir Har. Hark ye, Numps, who is this you have 
 brought hither? is it not the famous fine kidy, Mrs. Cleri- 
 mont ? What a pox did you let her come near your 
 wife ? 
 
 Hump. Look ye, don't expose yourself, and play some 
 mad country prank to disgrace me before her ; I shall be 
 laughed at, because she knows I understand better. 
 
 Mrs. Cler, I congratulate, madam, your coming out of 
 the bondage of a virgin state. A woman can't do what 
 she will properly till she's married. 
 
 Sir Har. Did you hear what she said to your wife? 
 
 Enter Aunt, before a service of Dishes. 
 
 Aunt. So, I\Ir. Bridegroom, pray take that napkin, 
 and serve your spouse to-day, according to custom. 
 
 Hmnp. Mrs. Clerimont, pray know my aunt. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Madam, I must beg your pardon ; I can't 
 possibly like all that vast load of meat that you are 
 sending in to table, besides, 'tis so offensively sweet, it 
 wants that haut-gout we are so delighted with in France.^ 
 
 Atint. You'll pardon it, since we did not expect you — 
 Who is this ? {^Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Oh, madam, I only speak for the future ; 
 little saucers are so much more polite. Look ye, I'm 
 perfectly for the French way; where'er I'm admitted, I 
 take the whole upon me. 
 
 Sir Har. The French, madam, I'd have you to 
 know 
 
 1 Similarly, Beau Tibbs hated "immense loads of meat" — 
 " extreme disgusting to those wlio are in the least acquainted with 
 high life."
 
 26o THE TENDER HUSBAND : [act v. 
 
 Mrs. Clcr. You'll not like it at first, out of a natural 
 English sullenness, but that will come upon you by 
 degrees. When I first went into France I was mortally 
 afraid of a frog, but in a little time I could eat nothing 
 else, except salads. 
 
 Autit. Eat frogs! have I kissed one that has ate frogs? 
 Paw ! paw ! 
 
 Mrs. Cler. Oh, madam, a frog and a salad are delicious 
 fare ; 'tis not long come up in France itself, but their 
 glorious monarch has introduced the diet which makes 
 'em so spiritual. He eradicated all gross food by taxes, 
 and, for the glory of the monarch, sent the subject a- 
 grazing — but I fear I defer the entertainment and diver- 
 sion of the day. 
 
 Hump. Now father, uncle, before we go any further, I 
 think 'tis necessary we know who and who's together; 
 then I give either of you two hours to guess which is my 
 ^vife — and 'tis not my cousin ; so far I'll tell you. 
 
 Sir Har. How! What do you say? But oh! you 
 mean she is not your cousin now, she's nearer akin; that's 
 well enough. Well said, Numps; ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Hump, No, I don't mean so ; I tell you I don't mean 
 so— ISIy wife hides her face under her hat. 
 
 \All looking at Fainlove. 
 
 Tip. What does the puppy mean ? His wife under a 
 hat! 
 
 Hump. Ay, ay, that's she, that's she— A good jest, 
 'faith ! 
 
 Sir Har. Hark ye, Numps, what dost mean, child ? 
 Is that a woman, and are you really married to her ? 
 
 Hump. I am sure of both. 
 
 Sir Har. Are you so, sirrah ? then, sirrah, this is your 
 wedding dinner, sirrah — Do you see, sirrah, here's roast 
 meat. 
 
 Hump. Oh, oh ! what, beat a married man ! Hpld
 
 SCENE II.] OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS. 261 
 
 him, Mr. Clerimont, Brother Pounce, Mr. Wife; nobody 
 stand by a young married man ! 
 
 [Runs behind Fainlove. 
 
 Sir Ha r. Did not the dog say Brother Pounce? what, 
 
 is this Mrs. Ragout? this Madam Clerimont? Who the 
 
 devil are you all ? but especially who the devil are you 
 
 two ? 
 
 \_Beafs Humphry and Fainlove off the Stage, following. 
 
 Tip. [To Pounce^ Master Pounce, all my niece's for- 
 tune will be demanded now — for I suppose that red coat 
 has her. Don't you think you and I had better break ? 
 
 Pounce. [To TiJ>kin.] You may as soon as you please, 
 but 'tis my interest to be honest a little longer. 
 
 TiJ>. Well, Biddy, since you would not accept of your 
 cousin, I hope you han't disposed of yourself elsewhere. 
 
 JVieee. If you'll for a little while suspend your curiosity, 
 you shall have the whole history of my amour to this my 
 nuptial day, under the title of the loves of Clerimont and 
 Parthenissa. 
 
 Tip. Then, madam, your portion is in safe hands. 
 
 C/er. Come, come, old gentleman, 'tis in vain to con- 
 tend; here's honest Mr. Pounce shall be my engineer, 
 and I warrant you we beat you out of all your holds. 
 
 Aunt. What then, is Mr. Pounce a rogue ? — He must 
 have some trick, brother, it cannot be; he must have 
 cheated t'other side, for I'm sure he's honest. 
 
 [Apart to TiPKiN. 
 
 Cler. Sen. Mr. Pounce, all your sister has won of this 
 lady she has honestly put into my hands ; and 1*11 return 
 it her, at this lady's particular request. 
 
 Pounce. And the thousand pounds you promised in 
 your brother's behalf, I'm willing should be hers also. 
 
 Cler. Sen. Then go in, and bring 'em all back to make 
 the best of an ill game ; we'll cat the dinner and have a 
 dance together, or we shall transgress all form.
 
 262 
 
 THE TENDER HUSBAND. 
 
 [act v. 
 
 J^e-enier'F Amho\E, Humphry, andSiK Harry. 
 
 Sir Har. Well, since you say you are worth some- 
 thing, and the boy has set his lieart upon you, I'll have 
 patience till I see further. 
 
 Pounce. Come, come, Sir Harry, you shall finel my 
 alliance more considerable than you imagine; the Pounces 
 are a family that will always have money, if there's any 
 in the world — Come, fiddles. 
 
 \^A Dance hci\'?\ 
 
 Clcr. Sen. You've seen th' extremes of the domestic life, 
 A son too much confined — too free a wife ; 
 By generous bonds you either should restrain. 
 And only on their inclinations gain ; 
 Wives to obey must love, children revere. 
 While only slaves are governed by their fear.
 
 spoken hy ]\Ir. Estcourt.' 
 
 Britons, who constant war, with factious rage, 
 
 For liberty against each other wage, 
 
 From foreign insult save this English stage. 
 
 No more th' Italian squalling tribe aelmit. 
 
 In tongues unknown ; 'tis popery in wit.- 
 
 The songs (theirselves confess^ from Rome they bring, 
 
 And 'tis high mass, for ought you know, they sing. 
 
 Husbands take care, the danger may come nigher, 
 
 The women say their eunuch is a friar. 
 
 But is it not a serious ill to see 
 Europe's great arbiters so mean can be ; 
 Passive, with an affected joy to sit, 
 Suspend their native taste of manly wit ; 
 Neglect their comic humour, tragic rage. 
 For known defects of nature, and of age? 
 
 1 "At the Theatre Royal to-morrow, beiiifj ihe i8th October, 
 will be revived a Comedy called the Spmisk Friar : or the Double 
 Discovery. The part of the Friar to be perlbrmed by Mr. Estcourt ; 
 being the first lime of his appearance on the EnL;lish stage. Begin- 
 ning exactly at half-an-hour after five o'clock " {Daily Courant, 
 Oct. 17, 1704). Richard Estcourt was an exceU.nt companion, 
 and a favourite of Steele's, who praised him several times in the 
 Spectatir, and wrote an excellent and touching paper (No. 468) on 
 his death in 1712, in the course of which he says : " When a man 
 of his wit and smartness could put on an ... . air of insipid 
 cunning and vivacity in the character of Pounce in the Tender 
 Husband, it is folly to dispute h^s capacity and success, as lie was 
 an actor." 
 
 2 On Maich 8. 1705 {Daily Courant), there was acted at Drury 
 Lane " a new opera (all sung after the Italian manner) called, 
 Arsinoe, Queen of Cyprus. As it was performed before Iter 
 Majesty at St. Jamc-j's on her birthday."
 
 264 
 
 THE TENDER HUSBAND. 
 
 Arise, for shame, ye conquering Britons rise, 
 
 Such unadorned effeminacy despise ; 
 
 Admire (if you will dote on foreign wit) 
 
 Not what Italians sing, but Romans writ. 
 
 So shall less works, such as to-night's slight play, 
 
 At your command with justice die away; 
 
 Till then forgive your writers, that can't bear 
 
 You should such very tramontanes appear, 
 
 The nations which contemn you to revere. 
 
 Let Anna's soil be known for all its charms ; 
 As famed for liberal sciences, as arms : 
 Let those derision meet, who would advance 
 Manners or speech, from Italy or France. 
 Let them learn you, who would your favour find, 
 And English be the language of mankind.
 
 THE COi^aSCIOUS LOVERS. 
 
 " Illud genus narrationis, quod in personis positum est, debet 
 habere sermones festivitatem, animorum dissimilitudinem, gravi- 
 tatem, lenitatem, spem, metum, suspicionem, desiderium, dissimu- 
 lationem, misericordiam, rerum varietates, fortunae commutationem, 
 insperatum incommodum, subitam letitiam, jucundum exitum re- 
 rum." '—Cicero, Rhetor, ad Herenn. Lib. i. 
 
 1 The kind of narrative whick is presented on the stage ought to be 
 marked by gaiety of dialogue, diversity of character, seriousness, tenderness, 
 hope, fear, suspicion, desire, pity, variety of events, changes of fortune, un- 
 expected disaster, sudden joy, and a happy ending.
 
 '^^*^HE Conscious Lovers, a Comedy which 
 ~^^fr) had been long in preparation, was acted 
 at Drury Lane Theatre on Novem- 
 ber 7, 1722, "with new scenes and all 
 the characters new drest," and with 
 Booth (who had acted the part of 
 Pampliilus — the prototype of young 
 Bevil — at Westminster with great success), Wilks 
 (Myrde), Gibber (Tom), Mills (Sir John Bevil), Mrs. 
 Oldfield (Indiana), and Mrs. Younger (Phillis) in the 
 principal parts. The play ran for eighteen nights, and 
 was a great success. It was often revived between 1722 
 and 1760, and was acted at Covent Garden in i8io, and 
 at Bath in 1818. Phillis was Peg Woffington's second 
 speaking character in Dublin, and she took that part on 
 March 9, 1741, during her first season in London. The 
 play was published by Tonson on December i, 1722, 
 with the date 1723 on the title-page. The general idea 
 of the piece is taken from Terence's Andria, but the ori- 
 ginal is widely departed from after the opening scenes. 
 GoUey Gibber lent material aid in preparing the play for 
 representation. It was attacked by John Dennis in two 
 pamphlets, and defended by Benjamin Victor and others.
 
 To 
 THE KIN G. 
 
 May it please your Majesty, 
 
 FTER having aspired to the highest and 
 most laudable ambition, that of follow- 
 ing the cause of liberty, I should not 
 have humbly petitioned your Majesty 
 for a direction of the theatre, had I not 
 believed success in that province an 
 happiness much to be wished by an 
 honest man, and higlily conducing to the prosperity of 
 the commonwealth. It is in this view I lay before your 
 Majesty a Comedy which the audience, in justice to 
 themselves, has supported and encouraged, and is the 
 prelude of what, by your Majesty's inlluence and favour, 
 may be attempted in future representations. 
 
 The imperial mantle, the royal vestment, and the shin- 
 ing diadem are what strike ordinary minds ; but your 
 Majesty's native goodness, your passion for justice, and 
 her constant assessor mercy, is what continually surrounds 
 you in the view of intelligent spirits, and gives hope to 
 the suppliant, who sees he has more than succeeded in 
 giving your Majesty an opportunity of doing good. Our 
 King is above the greatness of royalty, and every act of 
 his will which makes another man hajipy has ten limes
 
 268 THE CONS CIO US L VERS. 
 
 more charms in it than one tliat makes himself appear 
 raised above the condition of others. But even this car- 
 ries unhappiness with it ; for calm dominion, equal gran- 
 deur, and familiar greatness do not easily affect the 
 imagination of the vulgar, who cannot see power but in 
 terror; and as fear moves mean spirits, and love prompts 
 great ones to obey, the insinuations of malcontents are 
 directed accordingly ; and the unhappy people are en- 
 snared, from want of reflection, into disrespectful ideas of 
 their gracious and amiable sovereign, and then only 
 begin to apprehend the greatness of their master when 
 they have incurred his displeasure. 
 
 As your Majesty was invited to the throne of a willing 
 people, for their own sakes, and has ever enjoyed it with 
 contempt of the ostentation of it, we beseech you to pro- 
 tect us who revere your title as we love your person. 'Tis 
 to be a savage to be a rebel, and they who have fallen 
 from you have not so much forfeited their allegiance as 
 lost their humanity. And, therefore, if it were only to 
 preserve myself from the imputation of being amongst 
 the insensible and abandoned, I would beg permission 
 in the most public manner possible to profess myself, 
 with the utmost sincerity and zeal, 
 Sire, 
 
 Your Majesty's 
 
 Most devoted subject 
 And servant, 
 
 Richard Steele.
 
 ^p^S^^i^^ HIS Comedy has been received with 
 universal acceptance, for it was in 
 every part excellently performed ; 
 and there needs no other applause 
 of the actors but that they excelled 
 according to the dignity and diffi- 
 culty of the character they repre- 
 sented. But this great favour done to the work in acting 
 renders the expectation still the greater from the author, 
 to keep up the spirit in the representation of the closet, 
 or any other circumstance of the reader, whether alone 
 or in company ; to which I can only say that it must be 
 remembered, a play is to be seen, and is made to be 
 represented with the advantage of action, nor can appear 
 but with half the spirit without it. For the greatest effect 
 of a play in reading is to excite the reader to go to see 
 it ; and when he does so, it is then a play has the effect 
 of example and precept. 
 
 The chief design of this was to be an innocent perfor- 
 mance, and the audience have abundantly shown how 
 ready they are to support what is visibly intended that 
 way. Nor do I make any difficulty to acknowledge that 
 the whole was writ for the sake of tlie scene of the 
 Fourth Act, wherein Mr. Bevil evades the quarrel with 
 
 1 The original MS. of this Preface is among the papers at 
 Blenheim, wliere tliere are also some rough notes for a Preface, 
 e.g., " The fourth act was the business of the play. The cise of 
 duelHng. I have fought, nor shall I ever fight again. . . . Addison 
 told me I had a faculty of drawing tears. ... Be that as it will, I 
 shall endeavour to do what I cm to promote noble things, which I 
 will do as well as I can."
 
 270 THE CONSCIOUS 7^0V7':RS, 
 
 his friend, and ' hope il. may have some effect upon the 
 Goths and Vandals that frequent the theatres, or a more 
 polite audience may supply their absence. 
 
 But this incident, and the case of the father and daughter, 
 are esteemed by some people no subjects of comedy ; but 
 I cannot be of their mind,, for anything; that hasjts foun da- 
 tion in hap piness and success must be allowed to be the 
 object of comedy ; and sure it must be an improvement of 
 it to i ntrodu ceajoy too exquisite for laughter, that can 
 have no spring but in delight, which is the case of this 
 young lady. I must, therefore, contend that the tears which 
 were slied on that occasion flowed from reason and good 
 sense, and that men ought not to be laughed at for 
 weeping till we are come to a more clear notion of what 
 is to be imputed to the hardness of the head and the 
 softness of the heart ; and I tliink it was very politely 
 said of Mr. Wilks, to one who told him there was a 
 General" weeping for Indiana, " I'll warrant he'll fight ne'er 
 the worse for that." To be apt to give way to the impres- 
 sions of humanity, is the excellence of a right disposition 
 and the natural working of a weU-turned spirit. But as 
 I have suffered by critics who have got no farther than to 
 inquire whether they ought to be pleased or not,^ I 
 would willingly find them properer matter for their em- 
 ployment, and revive here a song which was omitted for 
 want of a performer, and designed for the entertainment 
 of Indiana. Signor Carbonelli,* instead of it, played® 
 on the fiddle, and it is for want of a singer that such 
 advantageous things are said of an instrument which 
 were designed for a voice. The song is the distress of a 
 
 1 "The stupid and diabolical custom of duelling " (MS. erased). 
 
 - The Hon. Biigadier-General Cliailes Churchill, who lived with 
 Mrs. Oldfield after jSIaymvaring's death (Egerton's Memoirs of 
 Mrs. A7ine Oldfield, 1731, pp. 67, 121). 
 
 ■■^ " To enquire what should not which does please." (!MS.) 
 
 * Carbon€lli,aviohnist, who had then not long been in England, 
 had a benefit in 1722 at Drury Lane Theatre. He published twelve 
 solos, dedicated to the Duke of Rutland. Afterwards he became 
 a wine-n:erchant. 5" played admirably well." (MS.)
 
 THE CONS CIO US L O VERS. 2 ; i 
 
 love-sick maid, and may be a fit entertainment for some 
 small critics ^ to examine whether the passion is just or 
 the distress male or female. 
 
 From place to place forlorn I go, 
 With downcast eyes a silent shade, 
 
 Forbidden to declare my woe ; 
 To speak till spoken to, afraid. 
 
 My inward pangs, my secret grief, 
 My soft consenting looks betray. 
 
 He loves, but gives me no relief; 
 Why speaks not he who may ? 
 
 It remains to say a v.ord concerning Terence, and I 
 am extremely surprised to find what Mr. Gibber told 
 me prove a truth:- that what I valued myself so much 
 upon — the translation of him^ — should be imputed to 
 me as a reproach. Mr. Gibber's zeal for the work, his 
 care and application in instructing the actors and alter- 
 ing tlie disposition of the scenes, when I was, through 
 sickness, unable to cultivate such things myself, has been 
 a very obliging favour and friendship to me. For this 
 reason I was very hardly persuaded * to throw away 
 Terence's celebrated funeral, and take only the bare 
 authority of the young man's character ; and how I have 
 worked it into an Englishman, and made use of the same 
 circumstances of discovering a daughter wlien we least 
 hoped for one, is humbly submitted to the learned reader. 
 
 1 " Some great critics " (MS.) 
 
 2 Wags in tl;c newspapers of the day pointed out that these 
 words might be read as meaning that Steele was surprised at 
 finding lo be true r.nything that Cibber said. 
 
 ^ " The imi;ation oi Pamphihis.'- (MS.) 
 •« "By him." (MS.)
 
 By Mr. Welsted.^ 
 
 Spoken by Mr. Wii.ks. 
 
 To win your hearts and to secure your praise, 
 The comic writers strive by various ways ; 
 By subtle stratagems they act their game, 
 And leave untried no avenue to fame. 
 One writes the spouse a beating from his wife, 
 And says each stroke was copied from the life. 
 Some fix all wit and humour in grimace, 
 And make a livelihood of Pinkey's - face. 
 Here, one gay show and costly habits tries, 
 Confiding to the judgment of your eyes ; 
 Another smuts his scene (a cunning shaver), 
 Sure of the rakes' and of the wenches' favour. 
 Oft have these arts prevailed, and one may guess. 
 If practised o'er again, would find success. 
 But the bold sage — the poet of to-night — 
 By new and desperate rules resolved to write ; 
 Fain would he give more just applauses rise, 
 And please by wit that scorns the aids of vice ; 
 The praise he seeks from worthier motives springs. 
 Such praise as praise to those that give it brings. 
 
 1 Leonard Welsted, a protege of Steele's, wrote also the 
 Epilogue. He was a clerk in the office of one of the Secretaries of 
 State, and wrote a play and various poems, some of which were 
 addressed to Steele. Pope gave him a place in the Dunciad, &nd 
 Swift attacked him in his On Poetry : a Rhapsody. 
 
 * Pinkethman.
 
 THE CONS CIO US LO VERS. 2 -j^ 
 
 Your aid most humbly sought, then, Britons lend, 
 And liberal mirth like liberal men defend. 
 No more let ribaldry, with licence writ. 
 Usurp the name of eloquence or wit ; 
 No more let lawless farce uncensured go, 
 The lewd dull gleanings of a Smithfield show.^ 
 'Tis yours with breeding to refine the age. 
 To chasten wit, and moralise the stage. 
 
 Ye modest, wise and good, ye fair, ye brave, 
 To-night the champion of your virtues save ; 
 Redeem from long contempt the comic name, 
 And judge politely for your country's fame. 
 
 1 The reference is to Bartholomew Fair, which was held in 
 Smithfield. 
 
 
 Steele.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON^. 
 
 Sir John Bevil. 
 
 Mr. Sealand. 
 
 Bevil, Jun., in love with Indiana. 
 
 Myrtle, in love with Lucinda. 
 
 CiMBERTON, a Coxcomb. 
 
 Humphry, an old Servant to Sir John. 
 
 Tom, Servant to Bevil, Jun. 
 
 Daniel, a Country Boy, Servant to Indiana. 
 
 Mrs. Sealand, second Wife to Sealand. 
 
 Isabella, Sister to Sealand. 
 
 Indiana, Sealand's Daughter, by his first Wife. 
 
 Lucinda, Sealand's Daughter, by his second Wife. 
 
 Phillis, Maid to Lucinda. 
 
 SCENE.— London.
 
 THE CONSCIOUS LOVE%S. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I.— Sir John Bevil's House. 
 
 Enter Sir John Bevil and Humphry. 
 
 IR J. BEV, Have you ordered that I 
 should not be interrupted while I am 
 dressing ? 
 
 Humph. Yes, sir ; I believed you 
 had something of moment to say to me. 
 Sir J, Bev. Let me see, Humphry ; 
 I think it is now full forty years since I first took thee 
 to be about myself. 
 
 Humph. I thank you, sir, it has been an easy forty years ; 
 and I have passed 'em without much sickness, care, or 
 labour. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Thou hast a brave constitution ; you are a 
 year or two older than I am, sirrah. 
 
 Humph. You have ever been of that mind, sir. 
 Sir J. Bev. You knave, you know it ; 1 took thee for 
 thy gravity and sobriety, in my wild years. 
 
 Humph. Ah, sir ! our manners were formed from our
 
 276 IHE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act 1. 
 
 different fortunes, not our dift'erent age. Wealth gave a 
 loose to your youth, and poverty put a restraint upon 
 mine. 
 
 Sir J. Ba'. Well, Humphry, you know I have been 
 a kind master to jou ; I have used you, for the ingenuous 
 nature I observed in you from the beginning, more like 
 an humble friend than a servant. 
 
 Humph. I humbly beg you'll be so tender of me as 
 to explain your commands, sir, without any farther 
 preparation. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. I'll tell thee, then : In the first place, 
 this wedding of my son's in all probability — shut the door 
 — will never be at all. 
 
 Humph. How, sir ! not be at all ? for what reason is 
 it carried on in appearance ? 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Honest Humphry, have patience ; and 
 I'll tell thee all in order. I have, myself, in some part 
 of my life, lived (indeed) with freedom, but, I hope, 
 without reproach. Now, I thought liberty would be as 
 little injurious to my son ; therefore, as soon as he grew 
 towards man, I indulged him in living after his own 
 manner. I knew not how, otherwise, to judge of his 
 inchnation ; for what can be concluded from a behaviour 
 under restraint and fear ? ^ But what charms me above 
 all expression is, that my son has never, in the least action, 
 the most distant hint or word, valued himself upon that 
 great estate of his mother's, which, according to our 
 marriage settlement, he has had ever since he came 
 to age. 
 
 Humph. No, sir ; on the contrary, he seems afraid of 
 appearing to enjoy it, before you or any belonging to 
 you. He is as dependent and resigned to your will as 
 if he had not a farthing but what must come from your 
 immediate bounty. You have ever acted like a good 
 
 ' Here and througlioiit this dialogue Steele closely follows the 
 conversation of Simo and Sosia in Teience's Andria, Act J. scene i.
 
 SCENE 1.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 277 
 
 and generous father, and he like an obedient and grateful 
 son. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Nay, his carriage is so easy to all with 
 whom he converses, that he is never assuming, never 
 prefers himself to others, nor ever is guilty of that rough 
 sincerity which a man is not called to, and certainly dis- 
 obliges most of his acquaintance ; to be short, Humphry, 
 his reputation was so fair in the world, that old Sealand, 
 the great India merchant, has offered his only daughter, 
 and sole heiress to that vast estate of his, as a wife for 
 him. You may be sure I made no difficulties, the match 
 was agreed on, and this very day named for" the wedding. 
 
 Humph. What hinders the proceeding ? 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Don't interrupt me. You know I was last 
 Thursday at the masquerade ; my son, you may remember, 
 soon found us out. He knew his grandfather's habit, 
 which I then wore ; and though it was the mode, in the 
 last age, yet the masquers, you know, followed us as if 
 we had been the most monstrous figures in that whole 
 assembly. 
 
 Humph. I remember, indeed, a young man of quality 
 in the habit of a clown, that was particularly troublesome. 
 
 Sir J. Bro. Right ; he was too much what he seemed 
 to be. You remember how impertinently he followed and 
 teased us, and would know who we were. 
 
 Hu7nph. I know he has a mind to come into that 
 particular. \Aside. 
 
 Sir J. Bcii. Ay, he followed us till the gentleman who 
 led the lady in the Indian mantle presented that gay crea- 
 ture to the rustic, and bid him (like Cymon in the fable) 
 grow polite by falling in love, and let that worthy old 
 gentleman alone, meaning me. The clown was not 
 reformed, but rudely persisted, and offered to force off 
 my mask ; with that, the gentleman, throwing off his own, 
 appeared to be my son, and in his concern for me, tore 
 off that of the nobleman ; at this they seized each other j
 
 278 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act i. 
 
 the company called the guards, and in the surprise the 
 lady swooned away; upon which my son quitted his 
 adversary, and had now no care but of the lady. When 
 raising her in his arms, " Art thou gone," cried he, " for 
 ever? — forbid it, Heaven ! " She revived at his known 
 voice, and with the most familiar, though modest, gesture, 
 hangs in safety over. his shoulder weeping, but wept as in 
 the arms of one before whom she could give herself a 
 loose, were she not under observation ; while she hides 
 her face in his neck, he carefully conveys her from the 
 company. 
 
 Humph. I have observed this accident has dwelt upon 
 you very strongly. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Her uncommon air, her noble modesty, the 
 dignity of her person, and the occasion itself, drew the 
 whole assembly together ; and I soon heard it buzzed 
 about she was the adopted daughter of a famous sea- 
 ofiicer who had served in France. Now this unexpected 
 and public discovery of my son's so deep concern for 
 her 
 
 Humph. Was what, I suppose, alarmed Mr. Sealand, 
 in behalf of his daughter, to break oft" the match ? 
 
 Sir J. Bev. You are right. He came to me yesterday 
 and said he thought himself disengaged from the bargain ; 
 being credibly informed my son was already married, or 
 worse, to the lady at the masquerade. I palliated 
 matters, and insisted on our agreement ; but we parted 
 with little less than a direct breach between us.^ 
 
 Humph. Well, sir ; and what notice have you taken of 
 all this to my young master ? 
 
 Sir J. Bn>. That's what I wanted to debate with you. 
 I have said nothing to him yet — but look you, Hum- 
 phry, if there is so much in this amour of his, that he 
 denies upon my summons to marry, I have cause enough 
 
 This and the two following speeches by Sir John Bevil are 
 borrowed from Terence.
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 279 
 
 to be offended ; and then by my insisting upon his marry- 
 ing to-day, I shall know how far he is engaged to this 
 lady in masquerade, and from thence only shall be able 
 to take my measures. In the meantime I would have 
 you find out how far that rogue, his man, is let into his 
 secret. He, I know, will play tricks as much to cross me, 
 as to serve his master. 
 
 Humph. Why do you think so of him, sir ? I believe 
 he is no worse than I was for you, at your son's age. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. I see it in the rascal's looks. But I have 
 dwelt on these things too long ; I'll go to my son im- 
 mediately, and while I'm gone, your part is to convince 
 his rogue, Tom, that I am in earnest. — I'll leave him to 
 you. \Exit Sir John Bevil. 
 
 Humph. Well, though this father and son live as well 
 together as possible, yet their fear of giving each other 
 pain is attended with constant mutual uneasiness. I'm 
 sure I have enough to do to be honest, and yet keep well 
 with them both. But they know I love 'em, and that 
 makes the task less painful however. Oh, here's the 
 prince of poor coxcombs, the representative of all the 
 better fed than taught. Ho ! ho ! Tom, whither so gay 
 and so airy this morning ? 
 
 Enter Tom, sifiging. 
 
 Tom. Sir, we servants of single gentlemen are another 
 kind of people than you domestic ordinary drudges that 
 do business ; we are raised above you. The pleasures 
 of board-wages, tavern dinners, and many a clear gain ; 
 vails, alas ! you never heard or dreamt of. 
 
 Humph. Thou hast follies and vices enough for a man 
 of ten thousand a year, though 'tis but as t'other day that 
 I sent for you to town to put you into Mr. Sealand's 
 family, that you miglu learn a little before I put you to 
 my young master, who is too gentle for training such a 
 rude thing as you were into proper obedience. You
 
 28o THE CONSCrOUS LOVERS. [act i. 
 
 then pulled off your hat to everyone you met in the street, 
 like a bashful great awkward cub as you were. But your 
 great oaken cudgel, when you were a booby, became you 
 much better than that dangling stick at your button, now 
 you are a fop. That's fit for nothing, except it hangs 
 there to be ready for your master's hand when you are 
 impertinent. 
 
 Tom. Uncle Humphry, you know my master scorns 
 to strike his servants. You talk as if the world was now 
 just as it was when my old master and you were in your 
 youth ; when you went to dinner because it was so much 
 o'clock, when the great blow was given in the hall at the 
 pantry door, and all the family came out of their holes 
 in such strange dresses and formal faces as you see in 
 the pictures in our long gallery in the country. 
 
 Humph. Why, you wild rogue ! 
 
 Tom. You could not fall to your dinner till a formal 
 fellow in a black gown said something over the meat, as 
 if the cook had not made it ready enough. 
 
 Humph. Sirrah, who do you prate after? Despising 
 men of sacred characters ! I hope you never heard my 
 good young master talk so like a profligate. 
 
 Tom. Sir, I say you put upon me, when I first came 
 to town, about being orderly, and the doctrine of wearing 
 shams to make linen last clean a fortnight, keeping my 
 clothes fresh, and wearing a frock within doors. 
 
 Humph. Sirrah, I gave you those lessons because I 
 supposed at that time your master and you might have 
 dined at home every day, and cost you nothing; then you 
 might have made a good family servant. But the gang 
 you have frequented since at chocolate houses and 
 taverns, in a continual round of noise and extravagance — 
 
 Tom. I don't know what you heavy inmates call noise 
 and extravagance; but we gentlemen, who are well fed, 
 and cut a figure, sir, think it a fine life, and that we must 
 be very pretty fellows who are kept only to be looked at.
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 281 
 
 Hiuiiph. Very well, sir, I hope the fashion of being lewd 
 and extravagant, despising of decency and order, is almost 
 at an end, since it has arrived at persons of your quality. 
 
 Tom. Master Humphry, ha! ha! you were an un- 
 happy lad to be sent up to town in such queer days as you 
 were. Why, now, sir, the lackeys are the men of pleasure 
 of the age, the top gamesters ; and many a laced coat 
 about town have had their education in our party- 
 coloured regiment. V/e are false lovers ; have a taste of 
 music, poetry, billet-doux, dress, politics ; ruin damsels ; 
 and when we are tired of this lewd town, and have a 
 mind to take up, whip into our masters' wigs and linen, 
 and marry fortunes. 
 
 Humph. Hey-day ! 
 
 Tom. Nay, sir, our order is carried up to the highest 
 dignities and distinctions; step but into the Painted 
 Chamber,' and by our titles you'd take us all for men of 
 quality. Then, again, come down to the Court of Requests, 
 and you see us all laying our broken heads together for 
 the good of the nation ; and though we never carry a 
 question nemine contradicente, yet this I can say, with a 
 safe conscience (and I wish every gentleman of our cloth 
 could lay his hand upon his heart and say the same), that 
 I never took so much as a single mug of beer for my vote 
 in all my life. 
 
 Humph. Sirrah, there is no enduring your extrava- 
 gance ; I'll hear you prate no longer. I wanted to see 
 you to enquire how things go with your master, as far as 
 you understand them ; I suppose he knows he is to be 
 married to-day. 
 
 Tom. Ay, sir, he knows it, and is dressed as gay as 
 
 - In the old Royal Palace at AVestminster, the House of Lords 
 was formed out of the ancient Court of Requests, and the old 
 Painted Chamber separated the Lords from the Commons. Steele 
 has described {Spectator, No. 88) how servants, wailing for their 
 masters at an alehouse at Westminster, dcbnted upon public affairs, 
 addressing each other by their employers' names.
 
 282 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act i. 
 
 the sun ; but, between you and I, my clear, he has a 
 very heavy heart under all that gaiety. As soon as he 
 was dressed I retired, but overheard him sigh in the most 
 heavy manner. He walked thoughtfully to and fro in 
 the room, then went into his closet; when he came out 
 he gave me this for his mistress, whose maid, you 
 know- — - 
 
 Humph. Is passionately fond of your fine person. 
 
 Tom. The poor fool is so tender, and loves to hear me 
 talk of the world, and the plays, operas, and ridottos' for 
 the winter, the parks and Belsize- for our summer diver- 
 sions ; and " Lard ! " says she, "you are so wild, but you 
 have a world of humour." 
 
 Humph. Coxcomb ! Well, but why don't you run 
 with your master's letter to Mrs. Lucinda, as he ordered 
 you ? 
 
 Tom. Because Mrs. Lucinda is not so easily come at 
 as you think for. 
 
 Humph. Not easily come at ? Why, sirrah, are not her 
 father and my old master agreed that she and Mr. Bevil 
 are to be one flesh before to-morrow morning ? 
 
 Tom. It's no matter for that ; her mother, it seems, 
 Mrs. Sealand, has not agreed to it; and you must 
 know, Mr. Humphry, that in that family the grey mare 
 is the better horse. 
 
 Hujiiph. What dost thou mean ? 
 
 Tom. In one word, Mrs. Sealand pretends to have a 
 
 1 At the ridotto there was music, followed b)- dancing, the com- 
 pany passing, when the music was over, from the pit to the stage. 
 Burney says that this Italian entertainment was tiist introduced 
 into England in 1722, the year in which Steele produced The 
 Conscious Lovers. 
 
 2 Belsize House was the forerunner of Ranelagh and Vauxhall. 
 There were gardens, in which refreshments could be obtained, and 
 lumting, races, &c., were provided to amuse the visiters, for whose 
 protection twelve stout men, well aimed, patrolled the load to 
 London. A poetical satire, Behize House, appeared in 1722, the 
 year of this play. In the same year unlawful gaming at Belsize 
 was forbidden (Park's Hampstead, 246 — 9).
 
 SCENE I.J TTTE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 283 
 
 will of her own, and has provided a relation of hers, a 
 stift", starched philosopher, and a wise fool, for her daugh- 
 ter ; for which reason, for these ten days past, she has 
 suffered no message nor letter from my master to come 
 near her. 
 
 Humph. And where had you this intelligence? 
 
 Tom. From a foolish fond soul that can keep nothing 
 from me ; one that will deliver this letter too, if she 
 is rightly managed. 
 
 Hu7nph. What ! her pretty handmaid, Mrs. Phillis ? 
 
 Tom. Even she, sir ; this is the very hour, you know, 
 she usually comes hither, under a pretence of a visit to 
 your housekeeper, forsooth, but in reality to have a glance 
 at 
 
 Humph. Your sweet face, I warrant you. 
 
 Tom. Nothing else in nature ; you must know, I love 
 to fret and play with the little wanton. 
 
 Humph. Play with the little wanton ! What will this 
 world come to ! 
 
 Tom. I met her this morning in a new manteau and 
 petticoat, not a bit the worse for her lady's wearing; 
 and she has always new thoughts and new airs with new 
 clothes — then she never fails to steal some glance or 
 gesture from every visitant at their house ; and is, indeed, 
 the whole town of coquets at second-hand. But here she 
 comes ; in one motion she speaks and describes herself 
 better than all the words in the world can. 
 
 Humph. Then I hope, dear sir, when your own affair 
 is over, you will be so good as to mind your master's 
 with her. 
 
 Tom. Dear Humphry, you know my master is my 
 friend, and those are people I never forget. 
 
 Humph. Sauciness itself! but I'll leave you to do 
 your best for him. \^Exit.
 
 284 THE CONSCTOUS LOVERS. [act T. 
 
 Enter Phillis.^ 
 
 Phil. Oh, Mr. Thomas, is Mrs. Sugar-key at home ? 
 Lard, one is ahiiost ashamed to pass along the streets ! 
 The town is quite empt)^ and nobody of fashion left in 
 it ; and the ordinary people do so stare to see anything, 
 dressed like a woman of condition, as it were on the 
 same floor with them, pass by. Alas ! alas ! it is a sad 
 thing to walk. O fortune ! fortune ! 
 
 Tom. What! a sad thing to walk? Why, Madam 
 Phillis, do you wish yourself lame ? 
 
 Phil. No, Mr. Tom, but I wish I were generally 
 carried in a coach or chair, and of a fortune neither to 
 stand nor go, but to totter, or slide, to be short-sighted, 
 or stare, to fleer in the face, to look distant, to observe, 
 to overlook, yet all become me ; and, if I was rich, I 
 could twire "^ and loll as well as the best of them. Oh, 
 Tom ! Tom ! is it not a pity that you should be so great 
 a coxcomb, and I so great a coquet, and yet be such 
 poor devils as we are ? 
 
 Tom. Mrs. Phillis, I am your humble servant for 
 that 
 
 Phil. Yes, Mr. Thomas, I know how much you are 
 my humble servant, and know what you said to Mrs. 
 Judy, upon seeing her in one of her lady's cast manteaus : 
 
 ' Among the Blenheim papers is a fragment, in Steele's writing, 
 of a dialogue between two servants, Parmeno and Pythias — names 
 taken, no doubt, from Terence's Eunuchns. The pair discuss the 
 charm of the soft moments of servants in love, free from their usual 
 restraints. Why should any man usurp more than his share of the 
 atmosphere.? The whole art of a serving-man is "to be here and 
 there, and everywhere, unheard and unseen till you are wanted, 
 and never absent when you are. This gives our masters and 
 mistresses the free room and scope to do and act as they please — 
 they are to make all the bustle, all the show — we are like convenient 
 demons or apparitions about 'em, never to take up space or fill the 
 air nor be heard of or seen but when commanded." Pythias remarks 
 how much she learns from Parmeno's conversation, and produces a 
 little collation from the last night's supper which she has prepared 
 for him. Parmeno eats the eggs, gorges, sings a song, and says 
 kind things between whiles to Pythias. 
 
 2 Leer, throw glances.
 
 SCENE!.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 285 
 
 That any one would have thought her the lady, and that 
 she had ordered the other to wear it till it sat easy ; for 
 now only it was becoming. To my lady it was only a 
 covering, to Mrs. Judy it was a habit. This you said, 
 after somebody or other. Oh, Tom ! Tom ! thou art as 
 false and as base as the best gentleman of them all ; but, 
 you wretch, talk to me no more on the old odious sub- 
 ject — don't, I say. 
 
 Tom. I know not how to resist your commands, 
 madam. [/;z a submissive tone, retiring. 
 
 Phil. Commands about parting are grown mighty easy 
 to you of late. 
 
 Tom. Oh, I have her ; I have nettled and put her 
 into the right temper to be wrought upon and set a- 
 prating. [Aside.] — Why, truly, to be plain with you, Mrs. 
 Phillis, I can take little comfort of late in frequenting 
 your house. 
 
 T/ii/. Pray, Mr. Thomas, what is it all of a sudden 
 offends your nicety at our house ? 
 
 To7n. I don't care to speak particulars, but I dislike 
 the whole. 
 
 T/iii. I thank you, sir, I am a part of that whole. 
 
 Tom. Mistake me not, good Phillis. 
 
 jP/iii. Good PhiUis ! Saucy enough. But however 
 
 Tom. I say, it is that thou art a part, which gives me 
 pain for the disposition of the whole. You must know, 
 madam, to be serious, I am a man, at the bottom, of 
 prodigious nice honour. You are too much exposed to 
 company at your house. To be plain, I don't like so 
 many, that would be your mistress's lovers, whispering to 
 you. 
 
 T/u'/. Don't think to put that upon me. You say this, 
 because I wrung you to the heart when I touched your 
 guilty conscience about Judy. 
 
 Tom. Ah, Phillis ! Phillis ! if you but knew my heart ! 
 
 T'/ii/. I know too much on't.
 
 286 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [ACT I. 
 
 Tom. Nay, then, -poor Crisjjo's ' fate and mine are 
 one. Therefore give me leave to say, or sing at least, as 
 he does upon the same occasion — 
 
 " Se vedette," &c. \Sings?^ 
 
 Phil. What, do you think I'm to be fobbed off with a 
 song ? I don't question but you have sung the same to 
 Mrs. Judy too. 
 
 To)n. Don't disparage your charms, good PhilHs, with 
 jealousy of so worthless an object ; besides, she is a poor 
 hussy, and if you doubt the sincerity of my love, you 
 will allow me true to my interest. You are a fortune, 
 Phillis. 
 
 Phil. What would the fop be at now ? In good time, 
 indeed, you shall be setting up for a fortune ! 
 
 Tom. Dear Mrs. Phillis, you have such a spirit that 
 we shall never be dull in marriage when we come toge- 
 ther. But I tell you, you are a fortune, and you have 
 an estate in my hands. [He pulls out a purse, she eyes it. 
 
 Phil. What pretence have I to what is in your hands, 
 Mr. Tom ? 
 
 To7n. As thus : there are hours, you know, when a 
 
 lady is neither pleased or displeased ; neither sick or well ; 
 
 when she lolls or loiters ; when she's without desires — 
 
 rom having more of everything than she knows what to 
 
 do with. 
 
 Phil. Well, what then ? 
 
 Tom. When she has not life enough to keep her 
 bright eyes quite open, to look at her own dear image in 
 the glass. 
 
 Phil. Explain thyself, and don't be so fond of thy own 
 prating. 
 
 Tom. There are also prosperous and good-natured 
 moments : as when a knot or a patch is happily fixed ; 
 when the complexion particularly flourishes. 
 1 See page 307.
 
 SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 287 
 
 Phil. Well, what then ? I have not patience ! 
 
 Tom. Why, then — or on the like occasions — we ser- 
 vants who have skill to know how to time business, see 
 when such a pretty folded thing as this \Shoivs a letter?^ 
 may be presented, laid, or dropped, as best suits the 
 present humour. And, madam, because it is a long 
 wearisome journey to run through all the several stages 
 of a lady's temper, my master, who is the most reason- 
 able man in the world, presents you this to bear your 
 charges on the road. \Gives her the purse. 
 
 Phil. Now you think me a corrupt hussy. 
 
 Tom. O fie, I only think you'll take the letter. 
 
 PhiL Nay, I know you do, but I know my own inno- 
 cence ; I take it for my mistress's sake. 
 
 To7n. I know it, my pretty one, I know it. 
 
 Phil. Yes, I say I do it, because I would not have my 
 mistress deluded by one who gives no proof of his 
 passion ; but I'll talk more of this as you see me on my 
 way home. No, Tom, I assure thee, I take this trash ot 
 thy master's, not for the value of the thing, but as it con- 
 vinces me he has a true respect for my mistress. I 
 remember a verse to the purpose — 
 
 They may be false who languish and complain, 
 But they who part with money never feign. 
 
 \Exaint, 
 
 SCENE II.— Bevil, Jun.'s Lodgings. 
 Bevil, Jun., reading. 
 
 Bev. fun. These moral writers practise virtue after 
 death. This charming vision of Mirza ! ' Such an 
 
 1 In the Vision of Mirza {Spectator, No. 159), Addison pictured 
 the Happy Islands which were the abode of good men after death. 
 " Does life appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of 
 earning such a lewaid .'' "
 
 288 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [ACT i. 
 
 author consulted in a morning sets the spirit for the 
 vicissitudes of the day better than the glass does a man's 
 person. But what a day have I to go through ! to put 
 on an easy look with an aching heart ! If this lady my 
 father urges me to marry should not refuse me, my 
 dilemma is insupportable. But why should I fear it ? 
 Is not she in equal distress with me ? Has not the 
 letter I have sent her this morning confessed my inclina- 
 tion to another? Nay, have I not moral assurances of 
 her engagements, too, to my friend Myrtle? It's im- 
 possible but she must give in to it ; for, sure, to be 
 denied is a favour any man may pretend to. It must be 
 so — Well, then, with the assurance of being rejected, I 
 think I may confidently say to my father, I am ready to 
 marry her. Then let me resolve upon, what I am not 
 very good at, though it is an honest dissimulation. 
 
 Enter Tom. 
 
 Tovi. Sir John Bevil, sir, is in the next room. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Dunce ! Why did not you bring him in? 
 
 Tom. I told him, sir, you were in your closet. 
 
 Bev. /tin. I thought you had known, sir, it was my 
 duty to see my father anywhere. 
 
 \_Going himself to the door. 
 
 Tom. The devil's in my master ! he has always more 
 wit than I have. \Aside. 
 
 Bevil, Jun., introducing Sir John. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Sir, you are the most gallant, the most com- 
 plaisant of all parents. Sure, 'tis not a compliment to 
 say these lodgings are yours. Why would you not walk 
 in, sir ? 
 
 Sir J. Bev. I was loth to interrupt you unseasonably 
 on your wedding-day. 
 
 Bev. Jun. One to whom I am beholden for my birtli- 
 day might have used less ceremony.
 
 SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 289 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Well, son, I have intelligence you have 
 writ to your mistress this morning. It would please my 
 curiosity to know the contents of a wedding-day letter ; 
 for courtship must then be over. 
 
 Bev.Jun. I assure you, sir, there was no insolence in 
 it upon the prospect of such a vast fortune's being added 
 to our family ; but much acknowledgment of the lady's 
 greater desert. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. But, dear Jack, are you in earnest in all 
 this ? And will you really many her? 
 
 Bci\ Jtm. Did I ever disobey any command of yours, 
 sir ? nay, any inclination that I saw you bent upon ? 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Why, I can't say you have, son ; but me- 
 thinks in this whole business, you have not been so warm 
 as I could have wished you. You have visited her, it's 
 true, but you have not been particular. Everyone 
 knows you can say and do as handsome things as any 
 man ; but you have done nothing but lived in the 
 general — been complaisant only. 
 
 Bev.Jun. As I am ever prepared to marry if you bid 
 me, so I am ready to let it alone if you will have me. 
 
 [Hu]\rpHRY enters, unobseri^cd. 
 Sir J. Bev. Look you there now ! why, what am I to 
 think of this so absolute and so indifferent a resignation ? 
 Ba'./iin. Think? that I am still your son, sir. Sir, 
 you have been married, and I have not. And you have, 
 sir, found the inconvenience there is when a man weds 
 with too much love in his head. I have been told, sir, 
 that at the time you married, you made a mighty bustle 
 on the occasion. There was challenging and fighting, 
 scaling walls, locking up the lady, and the gallant under 
 an arrest for fear of killing all his rivals. Now, sir, I 
 suppose you having found the ill consequences of these 
 strong passions and prejudices, in preference of one 
 woman to another, in case of a man's becoming a 
 widower 
 
 Stcelo. U
 
 290 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [ACT I. 
 
 Sir J. Bet\ How is this ? 
 
 Bev.Jim. I say, sir, experience has made you wiser in 
 your care of me ; for, sir, since you lost my dear mother, 
 your time has been so heavy, so lonely, and so tasteless, 
 that you are so good as to guard me against the like un- 
 happiness, by marrying me prudentially by way of bar- 
 gain and sale. For, as you well judge, a woman that is 
 espoused for a fortune, is yet a better bargain if she 
 dies ; for then a man still enjoys what he did marry, the 
 money, and is disencumbered of what he did not marry, 
 the woman. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. But pray, sir, do you think Lucinda, then, 
 a woman of such little merit ? 
 
 Bev. y/^«. Pardon me, sir, I don't carry it so far 
 neither ; I am rather afraid I shall like her too well ; 
 she has, for one of her fortune, a great many needless 
 and superfluous good qualities. 
 
 Sir J. Ba\ I am afraid, son, there's something I 
 don't see yet, something that's smothered under all this 
 raillery. 
 
 Ba'.Jun. Not in the least, sir. If the lady is dressed 
 and ready, you see I am. I suppose the lawyers are 
 ready loo. 
 
 Hu))ip]i. Tills may grow warm if I don't interpose. 
 \Aside?^ — Sir, Mr. Sealand is at the coftee-house, and has 
 sent to speak with you. 
 
 Sir J. Brc'. Oh ! that's well ! Then I warrant the 
 lawyers are ready. Son, you'll be in the way, you say. 
 
 Bev. Jun. If you please, sir, I'll take a chair, and go 
 to Mr. Sealand's, where the young lady and I will wait 
 your leisure. 
 
 Sir J. Ba\ By no means. The old fellow will be so 
 vain if he sees 
 
 Bci\ Jun. Ay ; but the young lady, sir, will think me 
 so indifterent.
 
 SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 291 
 
 Humph. Ay, there you are right ; press your readiness 
 to go to the bride — he won't let you. \_Aside to Bev. Jun. 
 
 Bev.Jiin. Are you sure of that ? \Aside to Yi\}\\vn. 
 
 Humph. How he Ukes being prevented. [Aside. 
 
 Sir J. Ber. No, no. You are an hour or two too 
 early. [Looking on his watch. 
 
 Bev. Jun. You'll allow me, sir, to think it too late to 
 visit a beautiful, virtuous young woman, in the pride and 
 bloom of life, ready to give herself to my arms ; and to 
 place her happiness or misery, for the future, in being 
 agreeable or displeasing to me, is a Call a chair. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. No, no, no, dear Jack; this Sealand is a 
 moody old fellow. There's no dealing with some people 
 but by managing with indifference. We must leave to 
 him the conduct of this day. It is the last of his com- 
 manding his daughter. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Sir, he can't take it ill, that I am impatient 
 to be hers. 
 
 Sir J. Bei<. Pray let me govern in this matter ; you 
 can't tell how humorsome old fellows are. There's no 
 offering reason to some of 'em, especially when they are 
 rich. — If my son should see him before I've brought old 
 Sealand into better temper, the match would be imprac- 
 ticable. [Aside. 
 
 Humph. Pray, sir, let me beg you to let Mr. Bevil go. — ■ 
 See whether he will or not. [Aside to Sir John] —[Then to 
 Bev.] Pray, sir, command yourself; since you see my 
 master is positive, it is better you should not go. 
 
 Bev. Jun. My father commands me, as to the object of 
 my affections; but I hope he will not, as to the warmth 
 and height of them. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. So ! I must even leave things as I found 
 them ; and in the meantime, at least, keep old Sealand 
 out of his sight — Well, son, I'll go myself and take 
 orders in your affair. You'll be in the way, I suppose, 
 if I send to you. I'll leave your old friend with you —
 
 292 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act i. 
 
 Humphry, don't let him stir, d'ye hear? — Your servant, 
 )our servant. \Exit Sir John. 
 
 Htimph. I have a sad time on't, sir, between you and 
 my master. I see you are unwilling, and I know his 
 violent inclinations for the match. — I must betray 
 neither, and yet deceive you both, for your common 
 good. Heaven grant a good end of this matter.^ — But 
 there is a lady, sir, that gives your father much trouble 
 and sorrow. — You'll pardon me. 
 
 Bev.Jiiti. Humphry, I know thou art a friend to 
 both, and in that confidence I dare tell thee, that lady 
 is a woman of honour and virtue. You may assure 
 yourself I never will marry without my father's consent. 
 But give me leave to say, too, this declaration does not 
 come up to a promise that I will take whomsoever he 
 pleases. 
 
 Humph. Come, sir, I wholly understand you. You 
 would engage my services to free you from this woman 
 whom my master intends you, to make way, in time, for 
 the woman you have really a mind to. 
 
 Bcv./un. Honest Humphry, you have always been a 
 useful friend to my father and myself; I beg you con- 
 tinue your good offices, and don't let us come to the 
 necessity of a dispute ; for, if we should dispute, I must 
 either part with more than life, or lose the best of fathers. 
 
 Humph. My dear master, were I but worthy to know 
 this secret, that so near concerns you, my life, my all 
 should be engaged to serve you. This, sir, I dare pro- 
 mise, that I am sure I will and can be secret : your trust, 
 at worst, but leaves you where you were ; and if I cannot 
 serve you, I will at once be plain and tell you so. 
 
 Bev. Jun. That's all I ask. Thou hast made it now 
 my interest to trust thee. Be patient, then, and hear 
 the story of my heart. 
 
 Humph. I am all attention, sir. 
 
 Brc'./un. You may remember, Humphry, that in my
 
 SCENE II.] THE COA^SCIOUS LOVERS. 293 
 
 last travels my father grew uneasy at my making so long 
 a stay at Toulon. 
 
 Humph. I remember it ; he was apprehensive some 
 woman had laid hold of you. 
 
 Bcv. Jun. His fears were just; for there I first saw this 
 lady. She is of English birth : her father's name was 
 Danvers — a younger brother of an ancient family, and 
 originally an eminent merchant of Bristol, who, upon 
 repeated misfortunes, was reduced to go privately to the 
 Indies. In this retreat. Providence again grew favourable 
 to his industry, and, in six years' time, restored him to 
 his former fortunes. On this he sent directions over that 
 his wife and little family should follow him to the Indies. 
 His wife, impatient to obey such welcome orders, would 
 not wait the leisure of a convoy, but took the first occa- 
 sion of a single ship, and, with her husband's sister only, 
 and this daughter, then scarce seven years old, under- 
 took the fatal voyage — for here, poor creature, she lost 
 her liberty and life. She and her family, with all they 
 had, were, unfortunately, taken by a privateer from 
 Toulon. Being thus made a prisoner, though as such 
 not ill-treated, yet the fright, the shock, and cruel dis- 
 appointment, seized with such violence upon her un- 
 healthy frame, she sickened, pined, and died at sea. 
 
 Humph. Poor soul ! O the helpless infant ! 
 
 Bev. Her sister yet survived, and had the care of her. 
 The captain, loo, proved to have humanity, and became 
 a father to her ; for having himself married an English 
 woman, and being childless, he brought home into 
 Toulon this her little country-woman, presenting her, 
 with all her dead mother's movables of value, to his 
 wife, to be educated as his own adopted daughter. 
 
 Humph. Fortune here seemed again to smile on her. 
 
 Bcv. Only to make her frowns more terrible ; for, in 
 his height of fortune, this captain, too, her benefactor, 
 unfortunately was killed at sea; and dying intestate, his
 
 294 THE CONSCIOrS LOVFRS. [act I. 
 
 estate fell wholly to an advocate, his brother, who, 
 coming soon to take'possession, there found (among his 
 other riches) this blooming virgin at his mercy. 
 
 Humph. He durst not, sure, abuse his power ? 
 
 Bcv. No wonder if his pampered blood was fired at 
 the sight of her — in short, he loved ; but when all arts 
 and gentle means had failed to move, he offered, too, 
 his menaces in vain, denouncing vengeance on her 
 crLielty, demanding her to account for all her main- 
 tenance from her childhood ; seized on her little fortune 
 as his own inheritance, and was dragging her by violence 
 to prison, when Providence at the instant interposed, 
 and sent me, by miracle, to relieve her.' 
 
 Humph. "I'was Providence, indeed. But pray, sir, 
 after all this trouble, how came this lady at last to Eng- 
 land ? 
 
 Bev. The disappointed advocate, finding she had so 
 unexpected a support, on cooler thoughts, descended to 
 a composition, which I, without her knowledge, secretly 
 discharged. 
 
 Humph. That generous concealment made the obliga- 
 tion double. 
 
 Bcv. Having thus obtained her liberty, I prevailed, 
 not without some difficulty, to see her safe to England ; 
 where, no sooner arrived, but my father, jealous of my 
 being imprudently engaged, immediately proposed this 
 other fatal match that hangs upon my quiet. 
 
 Humph. I find, sir, you are irrecoverably fixed upon 
 this lady, 
 
 Bev. As my vital life dwells in my heart — and yet you 
 see what I do to please my father : walk in this pageantry 
 of dress, this splendid covering of sorrow — But, Hum- 
 phry, you have your lesson. 
 
 ^ In Terence, Glycerium comes to Athens with Chrysis, a cour- 
 tezan, her supposed sister, and Painphilus makes her acquaintance 
 at Chrysis' s house.
 
 SCENE IT.] THE COXSCTOrS LOVERS. 295 
 
 Humph. Now, sir, I have but one material ques- 
 tion 
 
 Bev. Ask it freely. 
 
 Humph. Is it, then, your own passion for this secret 
 lady, or hers for you, that gives you this aversion to the 
 match your father has proposed you ? 
 
 Bev. I shall appear, Humphry, more romantic in my 
 answer than in all the rest of my story ; for though I 
 dote on her to death, and have no little reason to 
 believe she has the same thoughts for nie, yet in all 
 my acquaintance and utmost privacies with her, I never 
 once directly told her that I loved. 
 
 Humph. How was it possible to avoid it ? 
 
 Ba>. My tender obligations to my father have laid so 
 inviolable a restraint upon my conduct that, till I have 
 his consent to speak, I am determined, on that subject, 
 to be dumb for ever. 
 
 Humph. Well, sir, to your praise be it spoken, you 
 are certainly the most unfashionable lover in Great 
 Britain. 
 
 Enter Tom. 
 
 Tom. Sir, Mr. Myrtle's at the next door, and, if you 
 are at leisure, will be glad to wait on you. 
 
 Ba>. Whenever he pleases hold, Tom ! did you 
 
 receive no answer to my letter? 
 
 Tom. Sir, I was desired to call again ; for I was told 
 her mother would not let her be out of her sight ; but 
 about an hour hence, Mrs. Letticesaid, I should certainly 
 have one. 
 
 Bev. Very well. [Exit ToM. 
 
 Humph. Sir, I will take another opportunity. In the 
 meantime, I only think it proper to tell you that, from a 
 secret I know, you may appear to your father as forward 
 as you please, to marry Lucinda without the least hazard 
 of its coming to a conclusion — Sir, your most obedient 
 servant.
 
 2q6 
 
 THE CON SC IOCS LOVERS. 
 
 [act I, 
 
 Bev. Honest Hunijihiy, continue but my friend in 
 this exigence, and you sliall always tind me yours. \_Exi't 
 Humph.] — I long to hear how my letter has succeeded 
 with Lucinda — but I think it cannot fail ; for, at worst, 
 were it possible she could take it ill, her resentment of 
 my indiflerence may as probably occasion a delay as her 
 taking it right. Poor Myrtle, what terrors must he be in 
 all this while ? Since he knows she is offered to me, and 
 refused to him, there is no conversing or taking any 
 measures with liim for his own service. — But I 
 ought to bear with my friend, and use him as one in 
 adversity — 
 
 All his disquiets by my own I prove, 
 The greatest grief's perplexity in love. 
 
 [Euf.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENK I.- Be VI L, Jun.'s Lodgings. 
 Enter Biivir,, Jun. and Tom. 
 
 "^^yy^vL' -OM. Sir, Mr. Myrtle. 
 
 Bri'. Jan. Very well — do you step 
 again, and wait for an answer to my 
 letter. {Exit Tom. 
 
 Enter Myrtle. 
 
 Bcv.Jun. Well, Charles, why so 
 much care in thy countenance ? Is 
 there anything in this world deserves it? You, who 
 used to be so gay, so open, so vacant ! 
 
 Myrt. I think we have of late changed complexions. 
 You, who used to be much the graver man, are now all 
 air in your behaviour. — But the cause of my concern may, 
 for aught I know, be the same object that gives you all 
 this satisfaction. In a word, I am told that you are this 
 very day — and your dress confnms me in it — to be married 
 to Lucinda. 
 
 Bev. Jun. You arc not misinformed. — Nay, put not on 
 the terrors of a rival till you hear me out. I shall dis- 
 oblige the best of fathers if I don't seem ready to marry 
 Lucinda; and you know I have ever told you you might 
 make use of my secret resolution never to marry her for
 
 298 THE COXSCIOUS LOVERS. [act Ti. 
 
 your own service as you please ; but I am now driven to 
 the extremity of immediately refusing or complying unless 
 you help me to escape the match. 
 
 Myrt. Escape ? Sir, neither her merit or her for- 
 tune are below your acceptance — Escaping do you 
 call it ? 
 
 BtT.JiDi. Dear sir. do you wish I should desire the 
 match ? 
 
 Myii. No; but such is my humorous and sickly state 
 of mind since it has been able to relish nothing but 
 Lucinda, that though I must owe my happiness to your 
 aversion to this marriage, I can't bear to hear her spoken 
 of with levity or unconcern. 
 
 Bev.Jiin. Pardon me, sir, I shall transgress that way 
 no more. She has understanding, beauty, shape, 
 complexion, wit 
 
 Myrt, Nay, dear Bevil, don't speak of her as if you 
 loved her neither. 
 
 Bev. Jiiii. Why, then, to give you ease at once, though 
 I allow Lucinda to have good sense, wit, beauty, and 
 virtue, I know another in whom these qualities appear to 
 me more amiable than in her. 
 
 Alyrt. There you spoke like a reasonable and good- 
 natured friend. When you acknowledge her merit, and 
 own your prepossession for another, at once you gratify 
 my fondness and cure my jealousy. 
 
 Bcv.Jiin. But all this while you take no notice, you 
 have no apprehension, of another man that has twice the 
 fortune of either of us. 
 
 Alyrt. Cimberton ! ^ hang him, a formal, philosophical, 
 pedantic coxcomb; for the sot, with all these crude 
 notions of divers things, under the direction of great 
 vanity and very little judgment, shows his strongest bias 
 is avarice ; which is so predominant in him that he will 
 examine the limbs of his mistress with the caution of a 
 1 This character ha^ no prototype in Terence's Andria.
 
 SCENE I.] THE COXSCrOUS LOVERS. 299 
 
 jockey, and pays no more compliment to her personal 
 charms than if she were a mere breeding animal, 
 
 Bri'. /nil. Are you sure that is not affected ? I have 
 known some women sooner set on fire by that sort of 
 negligence than by 
 
 Myrt. No, no ; hang him, the rogue has no art ; it is 
 pure, simple insolence and stupidity. 
 
 Bcv. Juii. Yet, with all this, I don't take him for a fool. 
 
 Myrt. I own the man is not a natural ; he has a very 
 quick sense, though very slow understanding. He says, 
 indeed, many things that want only the circumstances of 
 time and place to be very just and agreeable. 
 
 Bcv. Juu. Well, you may be sure of me if you can dis- 
 appoint liim ; but my intelligence says the mother has 
 actually sent for the conveyancer to draw articles for his 
 marriage with Lucinda, though those for mine with her 
 are, by her father's orders, ready for signing; but it 
 seems she has not thought fit to consult either him or his 
 daughter in the matter. 
 
 Myrt. Pshaw ! a poor troublesome woman. Neither 
 Lucinda nor her father will ever be brought to comply 
 with it. Besides, T am sure Cimberton can make no 
 settlement upon her without the concurrence of his 
 great uncle. Sir Geoffry, in the west. 
 
 Bro. Jun. Well, sir, and I can tell you that's the very 
 point that is now laid before her counsel, to know 
 whether a firm settlement can be made without his 
 uncle's actual joining in it. Now, pray consider, sir, 
 when my affair with Lucinda comes, as it soon must, to 
 an open rupture, how are you sure that Cimberton's 
 fortune may not then tempt her father, too, to hear his 
 proposals ? 
 
 Myrt. There you are right, indeed ; that must be pro- 
 vided against. Do you know who are her counsel ? 
 
 Bev.Jun. Yes, for your service I have found out that, 
 too. They are Serjeant Bramble and Old Target — by
 
 300 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act ii. 
 
 the way, tliey are neither of them known in the family. 
 Now, I was thinking why you might not put a couple of 
 false counsel upon her to delay and confound matters a 
 little ; besides, it may probably let you into the bottom 
 of her whole design against you. 
 
 Myrt. As how, pray ? 
 
 Bez'.Jun. Why, can't you slip on a black wig and a 
 gown, and be Old Bramble yourself? 
 
 Myrt. Ha ! I don't dislike it.— But what shall I do for 
 a brother in the case ? 
 
 Bev.Jun. What think you of my fellow, Tom? The 
 rogue's intelligent, and is a good mimic. All his part 
 will be but to stutter heartily, for that's old Target's case. 
 Nay, it would be an immoral thing to mock him were it 
 not that his impertinence is the occasion of its breaking 
 out to that degree. The conduct of the scene will chiefly 
 lie upon you. 
 
 Alyrt. I like it of all things. If you'll send Tom to 
 my chambers, I will give him full instructions. This will 
 certainly give me occasion to raise difficulties, to puzzle 
 or confound her project for a while at least. 
 
 Bev.Jun. I'll warrant you success. — So far we are 
 right, then. And now, Charles, your apprehension of my 
 marrying her is all you have to get over. 
 
 Alyrt. Dear Bevil, though I know you are my friend, 
 yet when I abstract myself from my own interest in the 
 thing, I know no objection she can make to you, or you 
 to her, and therefore hope 
 
 Bcv. Jim. Dear Myrtle, I am as much obligetl to you 
 for the cause of your suspicion, as I am offended at the 
 effect ; but, be assured, I am taking measures for your 
 certain security, and that all things with regard to me 
 will end in your entire satisfaction. 
 
 Myrt. Well, I'll promise you to be as easy and as con- 
 fident as I can, though I cannot but remember that I 
 have more than life at stake on your fidelity. [^Goi/ig.
 
 SCENE Ti.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 301 
 
 Bev. Jun. Then depend upon it, you have no chance 
 aganist you. 
 
 Myrt. Nay, no ceremony, )ou know I must be going. 
 
 S^Exit MvRT. 
 
 Bcv.Jiiii. Well, this is another instance of the perplex- 
 ities which arise, too, in faithful friendship. We must 
 often in this life go on in our good ofitices, even 
 under the displeasure of those to whom we do them, in 
 compassion to their weaknesses and mistakes.— But all 
 this while poor Indiana is tortured with the doubt of me. 
 She has no support or comfort but in my fidelity, yet sees 
 me daily pressed to marriage with another. How painful, 
 in such a crisis, must be every hour she thinks on me ! 
 I'll let her see at least my conduct to her is not changed. 
 I'll take this opportunity to visit her ; for though the 
 religious vow I have made to my father restrains me from 
 ever marrying without his approbation, yet that confines 
 me not from seeing a virtuous woman that is the pure 
 delight of my eyes and the guiltless joy of my heart. 
 But the best condition of human life is but a gentler 
 misery — - 
 
 To hope for perfect happiness is vain, 
 
 And love has ever its allays of pain. \Exit, 
 
 SCENE II.— Indiana's Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Isabella and Indiana. 
 
 Isab. Yes, I say 'tis artifice, dear child. I say to thee 
 again and again 'tis all skill and management. 
 
 Ind. Will you persuade me there can be an ill design 
 in supporting me in the condition of a woman of quality? 
 attended, dressed, and lodged like one ; in my appearance 
 abroad and my furniture at home, every way in the most
 
 302 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act il. 
 
 sumptuous manner, and he that does it has an artifice, 
 a design in it? 
 
 Isab. Yes, yes. 
 
 Iiid. And all this Avithout so much as explaining to me 
 that all about me comes from him ! 
 
 Isab. Ay, ay, the more for that. That keeps the title 
 to all you have the more in him. 
 
 Ind. The more in him ! He scorns the thought 
 
 hah. Then he — he — he ■ 
 
 Ltd. Well, be not so eager. If he is an ill man, let 
 us look into his stratagems. Here is another of them. 
 \Showing a letta'.'\ Here's two hundred and fifty pounds 
 in bank notes, with these words : " To pay for the set of 
 dressing-plate which will be broughtj home to-morrow." 
 Why, dear aunt, now here's another piece of skill for 
 you, which I own I cannot comprehend ; and it is with a 
 bleeding heart I hear you say anything to the disadvan- 
 tage of Mr. Bevil. When he is present I look upon him 
 as one to whom I owe my life and the support of it ; 
 then, again, as the man who loves me Avith sincerity and 
 honour. When his eyes are cast another way, and I dare 
 survey him, my heart is painfully divided between shame 
 and love. Oh ! could I tell you 
 
 Isab. Ah ! you need not ; I imagine all this for you. 
 
 Ind. This is my state of mind in his presence; and 
 when he is absent, you are ever dinning my ears with 
 notions of the arts of men ; that his hidden bounty, his 
 respectful conduct, his careful provision for me, after his 
 preserving me from utmost misery, are certain signs he 
 means nothing but to make I know not what of me. 
 
 Isab. Oh ! You have a sweet opinion of him, truly. 
 
 Did. I have, when I am with him, ten thousand 
 things, besitles my sex's natural decency and shame, to 
 suppress my heart, that yearns to thank, to praise, to say 
 it loves him. I say, thus it is with me while I see him ; 
 and in his absence I am entertained with nothing but
 
 SCENE II.] THE COXSCIOCS LOVERS. 303 
 
 your endeavours to tear this amiable image from my 
 heart ; and in its stead, to place a base dissembler, an 
 artful invader of my happiness, my innocence, my honour. 
 
 Isab. Ah, poor soul ! has not his plot taken ? don't 
 you die for him ? has not the way he has taken, been the 
 most proper with you? Oh! oh! He has sense, and 
 has judged the thing right, 
 
 Ind. Go on then, since nothing can answer you ; say 
 what you will of him. Heigh ! ho ! 
 
 Isab. Heigh ! ho ! indeed. It is better to say so, as 
 you are now, than as many others are. There are, among 
 the destroyers of women, the gentle, the generous, the 
 mild, the affable, the humble, Avho all, soon after their 
 success in their designs, turn to the contrary of those 
 characters. I will own to you, Mr. Bevil carries his 
 hypocrisy the best of any man living, but still he is a 
 man, and therefore a hypocrite. They have usurped an 
 exemption from shame for any baseness, any cruelty 
 towards us. They embrace without love ; they make 
 vows without conscience of obligation; they are partners, 
 nay, seducers to the crime, wherein they pretend to be 
 less guilty. 
 
 Iiid. That's truly observed. \Asidc?[ — But what's all 
 this to Bevil? 
 
 Isab. This it is to Bevil and all mankind. Trust not 
 those who will think the worse of you for your confidence 
 in them ; serpents who lie in wait for doves. Won't you 
 be on your guard against those who would betray you? 
 Won't you doubt those who would contemn you for believ- 
 ing 'em ? Take it from me, fair and natural dealing is to 
 invite injuries; 'tis bleating to escape wolves who would 
 devour you ! Sucli is the world — [Aside] and such 
 (since the behaviour of one man to myself) have I 
 believed all the rest of the sex. 
 
 I//d. I will not doubt the truth of Bevil, I will not 
 doubt it. He has not spoke of it by an organ that is
 
 304 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act ii. 
 
 given to lying. His eyes are all that have ever told me 
 that he was mine. I know his virtue, I know his filial 
 piety, and ought to trust his management with a father 
 to whom he has uncommon obligations. What have I 
 to be concerned for ? my lesson is very short. If he 
 takes me for ever, my purpose of life is only to please 
 him. If he leaves me (which Heaven avert) I know 
 he'll do it nobly, and I shall have nothing to do but to 
 learn to die, after worse than death has happened to me. 
 
 Isab. Ay, do, persist in your credulity ! flatter yourself 
 that a man of his figure and fortune will make himself 
 the jest of the town, and marry a handsome beggar for 
 love. 
 
 ///(/. The town ! I must tell you, madam, the fools 
 that laugh at Mr, Bevil will but make themselves more 
 ridiculous ; his actions are the result of thinking, and he 
 has sense enough to make even virtue fashionable. 
 
 Isab. O' my conscience he has turned her head. — 
 Come, come, if he were the honest fool you take him for, 
 why has he kept you here these three weeks, without 
 sending you to Bristol in search of your father, your 
 family, and your relations ? 
 
 Iiid. I am convinced he still designs it, and that 
 nothing keeps him here, but the necessity of coming to a 
 breach with his father in regard to the match he has 
 proposed him. Beside, has he not writ to Bristol ? and 
 has not he advice that my father has not been heard of 
 there almost these twenty years ? 
 
 Isab. All sham, mere evasion ; he is afraid, if he 
 should carry you thither, your honest relations may take 
 you out of his hands, and so blow up all his wicked 
 hopes at once. 
 
 Ind. Wicked hopes ! did I ever give him any such ? 
 
 Isab. Has he ever given you any honest ones? Can 
 you say, in your conscience, lie has ever once offered to 
 marry you ?
 
 SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 305 
 
 Ind. No ! but by his behaviour I am convinced he 
 will offer it, the moment 'tis in his power, or consistent 
 with liis honour, to make such a promise good to me. 
 
 Isah. His honour ! 
 
 Ind. I will rely upon it ; therefore desire you will not 
 make my life uneasy, by these ungrateful jealousies of 
 one, to whom I am, and wish to be, obliged. For from 
 his integrity alone, I have resolved to hope for happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Isab. Nay, I have done my duty; if you won't see, at 
 3'our peril be it ! 
 
 Ind. Let it be — This is his hour of visiting me. 
 
 Isab. Oh ! to be sure, keep up your form ; don't see 
 him in a bed-chamber— [/^/(r;-/.] This is pure prudence, 
 when she is liable, wherever he meets her, to be con- 
 veyed where'er he pleases. 
 
 Ind. All the rest of my life is but waiting till he comes. 
 I live only when I'm with him. \E.\it. 
 
 Isab. Well, go thy ways, thou wilful innocent ! — \Aside?\^ 
 I once had almost as much love for a man, who poorly 
 left me to marry an estate \ and I am now, against my 
 will, what they call an old maid— but I will not let the 
 peevishness of that condition grow upon me, only keep 
 up the suspicion of it, to prevent this creature's being 
 any other than a virgin, except upon proper terms. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Indiana, speaking to a Servant. 
 
 Ind. Desire Mr. Bevil to walk in— Design ! impos- 
 sible ! A base designing mind could never think of what 
 he hourly puts in practice. And yet, since the late 
 rumour of his marriage, he seems more reserved than 
 formerly— he sends in too, before he sees me, to know if 
 I am at leisure — such new respects may cover coldness in 
 the heart ; it certainly makes me thoughtful— I'll know 
 the worst at once; I'll lay such fair occasions in his way, 
 
 Steele, X
 
 3o6 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act il. 
 
 that it shall be impossible to avoid an explanation, for 
 these doubts are insupportable ! — But see, he comes, and 
 clears them all. 
 
 Enter Bevil. 
 
 Bcv. Madam, your most obedient — I am afraid I 
 broke in upon your rest last night ; 'twas very late before 
 we parted, but 'twas your own fault. I never saw you in 
 such agreeable humour. 
 
 Ind. I am extremely glad we were both pleased ; for I 
 thought I never saw you better company. 
 
 Bcv. Me, madam ! you rally; I said very little. 
 
 Ind. But I am afraid you heard me say a great deal ; 
 and, when a woman is in the talking vein, the most 
 agreeable thing a man can do, you know, is to have 
 patience to hear her. 
 
 Brv. Then it's pity, madam, you should ever be silent, 
 that we might be always agreeable to one another. 
 
 Ind. If I had your talent or power, to make my actions 
 speak for me, I might indeed be silent, and you pretend 
 to something more than the agreeable. 
 
 Bev. If I might be vain of anything in my power, 
 madam, 'tis that my understanding, from all your sex, 
 has marked you out as the most deserving object of my 
 esteem. 
 
 Ind. Should I think I deserve this, 'twere enough to 
 make my vanity forfeit the very esteem you offer me. 
 
 Bev. How so, madam ? 
 
 Bid. Because esteem is the result of reason, and to 
 deserve it from good sense, the height of human glory. 
 Nay, I had rather a man of honour should pay me that, 
 than all the homage of a sincere and humble love. 
 
 Bev. Jiin. You certainly distinguish right, madam ; love 
 often kindles from external merit only. 
 
 Ind. But esteem rises from a higher source, the merit 
 of the soul.
 
 SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 307 
 
 BeiK Jiin. True — And great souls only can deserve it. 
 
 [Bcmniig respectfully. 
 
 Ind. Now I tliink they are greater still, that can so 
 charitably part with it. 
 
 Bev. Jiin. Now, madam, you make me vain, since the 
 utmost pride and pleasure of my life is, that I esteem 
 you as I ought. 
 
 Ind. \Aside.'\ As he ought! still more perplexing! 
 he neither saves nor kills my hope. 
 
 Bev. Jun. But, madam, we grow grave, methinks. Let's 
 find some other subject — Pray how did you like the 
 opera last night ? 
 
 Ind. First give me leave to thank you for my tickets. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Oh! your servant, madam. Cut pray tell 
 me, you now, who are never partial to the fashion, I 
 fancy must be the properest judge of a mighty dispute 
 among the ladies, that is, whether Crispo or Griselda} is 
 the more agreeable entertainment. 
 
 Ind. With submission now, I cannot be a proper 
 judge of this question. 
 
 Ba'. How so, madam ? 
 
 Ind. Because I find I have a partiality for one of 
 them. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Pray which is that ? 
 
 bid. I do not know; there's something in that rural 
 cottage of Griselda, her forlorn condition, her poverty, 
 her solitude, her resignation, her innocent slumbers, and 
 that lulling dolce sogno that's sung over her ; it had an 
 effect upon me that — in short I never was so well deceived, 
 at any of them. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Oh ! Now then, I can account for the dis- 
 pute. Griselda, it seems, is the distress of an injured 
 
 ' These two operas, by G. B. Bononciiii, were iiroduccd in 1722, 
 with words by ]<.olli. In Griselda, Anastasia liobinson took the 
 part of tlie heroine, and it is said that she thus completed her con- 
 quest of the Earl of Peterborough, who married her many years 
 later.
 
 3o8 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act il. 
 
 innocent woman, Crispo, that only of a man in the 
 same condition ; therefore the men are mostly concerned 
 for Crispo, and, by a natural indulgence, both sexes for 
 Griselda. 
 
 hid. So that judgment, you think, ought to be for 
 one, though fancy and complaisance have got ground 
 for the other. Well ! I believe you will never give me 
 leave to dispute with you on any subject ; for I own, 
 Crispo has its charms for me too. Though in the main, 
 all the pleasure the best opera gives us is but mere 
 sensation. Methinks it's pity the mind can't have a 
 little more share in the entertainment. The music's cer- 
 tainly fine, but, in my thoughts, there's none of your 
 composers come up to old Shakespeare and Otway. 
 
 Bro. How, madam ! why if a woman of your sense 
 were to say this in a drawing-room 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Scrv. Sir, here's Signor Carbonelli' says he waits yotir 
 commands in the next room. 
 
 Bcv. Apropos ! you were saying yesterday, madam, 
 you had a mind to hear him. Will you give him leave 
 to entertain you now ? 
 
 IiuL By all means ; desire the gentleman to walk in. 
 
 \Exit Servant. 
 
 Bcv. I fancy you will find something in this hand that 
 is uncommon. 
 
 hid. You are always finding ways, Mr. Bevil, to make 
 life seem less tedious to me. 
 
 Enter Music Master. 
 When the gentleman pleases. 
 
 \AJtcr a Sonata is played^ Bevil waits on the 
 Master to the door, etc.] 
 
 Bcv. You smile, madam, to see me so complaisant td 
 ' See page 270.
 
 sc EN E 1 1 . ] THE CO NSC 10 US L O VER S. 309 
 
 one whom I pay for his visit. Now, I own, I think it is 
 not enough barely to pay those whose talents are superior 
 to our own (I mean such talents as would become our 
 condition, if we had them). Methinks we ought to do 
 something more than barely gratify them for what they 
 do at our command, only because their fortune is below 
 us. 
 
 Ind. You say I smile. I assure you it was a smile of 
 approbation ; for, indeed, I cannot but think it the dis- 
 tinguishing part of a gentleman to make his superiority 
 of fortune as easy to his inferiors as he can. — Now once 
 more to try him. [Aside.] — I was saying just now, I 
 believed you would never let me dispute with you, and I 
 daresay it will always be so. However, I must have 
 your opinion upon a subject which created a debate 
 between my aunt and me, just before you came hither; 
 she would needs have it that no man ever does any 
 extraordinary kindness or service for a woman, but for 
 his own sake. 
 
 j5t7'. Well, madam ! Indeed I can't but be of her 
 mind, 
 
 /;id. What, though he should maintain and support 
 her, without demanding anything of her, on her part? 
 
 Bev. Why, madam, is making an expense in the service 
 of a valuable woman {for such I must suppose her), 
 though she should never do him any favour, nay, though 
 she should never know who did her such service, such a 
 mighty heroic business ? 
 
 Ind. Certainly ! I should think he must be a man of 
 an uncommon mould. 
 
 Bev. Dear madam, why so? 'tis but, at best, a better 
 taste in expense. To bestow upon one, whom he may 
 think one of the ornaments of the whole creation, to be 
 conscious, that from his superfluity, an innocent, a 
 virtuous spirit is supported above the temptations and 
 sorrows of life ! That he sees satisfaction, health, and
 
 310 TH/^ COXSCIOrs LOVERS. [actii. 
 
 gladness in her countenance, while he enjoys the happi- 
 ness of seeing her (as that I will suppose too, or he must 
 be too abstracted, too insensible), I say, if he is allowed 
 to delight in that prospect ; alas, what mighty matter is 
 there in all this ? 
 
 Ind. No mighty matter in so disinterested a friend- 
 ship ! 
 
 Brc'. Disinterested ! I can't think him so ; your hero, 
 madam, is no more than what every gentleman ought to 
 be, and I believe very many are. He is only one who 
 takes more delight in reflections than in sensations. He is 
 more pleased with thinking than eating ; that's the utmost 
 you can say of him. Why, madam, a greater expense 
 than all this, men lay out upon an unnecessary stable of 
 horses, 
 
 Ind. Can you be sincere in what you say ? 
 
 Bev. You may depend upon it, if you know any such 
 man, he does not love dogs inordinately, 
 
 Ind. No, that he does not, 
 
 Brc'. Nor cards, nor dice. 
 - Ind No. 
 
 £a->. Nor bottle companions. 
 
 Ind. No, 
 
 J3ri'. Nor loose women, 
 
 Ind. No, I'm sure he does not. 
 
 Bev. Take my word then, if your admired hero is not 
 liable to any of these kind of demands, there's no such 
 pre-eminence in this as you imagine. Nay, this way of 
 expense you speak of is what exalts and raises him that 
 has a taste for it ; and, at the same time, his delight is 
 incapable of satiety, disgust, or penitence. 
 
 Ind. But still I insist his having no private interest in 
 the action, makes it prodigious, almost incredible. 
 
 BeiK Dear madam, I never knew you more mistaken. 
 Why, who can be more a usurer than he who lays out 
 his money in such valuable purchases ? If pleasure be
 
 SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 311 
 
 worth purchasing, how great a pleasure is it to him, who 
 has a true taste of Hfe, to ease an aching heart; to see the 
 human countenance Hghted up into smiles of joy, on the 
 receipt of a bit of ore which is superfluous and otherwise 
 useless in a man's own pocket ? What could a man do 
 better with his cash ? This is the effect of a human 
 disposition, where there is only a general tie of nature 
 and common necessity. What then must it be when we 
 serve an object of merit, of admiration ! 
 
 Ind. Well ! the more you argue against it the more I 
 shall admire the generosity. 
 
 Ba<. Nay, nay — Then, madam, 'tis time to fly, after a 
 declaration that my opinion strengthens my adversary's 
 argument. I had best hasten to my appointment with 
 Mr. Myrtle, and begone while we are friends, and before 
 things are brought to an extremity. \Exit, carelessly. 
 
 Enter Isabella. 
 
 Isab. Well, madam, what think you of him now, pray ? 
 
 Jnd. I protest, I begin to fear he is wholly disinter- 
 ested in what he does for me. On my heart, he has no 
 other view but the mere pleasure of doing it, and has 
 neither good or bad designs upon mc. 
 
 Jsab. Ah ! dear niece ! don't be in fear of both ! I'll 
 warrant you, you will know time enough that he is not 
 indifferent. 
 
 Jnd. You please me when you tell mc so ; for, if he 
 has any wishes towards me, I know he will not pursue 
 them but with honour. 
 
 Jsab. I wish I were as confident of one as t'other. I 
 saw the respectful downcast of his eye, when you caught 
 him gazing at you during the music. He, I warrant, 
 was surprised, as if he had been taken stealing your 
 watch. Oh ! the undissembled guilty look ! 
 
 Jiid. But did you observe any such thing, really ? I 
 thought he looked most charmingly graceful ! How
 
 312 
 
 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act ii. 
 
 engaging is modesty in a man, when one knows there is 
 a great mind within. So tender a confusion ! and yet, in 
 other respects, so much himself, so collected, so daunt- 
 less, so determined ! 
 
 Jsab. Ah ! niece ! there is a sort of bashfulness which 
 is the best engine to carry on a shameless purpose. Some 
 men's modesty serves their wickedness, as hypocrisy 
 gains the respect due to piety. But I will own to you, 
 there is one hopeful symptom, if there could be such a 
 thing as a disinterested lover. But it's all a perplexity — 
 till_till_tiU 
 
 Ind. Till what? 
 
 Isab. Till I know whether Mr. Myrtle and Mr. Bevil 
 are really friends or foes. — And that I will be convinced 
 of before I sleep ; for you shall not be deceived. 
 
 Ind. I'm sure I never shall, if your fears can guard me. 
 In the meantime I'll wrap myself up in the integrity of 
 my own heart, nor dare to doubt of his. 
 
 As conscious honour all his actions steers. 
 
 So conscious innocence dispels my fears. \Exaint.
 
 4^-f«v^ 
 
 ^fe»»^■^^-^-V>^»->-^^'^•i'^H^^-^^^-?^^-K^■€-i^^^-4«^ 
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE.— Sealand's House. 
 
 Enter Tom, meeting Philli? 
 
 ^«^^, 
 
 g <3lt^ ^ OM. Well, Phillis ! What, with a face 
 as if you had never seen me before ! 
 — What a work have I to do now ? 
 She has seen some new visitant at 
 their house whose airs she has caught, 
 and is resolved to practise them 
 upon me. Numberless are the 
 changes she'll dance through before she'll answer this 
 plain question : videlicet, have you delivered my master's 
 letter to your lady? Nay, I know her too well to ask 
 an account of it in an ordinary way ; I'll be in my airs as 
 well as she, [AstWe.] — Well, madam, as unhappy as you 
 are at present pleased to make me, I would not, in the 
 general, be any other than wliat I am. I would not be 
 a bit wiser, a bit richer, a bit taller, a bit shorter than I 
 am at this instant. [Loo/.'ing steadfastly at her. 
 
 Phil. Did ever anybody doubt, Master Thomas, but 
 that you were extremely satisfied with your sweet self? 
 
 Tom. I am, indeed. The thing I have least reason to 
 be satisfied with is my fortune, and I am glad of my 
 
 ' There is notliing in Tcicnce's Andria to coircspoiiil to tlie 
 incidents in this act ; and tliroughout the remainder of the play 
 there is no resemblance except the general idea of the story.
 
 3 1 4 THE COXSCIO US L O VERS. [act hi. 
 
 I)overty. Perhaps if I were rich I should overlook the 
 finest woman in the world, that wants nothing but riches 
 to be thought so. 
 
 Phil. How prettily was that said ! But I'll have a 
 great deal more before I'll say one word. \Aside. 
 
 Tom. I should, perhaps, have been stupidly above her 
 had I not been her equal ; and by not being her equal, 
 never had opportunity of being her slave. I am my 
 master's servant for hire — I am my mistress's from choice, 
 would she but approve my passion. 
 
 Phil. I think it's the first time I ever heard you speak 
 of it with any sense of the anguish, if you really do suffer 
 any. 
 
 Tom. Ah, Phillis ! can you doubt, after what you have 
 seen ? 
 
 Phil. I know not what I have seen, nor what I have 
 heard ; but since I am at leisure, you may tell me when 
 you fell in love with me ; how you fell in love with me ; 
 and what you have suffered or are ready to suffer for 
 me. 
 
 Tom. Oh, the unmerciful jade ! when I am in haste 
 about my master's letter. But I must go through it. 
 \Aside?^ — Ah ! ^ too well I remember when, and how, and 
 
 1 Steele had already described this scene in the Guardian for 
 June 20, 1713 : — "I happened the other day to pass by a gentle- 
 man's house, and saw the most flippant scene of low love that I 
 have ever observed. The maid was rubbing the windows within 
 side of the house, and her humble servant the footman was so 
 happy a man as to be employed in cleaning the same glass on the 
 side towards the street. The wench began with the greatest 
 severity of aspect imaginable, and breathing on the glass, followed 
 it with a dry cloth ; her opposite observed her, and fetching a deep 
 sigh, as if it were his last, with a very disconsolate air did the same 
 on his side of the window. He still worked on and languished, 
 until at last his fair one smiled, but covered heiself, and spreading 
 the napkin in her hand, concealed herself from her admirer, while 
 he took pains, as it were, to work through all that intercepted their 
 meeting. This pretty contest held for four or five large panes of 
 glass, until at last the waggery was turned into an humorous way 
 of breathing in each other's faces, and catching the impression. 
 The gay creatures were, thus loving and pleasing their imagina- 
 tions with their nearness and distance, until the windows were so
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 315 
 
 on what occasion I was first surprised. It was on the 
 ist of April, 1715, I came into Mr. Sealand's service 3 I 
 was then a hobbledehoy, and you a pretty little tight 
 girl, a favourite handmaid of the housekeeper. At that 
 time we neither of us knew what was in us. I remem- 
 ber I was ordered to get out of the window, one pair of 
 stairs, to rub the sashes clean ; the person employed on 
 the inner side was your charming self, whom I had never 
 seen before. 
 
 Phil. I think I remember the silly accident. What 
 made ye, you oaf, ready to fall down into the street ? 
 
 Tom. You know not, I warrant you — you could not 
 guess what surprised me. You took no delight when 
 you immediately grew wanton in your conquest, and put 
 your lips close, and breathed upon the glass, and when 
 my lips approached, a dirty cloth you rubbed against my 
 fece, and hid your beauteous form ! When I again drew 
 near, you spit, and rubbed, and smiled at my undoing. 
 
 Phil. What silly thoughts you men have ! 
 
 Tom. We were Pyramus and Thisbe — but ten times 
 harder was my fate. Pyramus couhl peep only through 
 a wall ; I saw her, saw my Thisbe in all her beauty, but 
 as much kept from her as if a hundred walls between — 
 for there was more : there was her will against me. 
 Would she but yet relent ! O Phillis ! Phillis ! shorten 
 my torment, and declare you pity me. 
 
 Phil. I believe it's very sufFerable ; the pain is not so 
 exquisite but that you may bear it a little longer. 
 
 Tom. Oh ! my charming Phillis, if all depended on 
 my fair one's will, I could with glory suffer — but, dearest 
 creature, consider our miserable state. 
 
 Phil. How I Miserable ! 
 
 Tom. We are miserable to be in love, and under the 
 
 transpaicnt that the beauty of llie female made the man-servant 
 ini]5atient of behoMinj^ it, and the wliole house besides being abroad, 
 lie ran in, and tliey romped out of my biglit."
 
 3i6 7HE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [Aci in. 
 
 command of others than those we love ; with that gene- 
 rous passion in the heart, to be sent to and fro on 
 errands, called, checked, and rated for the meanest 
 trifles. Oh, Phillis ! you don't know how many china 
 cups and glasses my passion for you has made me break. 
 You have broke my fortune as well as my heart. 
 
 F/iil. Well, Mr. Thomas, I cannot but own to you 
 that I believe your master writes and you speak the best 
 of any men in the world. Never was woman so well 
 pleased with a letter as my young lady was with his ; and 
 this is an answer to it. \Gi71es him a letter. 
 
 2\un. This was well done, my dearest ; consider, we 
 must strike out some pretty livelihood for ourselves by 
 closing their aftairs. It will be nothing for them to give 
 us a little being of our own, some small tenement, out of 
 their large possessions. Whatever they give us, it will be 
 more than what they keep for themselves. One acre 
 with Phillis would be worth a whole county without her. 
 
 Phil. O, could I but believe you ! 
 
 Tom. If not the utterance, believe the touch of my 
 lij^s. \Kisses her. 
 
 Phil. There's no contradicting you. How closely you 
 argue, Tom ! 
 
 l\)iii. And will closer, in due time. But I must hasten 
 with this letter, to hasten towards the possession of you. 
 Then, Phillis, consider how I must be revenged, look to 
 it, of all your skittishness, shy looks, and at best but coy 
 compliances. 
 
 Phil. Oh, Tom, you grow wanton, and sensual, as my 
 lady calls it ; I must not endure it. Oh ! fob ! you are 
 a man — an odious, filthy, male creature — you should be- 
 have, if you had a right sense or were a man of sense, 
 like Mr. Cimberton, with distance and indifference ; or, 
 let me see, some other becoming hard word, with seeming 
 in-in-inadvertency, and not rush on one as if you were 
 seizing a prey. — But hush ! the ladies are coming. — Good
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIO US L O VERS. 3 1 7 
 
 Tom, don't kiss me above once, and be gone. T.ard, we 
 have been fooling and toying, and not considered the 
 main business of our masters and mistresses. 
 
 Tom. Why, their business is to be fooHng and toying 
 as soon as the parchments are ready. 
 
 Phil. Well remembered, parchments ; my lady, to my 
 knowledge, is preparing writings between her coxcomb 
 cousin, Cimberton, and my mistress, though my master 
 has an eye to the parchments already prepared between 
 your master, Mr. Bevil, and my mistress ; and, I be- 
 lieve, my mistress herself has signed and sealed, in her 
 heart, to Mr. Myrtle. — Did I not bid you kiss me but 
 once, and be gone ? But I know you won't be satisfied. 
 
 Tom. No, you smooth creature, how should I ? 
 
 \Kissiiig her hand. 
 
 Phil. Well, since you are so humble, or so cool, as to 
 ravish my hand only, I'll take my leave of you like a 
 great lady, and you a man of quality. 
 
 l^They salute formally. 
 
 Tom. Pox of all this state. 
 
 \Offers to kiss her more closely, 
 
 Phil. No, prithee, Tom, mind your business. We 
 must follow that interest which will take, but endeavour 
 at that which will be most for us, and we like most. Oh, 
 here is my young mistress ! [Tom taps her neek behind, 
 and kisses hisfi)igers\ Go, ye liquorish fool. \Exit Tom. 
 
 Enter LuciNDA. 
 
 Luc. Who was that you were hurrying away ? 
 
 Phil. One that I had no mind to part with. 
 
 Luc. Why did you turn him away then? 
 
 Phil. For your ladyship's service — to carry your lady- 
 ship's letter to his master. I could hardly get the rogue 
 away. 
 
 Luc. Why, has he so little love for his master ? 
 
 Phil. No ; but he halli so much love for his mistress.
 
 3i8 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act ill. 
 
 Ltic. But I thought I heard him kiss you. Why did 
 you suffer that ? 
 
 Phil. Why, madam, we vulgar take it to be a sign of 
 love — We servants, we poor people, that have nothing 
 but our persons to bestow or treat for, are forced to deal 
 and bargain by way of sample, and therefore as we have 
 no parchments or wax necessary in our agreements, we 
 squeeze with our hands and seal with our lips, to ratify 
 vows and promises. 
 
 Luc. But can't you trust one another without sucli 
 earnest down ? 
 
 Phil. We don't think it safe, any more than you gentry, 
 to come together without deeds executed. 
 Luc. Thou art a pert merry hussy. 
 Phil. I wish, madam, your lover and you were as 
 happy as Tom and your servant are. 
 Luc. You grow impertinent. 
 
 Phil. I have done, madam ; and I won't ask you what 
 you intend to do with Mr. Myrtle, what your father will 
 do with Mr. Bevil, nor what you all, especially my lady, 
 mean by admitting Mr. Cimberton as particularly here 
 as if he were married to you already ; nay, you are mar- 
 ried actually as far as people of quality are. 
 Lric. How is that? 
 
 Phil. You have different beds in the same house. 
 Luc. Pshaw ! I have a very great value for Mr. Bevil, 
 but have absolutely put an end to his pretensions in the 
 letter I gave you for him. But my father, in his heart, 
 still has a mind to him, were it not for this woman they 
 talk of; and I am apt to imagine he is married to her, 
 or never designs to marry at all. 
 
 Phil. Then Mr. Myrtle 
 
 Luc. He had my parents' leave to apply to me, and by 
 that he has won me and my affections ; who is to have 
 this body of mine without them, it seems, is nothing to 
 me. My mother says 'tis indecent for me to let my
 
 SCENK I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 319 
 
 thoughts stray about the person of my husband ; nay, 
 she says a maid, rigidly virtuous, though she may have 
 been where her lover was a thousand times, should not 
 have made observations enough to know him from 
 another man when she sees him in a third place. 
 
 Phil. That is more than the severity of a nun, for not 
 to see when one may is hardly possible ; not to see when 
 one can't is very easy. At this rate, madam, there are a 
 
 great many whom you have not seen who- 
 
 Luc. ]\Iamma says the first time you see your husband 
 should be at that instant he is made so. When your 
 father, with the help of the minister, gives you to him, 
 then you are to see him \ then you are to observe and 
 take notice of him ; because then you are to obey him. 
 
 PhU. But does not my lady remember you are to love 
 as well as obey ? 
 
 Ltic. To love is a passion, it is a desire, and we must 
 have no desires. — Oh, I cannot endure the reflection ! 
 With what insensibility on my part, with what more than 
 patience have I been exposed and offered to some awk- 
 ward booby or other in every county of Great Britain ! 
 
 Phil, Indeed, madam, I wonder I never heard you 
 speak of it before v/ith this indignation. 
 
 Ltic. Every corner of the land has presented me with 
 a wealthy coxcomb. As fast as one treaty has gone off, 
 another has come on, till my name and person have been 
 the tittle-tattle of the whole town. What is this world 
 come to? — no shame left — to be bartered for like the 
 beasts of the field, and that in such an instance as com- 
 ing together to an entire familiarity and union of soul 
 and body. Oh ! and this without being so much as well- 
 wishers to each other, but for increase of fortune. 
 
 Phil. But, madam, all these vexations will end very 
 soon in one for all. Mr. Cimbcrton is your mother's 
 kinsman, and three hundred years an older gentleman 
 than any lover you ever had ; for which reason, with that
 
 320 THE CONSCIOUS LorERS. [act ill. 
 
 of his prodigious large estate, she is resolved on him, and 
 has sent to consult the lawyers accordingly ; nay, has 
 (whether you know it or no) been in treaty with Sir 
 Geoflry, who, to join in the settlement, has accepted of a 
 sum to do it, and is every moment expected in town for 
 that purpose. 
 
 Ltic. How do you get all this intelligence? 
 
 Phil. By an art I have, I thank my stars, beyond all 
 the waiting-maids in Great Britain — the art of listening, 
 madam, for your ladyship's service. 
 
 Luc. I shall soon know as much as you do ; leave me, 
 leave me, Phillis, begone. Here, here ! I'll turn you 
 out. My mother says I must not converse with my ser- 
 vants, though I must converse with no one else. \Exit 
 Phil.] — How unhappy are we who are born to great 
 fortunes ! No one looks at us with indifference, or acts 
 towards us on the foot of plain dealing; yet, by all I 
 have been heretofore offered to or treated for I have been 
 used with the most agreeable of all abuses — flattery. But 
 now, by this phlegmatic fool I'm used as nothing, or a 
 mere thing. He, forsooth, is too wise, too learned to 
 have any regard for desires, and I know not what the 
 learned oaf calls sentiments of love and passion — Here 
 he comes with my mother — It's much if he looks at me, 
 or if he docs, takes no more notice of me than of any 
 other movable in the room. 
 
 Etitcr Mrs. Seai.and, and Mr. Cimberton. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. How do I admire this noble, this learned 
 taste of yours, and the worthy regard you have to our 
 own ancient and honourable house in consulting a means 
 to keep the blood as pure and as regularly descended as 
 may be. 
 
 Cim. Why, really, madam, the young women of this 
 age are treated with discourses of such a tendency, and
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 321 
 
 their imaginations so bewildered in flesh and blood, that 
 a man ot reason can't talk to be inulerstood. They 
 have no ideas of happiness, but what are more gross than 
 the gratification of hunger and thirst. 
 
 Luc. With how much reflection he is a coxcomb ! 
 
 \Asidt. 
 
 Cim. And in truth, madam, I have considered it as a 
 most brutal custom that persons of the first character ir. 
 the world should go as ordinarily, and with as little shame, 
 to bed as to dinner with one another. They proceed to 
 the propagation of the species as openly as to the pre- 
 servation of the individual. 
 
 Luc. She that willingly goes to bed to thee must have 
 no shame, I'm sure. \Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Oh, cousin Cimberton ! cousin Cimberton ! 
 how abstracted, how refined is your sense of things ! But, 
 indeed, it is too true there is nothing so ordinary as to 
 say, in the best governed families, my master and lady 
 have gone to bed ; one does not know but it might 
 liave been said of one's self. \Hiding her face 7vith Jurfan. 
 
 Cim. Lycurgus, madam, instituted otherwise ; among 
 the Lacedaemonians the whole female world was pregnant, 
 but none but the motliers themselves knew by whom ; 
 their meetings were secret, and the amorous congress 
 always by stealth ; and no such professed doings between 
 the sexes as arc tolerated among us under the audacious 
 word, marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Oh, had I lived in those days and been a 
 matron of Sparta, one might with less indecency have 
 had ten children, according to that modest institution, 
 than one, under the confusion of our modern, barefaced 
 manner. 
 
 Luc. And yet, poor woman, she has gone through the 
 whole ceremony, and here I stand a melancholy proof of 
 it. {Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. We will talk then of business. Tiuit girl 
 
 Steele. Y
 
 322 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act ill. 
 
 walking about the room there is to be your wife. She 
 has, I confess, no ideas, no sentiments, that speak her 
 born of a thinking mother. 
 
 Cimb. I have observed lier ; her lively look, free air, 
 and disengaged countenance speak her very ■ 
 
 Luc. Very Avhat ? 
 
 Cimb. If you please, madam — to set her a little that 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. SeaL Lucinda, say nothing to him, you are not 
 a match for him ; when you are married, you may speak 
 to such a husband when you're spoken to. But I am 
 disposing of you above yourself every Avay. 
 
 Ci?nb. Madam, you cannot but observe the incon- 
 veniences I expose myself to, in hopes that your lady- 
 ship will be the consort of my better part. As for the 
 young woman, she is rather an impediment than a help 
 to a man cf letters and speculation. Madam, there is no 
 reflection, no philosophy, can at all times subdue the 
 sensitive life, but the animal shall sometimes carry away 
 the man. Ha ! ay, the vermilion of her lips. 
 
 Luc. Pray, don't talk of me thus. 
 
 Cimb. The pretty enough — pant of her bosom. 
 
 Luc. Sir ! madam, don't you hear him ? 
 
 Cimb. Her forward chest. 
 
 Luc. Intolerable ! 
 
 Cimb. High health. 
 
 Luc. The grave, easy impudence of him ! 
 
 Cimb. Proud heart. 
 
 Luc. Stupid coxcomb ! 
 
 Ctjub. I say, madam, her impatience, while we are 
 looking at her, throws out all attractions— her arms — her 
 neck — what a spring in her step ! 
 
 Luc. Don't you run me over thus, you strange un- 
 accountable ! 
 
 Cimb. What an elasticity in her veins and arteries ! 
 Luc, I have no veins, no arteries,
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. :s^i 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Oh, child ! hear him, he talks finely; he's a 
 scholar, he knows what you have. 
 
 Cimb. The speaking invitation of her shape, the 
 gathering of herself up, and the indignation you see in 
 the pretty little thing — Now, I am considering her, on 
 this occasion, but as one that is to be pregnant. 
 
 Luc, The familiar, learned, unseasonable puppy ! 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Cimb. And pregnant undoubtedly she will be yearly. 
 I fear I shan't, for many years, have discretion enough to 
 give her one fallow season. 
 
 Luc. Monster ! there's no bearing it. The hideous 
 sot ! there's no enduring it, to be thus surveyed like a 
 steed at sale. 
 
 Cimb. At sale ! She's very illiterate — But she's very 
 well limbed too ; turn her in ; I see what she is. 
 
 \_Exit LuciNDA, in a rage. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Go, you creature, I am ashamed of you. 
 
 Cimb. No harm done — you know, madam, the better 
 sort of people, as I observed to you, treat by their lawyers 
 of weddings [Adjusting Jiimsclf at the glass?^ — and the 
 woman in the bargain, like the mansion house in the 
 sale of the estate, is thrown in, and what that is, whether 
 good or bad, is not at all considered. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. I grant it ; and therefore make no demand 
 for her youth and beauty, and every other accomplish- 
 ment, as the common world think 'em, because she is 
 not polite. 
 
 Cimb. Madam, I know your exalted understanding, 
 abstracted, as it is, from vulgar prejudices, will not be 
 offended, when I declare to you, I marry to have an heir 
 to my estate, and not to beget a colony, or a plantation. 
 This young woman's beauty and constitution will de- 
 mand provision for a tenth child at least. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. With all that wit and learning, how con- 
 siderate ! What an economist ! \Aside.\ — Sir, I cannot
 
 324 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act ill. 
 
 make her any other than she is ; or say she is much 
 better than the other young women of this age, or fit for 
 much besides being a motlier; but I have given direc- 
 tions for the marriage settlements, and Sir Geofhy Cim- 
 berton's counsel is to meet ours here, at this hour, con- 
 cerning this joining in the deed, which, when executed, 
 makes you capable of settling what is due to Lucinda's 
 fortune. Herself, as I told yon, I say nothing of. 
 
 Cimb. No, no, no, indeed, madam, it is not usual ; and 
 I must de])end upon my own reflection and philosophy 
 not to overstock my family. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. I cannot help her, cousin Cimberton ; but 
 she is, for aught I see, as well as the daughter of any- 
 body else. 
 
 Cinih. That is very true, madam. 
 
 Enter a Servant, who wJiisJ^ers Mrs. Sealand. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. The lawyers are come, and now we are to 
 hear what they have resolved as to the point whether it's 
 necessary that Sir Geofifry should join in the settlement, 
 as being what they call in the remainder. But, good 
 cousin, you must have patience with 'em. These lawyers, 
 I am told, are of a different kind ; one is what they call a 
 chamber counsel, the other a pleader. The conveyancer 
 is slow, from an imperfection in his speech^ and therefore 
 shunned the bar, but extremely passionate and impatient 
 of contradiction. The other is as warm as he; but has 
 a tongue so voluble, and a head so conceited, he will 
 suficr nobody to speak but himself. 
 
 Cimb. You mean old Serjeant Target and Counsellor 
 Bramble? I have heard of 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. The same. Show in the gentlemen. 
 
 \Exit Servant. 
 
 Re-enter Servant, introducing Myrtle and Tom disguised 
 as Bramble and Target. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Gentlemen, this is the party concerned,
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 325 
 
 Mr. Cimberton ; and I hope you have considered of the 
 matter. 
 
 Tar. Yes, madam, we have agreed that it must be by 
 indent dent dent dent 
 
 JSra/ii. Yes, madam, Mr. Serjeant and myself have 
 agreed, as he is pleased to inform you, that it must be 
 an indenture tripartite,' and tripartite let it be, for Sir 
 Geoffry must needs be a party; old Cimberton, in the 
 year 1619, says, in that ancient roll in Mr. Serjeant's 
 hands, as recourse thereto being had, will more at large 
 appear 
 
 Tar. Yes, and by the deeds in your hands, it appears 
 that 
 
 Brain. Mr. Serjeant, I beg of you to make no infer- 
 ences upon what is in our custody; but speak to the 
 titles in your own deeds. I shall not show that deed till 
 my client is in town. 
 
 Citnb. You know best your own methods. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. The single question is, whether the entail 
 is such that my cousin, Sir Geoffry, is necessary in this 
 affair ? 
 
 Bram. Yes, as to the lordship of Tretriplet, but not as 
 to the messuage of Grimgribber. 
 
 Tar. I say that Gr — gr — that Gr — gr — Grimgribber, 
 Grimgribber is in us ; that is to say the remainder 
 thereof, as well as that of Tr — tr — Triplet. 
 
 Bram. You go upon the deed of Sir Ralph, made in 
 the middle of the last century, precedent to that in which 
 old Cimberton made over the remainder, and made it 
 pass to the heirs general, by which your client comes in ; 
 and I question whether the remainder even of Tretriplet 
 is in him — But we are willing to waive that, and give 
 him a valuable consideration. But we shall not purchase 
 
 Steele's monetary troubles made liim jiersoiially familiar about 
 the time he wrote this play with indentures tripartite, quadrupartite, 
 and otherwise (See Life of Steele, 1889, 11., 291, 299, &cq.).
 
 326 THE CONSCIO US L O VERS. [ act 1 1 1 . 
 
 what is in us for ever, as Grimgribber is, at the rate, as 
 we guard against the contingent of Mr. Cimberton having 
 no son — Then we know Sir Geoffry is the first of the 
 collateral male line in this family — yet 
 
 Tar. Sir, Gr gr ber is ■ 
 
 Bram. I apprehend you very well, and your argument 
 might be of force, and we would be inclined to hear that 
 in all its parts — But, sir, I see very plainly what you are 
 going into. I tell you, it is as probable a contingent 
 that Sir Geofifry rqay die before Mr. Cimberton, as that 
 he may outlive him. 
 
 Ta7\ Sir, we are not ripe for that yet, but I must 
 say 
 
 Bram. Sir, I allow you the whole extent of that argu- 
 ment ; but that will go no farther than as to the claimants 
 under old Cimberton. I am of opinion that, according 
 to the instruction of Sir Ralph, he could not dock the 
 entail, and then create a new estate for the heirs general. 
 
 Tar. Sir, I have not patience to be told that, when 
 Gr gr ber 
 
 Bram. I will allow it you, Mr. Serjeant ; but there 
 must be the word heirs for ever, to make such an estate 
 as you pretend. 
 
 Cimb. I must be impartial, though you are counsel for 
 my side of the question. Were it not that you are so 
 good as to allow him what he has not said, I should 
 think it very hard you should answer him without hear- 
 ing him — Buty gentlemen, I believe you have both con- 
 sidered this matter, and are firm in your different opinions. 
 Twere better, therefore, you proceeded according to the 
 particular sense of each of you, and gave your thoughts 
 distinctly in writing. And do you see, sirs, pray let me 
 have a copy of what you say in English. 
 
 Bram. Why, what is all we have been saying? In 
 English ! Oh ! but I forgot myself, you're a wit. But,
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. ^2^ 
 
 however, to please you, sir, you shall have it, in as plain 
 terms as the law will admit of. 
 
 Chfib. But I would have it, sir, without delay. 
 
 Brain. That, sir, the law will not admit of. The 
 Courts are sitting at Westminster, and I am this moment 
 obliged to be at every one of them, and 'twould be wrong 
 if I should not be in the hall to attend one of 'em at 
 least ; the rest would take it ill else. Therefore, I must 
 leave what I have said to Mr. Serjeant's consideration, 
 and I will digest his arguments on my part, and you 
 shall hear from me again, sir. \Exit Bramble. 
 
 Tar. Agreed, agreed. 
 
 Cimh. Mr. Bramble is very quick ; he parted a little 
 abruptly. 
 
 Tar. He could not bear my argument ; I pinched 
 him to the quick about that Or gr ber. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. I saw that, for he durst not so much as 
 hear you. I shall send to you, Mr. Serjeant, as soon as 
 Sir Geofiry comes to town, and then I hope all may be 
 adjusted. 
 
 Tar. I shall be at my chambers, at my usual hours. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Cimb. Madam, if you please, I'll now attend you to 
 the tea table, where I shall hear from your ladyship 
 reason and good sense, after all this law and gibberish. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. 'Tis a wonderful thing, sir, that men of pro- 
 fessions do not study to talk the substance of what they 
 have to say in the language of the rest of the world. 
 Sure, they'd find their account in it. 
 
 Ci/iil>. They might, perhaps, madam, with people of 
 your good sense ; but with the generality 'twould never 
 do. The vulgar would have no respect for truth and 
 knowledge, if they were exposed to naked view. 
 Truth is too simple, of all art bereaved : 
 Since the world will —why let it be deceived. 
 
 \_Ea(:iiiiI.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I.— Bevil, Jun.'s Lodgings.-^ 
 
 Bevil, Jun., with a Idler in Jiis hatid, followed by Tom. 
 
 OM. Upon my life, sir, I know nothing 
 of the matter. I never opened my 
 hps to Mr. Myrtle about anything of 
 your honour's letter to Madam Lucinda. 
 Bri'. What's the fool in such a fright 
 for? I don't suppose you did. (What 
 I would know is, whether Mr. Myrtle 
 shows any suspicion, or asked you any questions, to lead 
 you to say casually that you had carried any such letter 
 for me this morning. 
 
 Tom. Why, sir, if he did ask me any questions, how 
 could I help it? 
 
 Bev. I don't say you could, oaf! I am not question- 
 ing you, but him. What did he say to you ? 
 
 Tom. Why, sir, when I came to his chambers, to be 
 dretsed for the lawyer's part your honour was pleased to 
 put me upon, he asked me if I had been at Mr. Sea- 
 land's this morning? So I told him, sir, I often went 
 thither — because, sir, if I had not said that he might 
 have thought there was something more in my going now 
 than at another time. 
 
 Bev. Very well ! — The fellow's caution, 1 find, has 
 given him this jealousy. [Aside.] — Did he ask you no 
 other questions ? 
 
 ' This scene is, of course, entirely original.
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 329 
 
 Tom. Yes, sir ; now I remember, as we came away in 
 the hackney coach from Mr. Sealand's, Tom, says he, as 
 I came in to your master this morning, he bade you go for 
 an answer to a letter he had sent. Pray did you bring 
 him any? says he. Ah! says I, sir, your honour is 
 pleased to joke with me ; you have a mind to know 
 whether I can keep a secret or no ? 
 
 Bev. And so, by showing him you coukl, you told him 
 you had one ? 
 
 Tom. Sir \C 011 fused. 
 
 Bev. What mean actions does jealousy make a man 
 stoop to ! How poorly has he used art with a servant to 
 make him betray his master ! — Well ! and Vvhen did he 
 give you this letter for me ? 
 
 Tom. Sir, he writ it before he pulled off his lawyer's 
 gown, at his own cliambers. 
 
 Bev. Very well ; and what did he say when you 
 brought him my answer to it ? 
 
 Tom. He looked a little out of humour, sir, and said 
 it was very well. 
 
 Bev. I knew he would be grave upon't ; wait without. 
 
 Tom. Hum! 'gad, I don't like this; I am afraid we 
 are all in the wrong box here. \Exit Tom. 
 
 Bev. I put on a serenity while my fellow was present ; 
 but I have never been more thoroughly disturbed. This 
 hot man ! to write me a challenge, on supposed artificial 
 dealing, when I professed myself his friend ! I can live 
 contented without glory; but I cannot sutler sliame. 
 What's to be done ? But lirbt let me consider Lucinda's 
 letter again. [^Reads. 
 
 "Sir. 
 
 " I hope it is consistent witii the laws a woman 
 ought to impose upon herself, to acknowledge that your 
 manner of declining a treaty ot marriage in our family, 
 and desiring the refusal may come from me, has some-
 
 330 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act iv. 
 
 thing more engaging in it than the courtship of him who, 
 I fear, will fall to my lot, except your friend exerts him- 
 self for our common safety and happiness. I have 
 reasons for desiring Mr. Myrtle may not know of this 
 letter till hereafter, and am your most obliged humble 
 servant, 
 
 " LUCINDA SeALAND." 
 
 Well, but the postscript — \Rcads. 
 
 "I won't, upon second thoughts, hide anything from 
 you. But my reason for concealing this is, that Mr. 
 Myrtle has a jealousy in his temper which gives me some 
 terrors ; but my esteem for him inclines me to hope that 
 only an ill effect which sometimes accompanies a tender 
 love, and what may be cured by a careful and unblam- 
 able conduct." 
 
 Thus has this lady made me her friend and confident, 
 and put herself, in a kind, under my protection. I can- 
 not tell him immediately the purport of her letter, except 
 I could cure him of the violent and untractable passion 
 of jealousy, and so serve him, and her, by disobeying her, 
 in the article of secrecy, more than I should by comply- 
 ing with her directions. — But then this duelling, which 
 custom has imposed upon every man who would live with 
 reputation and honour in the world — how must I pre- 
 serve myself from imputations there? He'll, forsooth, 
 call it or think it fear, if I explain without fighting. — But 
 his letter — I'll read it again — 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 " You have used me basely in corresponding and 
 carrying on a treaty where you told me you were 
 indifterent. I have changed my sword since I saw you ; 
 which advertisement I thought proper to send you against 
 the next meeting between you and the injured 
 
 " Charles Myrtle."
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 331 
 
 Enter Tom. 
 
 Torn. Mr. Myrtle, sir. Would your honour please to 
 see him ? 
 
 Bev. Why, you stupid creature ! Let Mr. Myrtle wait 
 at my lodgings ! Show him up. \Exit Tom.] Well ! 
 I am resolved upon my carriage to him. He is in love, 
 and in every circumstance of life a little distrustful, which 
 I must allow for — but here he is. 
 
 Enter Tom, introducing Myrtle. 
 
 Sir, I am extremely obliged to you for this honour. 
 ■ — \To Tom.] But, sir, you, with your very discerning face, 
 leave the room. \_Exit Tom.] — Well, Mr. Myrtle, your 
 commands with me ? 
 
 Myrt. The time, the place, our long acquaintance, 
 and many other circumstances which atTect me on this 
 occasion, oblige me, without farther ceremony or confer- 
 ence, to desire you would not only, as you already have, 
 acknowledge the receipt of my letter, but also comply 
 with the request in it. I must have farther notice taken 
 of my message than these half lines — " I have yours," 
 "I shall be at home." 
 
 Bcv. Sir, I own I have received a letter from you in 
 a very unusual style ; but as I design everything in this 
 matter shall be your own action, your own seeking, I 
 shall understand nothing but what you are pleased to 
 confirm face to face, and I have already forgot the 
 contents of your epistle. 
 
 Myrt. This cool manner is very agreeable to the abuse 
 you have already made of my simplicity and frankness ; 
 and I see your moderation tends to your own advantage 
 and not mine — to your own safety, not consideration of 
 your friend. 
 
 Bev. My own safety, Mr. Myrllc? 
 
 Alyrt. Your own safety, Mr. ]]cvil. 
 
 Bev. Look you, Mr. Myrtle, there's no disguising that
 
 332 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act iv. 
 
 I understand what you would be at ; but, sir, you know 
 I have often dared to disapprove of the decisions a 
 tyrant custom has introduced, to the breach of all laws, 
 both divine and human. 
 
 Myrt. Mr. Eevil, INTr. Bevil, it would be a good first 
 principle, in those who have so tender a conscience tliat 
 way, to have as much abhorrence of doing injuries, 
 
 as 
 
 BiV. As what ? 
 
 Myrt. As fear of answering for 'em. 
 Bcv. As fear of answering for 'em ! But that appre- 
 hension is just or blameable according to the object of 
 that fear. 1 have often told you, in confidence of heart, 
 I abhorred the daring to offend the Author of life, and 
 rushing into his presence — I say, by the very same act, 
 to commit the crime against Him, and immediately to 
 urge on to His tribunal. 
 
 Myrt. Mr. Bevil, I must tell you, this coolness, this 
 gravity, this show of conscience, shall never cheat me of 
 my mistress. You have, indeed, the best excuse for 
 life, the hopes of possessing Lucinda. But consider, sir, 
 I have as much reason to be weary of it, if I am to lose 
 her ; and my first attempt to recover her shall be to let 
 her see the dauntless man who is to be her guardian and 
 protector. 
 
 Bev. Sir, show me but the least glimpse of argument, 
 that I am authorised, by my own haml, to vindicate any 
 lawless insult of this nature, and I will show thee — to 
 chastise thee hardly deserves the name of courage — 
 slight, inconsiderate man ! — There is, Mr. Myrtle, no 
 such terror in quick anger ; and you shall, you know not 
 why, be cool, as you have, you know not why, been 
 warm . 
 
 Myrt. Is the woman one loves so little an occasion of 
 anger? You perhaps, who know not what it is to love, 
 who have your ready, your commodious, your foreign
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 333 
 
 trinket, for your loose hours ; and from your fortune, 
 your specious outward carriage, and other hicky circum- 
 stances, as easy a way to the possession of a woman of 
 honour; you know nothing of what it is to be alarmed, 
 to be distracted with anxiety and terror of losing more 
 than life. Your marriage, happy man, goes on like 
 common business, and in the interim you have your 
 rambling captive, your Indian princess, for your soft 
 moments of dalliance, your convenient, your ready 
 Indiana, 
 
 Bev. You have touched me beyond the patience of a 
 man ; and I'm excusable, in the guard of innocence (or 
 from the infirmity of human nature, which can bear no 
 more), to accept your invitation, and observe your letter 
 — Sir, I'll attend you. 
 
 Enter Tom. 
 
 Tom. Did you call, sir? I thought you did ; I heard 
 you speak aloud. 
 
 BcT'. Yes ; go call a coach. 
 
 Tom. Sir — master — Mr, Myrtle — friends — gentlemen 
 - — what d'ye mean ? I am but a servant, or ■ 
 
 Bev. Call a coach. \Exit Tom.] — \A long pause, 
 walking sullenly by each otJicr.'\ — \Asi(lc\ Shall I (though 
 provoked to the uttermost) recover myself at the en- 
 trance of a third person, and that my servant too, and 
 not have respect enough to all I have ever been receiv- 
 ing from infancy, the obligation to the best of fathers, to 
 an unhappy virgin too, whose life depends on mine? 
 \Shnlting the door.] — [To Myrtle.] I have, thank 
 Heaven, had time to recollect myself, and shall not, for 
 fear of what such a rash man as you think of me, keep 
 longer unexplained the false appearances under which 
 your infirmity of temper makes you suffer ; when per- 
 haps too much regard to a false point of honour makes 
 me prolong that suffering.
 
 334 THE COiYSCIOUS LOVERS. [act IV. 
 
 Myri. I am sure Mr. Bevil cannot doubt but I had 
 rather have satisfaction from his innocence than his 
 sword. 
 
 Ihv. Why, then, would you ask it first that way ? , 
 
 Myrt. Consider, you kept your temper yourself no 
 longer than till I spoke to the disadvantage of her you 
 loved. 
 
 £e7\ True ; but let me tell you, I have saved you 
 from the most exquisite distress, even though you had 
 succeeded in the dispute. I know you so well, that I 
 am sure to have found this letter about a man you had 
 killed would have been worse than death to yourself — • 
 Read it. — [^Aside.'\ When he is thoroughly mortified, and 
 shame has got the better of jealousy, when he has seen 
 himself throughly, he will deserve to be assisted towards 
 obtaining Lucinda. 
 
 Myrt. With what a superiority has he turned the 
 injury on me, as the aggressor ? I begin to fear I have 
 been too far transported — A treaty in our family ! is not 
 that saying too much ? I shall relapse. — But I find (on 
 the postscript) something like jealousy. With what face 
 can I see my benefactor, my advocate, whom I have 
 treated like a betrayer? \^Aside.'\ — Oh ! Bevil, with what 
 words shall I 
 
 Bri\ There needs none ; to convince is much more 
 than to conquer. 
 
 Myrt. But can you 
 
 Bez'. You have o'erpaid the inquietude you gave me, 
 in the change I see in you towards me. Alas ! what 
 machines are we ! thy face is altered to that of another 
 man ; to that of my companion, my friend. 
 
 Myrt. That I could be such a precipitant wretch ! 
 
 Bai. Pi ay, no more. 
 
 Myrt. Let me reflect how many friends have died, by 
 the hands of friends, for want of temper; and you must 
 give me leave to say again, and again, how much I am
 
 SCENE 11.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 335 
 
 beholden to that superior spirit you have subdued me 
 with. What had become of one of us, or perhaps both, 
 had you been as weak as I was, and as incapable of 
 reason ? 
 
 Bcv. I congratulate to us both the escape from our- 
 selves, and hope the memory of it will make us dearer 
 friends than ever. 
 
 My ft. Dear Bevil, your friendly conduct has con- 
 vinced me that there is nothing manly but what is 
 conducted by reason, and agreeable to the practice of 
 virtue and justice. And yet how many have been sacri- 
 ficed to that idol, the unreasonable opinion of men ! 
 Nay, they are so ridiculous in it, that they often use 
 their swords against each other with dissembled anger 
 and real fear. 
 
 Betrayed by honour, and compelled by shame, 
 
 They hazard being, to preserve a name : 
 
 Nor dare inquire into the dread mistake, 
 
 Till plunged in sad eternity they wake. {^Exeimf. 
 
 SCENE 11.—^/. James's Park. 
 Enter Sir John Bevil and Mr. Sealand. 
 
 Sir J. JBa'. Give me leave, however, Mr. Sealand, as 
 we are upon a treaty for uniting our families, to mention 
 only the business of an ancient house. Genealogy and 
 descent are to be of some consideration in an affair ot 
 this sort. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Genealogy and descent ! Sir, there has 
 been in our family a very large one. There was Galfrid 
 the father of Edward, the father of Ptolomey, the father of 
 Crassus, the father of Earl Richard, the father of Henry 
 the Marquis, the father of Duke John.
 
 336 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act IV. 
 
 Sir J. B€v. What, do you rave, Mr. Sealand ? all these 
 great names \\\ your fimiily ? 
 
 Mr. Seal. These? yes, sir. I have heard my father 
 name 'em all, and more. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Ay, sir? and did he say they were all in 
 your family? 
 
 Mr. Seal. Yes, sir, he kept 'em all. He was the 
 greatest cocker " in England. He said Duke John won 
 him many battles, and never lost one. 
 
 Sir J. Ba\ Oh, sir, your servant ! you are laughing at 
 my laying any stress upon descent; but I must tell you, 
 sir, I never knew anyone but he that wanted that 
 advantage turn it into ridicule. 
 
 ATr. Seal. And I never knew any one who had many 
 better advantages put that into his account. — But, Sir 
 John, value yourself as you please upon your ancient 
 house, 1 am to talk freely of everything you are pleased 
 to put into your bill of rates on this occasion ; yet, sir, I 
 have made no objections to your son's family. 'Tis his 
 morals that I doubt. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Sir, I can't help saying, that what might 
 injure a citizen's credit may be no stain to a gentleman's 
 honour. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Sir John, the honour of a gentleman is 
 liable to be tainted by as small a matter as the credit of 
 a trader. We are talking of a marriage, and in such a 
 case, the father of a young woman will not think it an 
 addition to the honour or credit of her lover that he is a 
 keeper 
 
 Sir J. Btv. Mr. Sealand, don't take upon you to spoil 
 my son's marriage with any woman else. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Sir John, let him apply to any woman else, 
 and have as many mistresses as he pleases. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. My son, sir, is a discreet and sober gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 ^ Pal I on of cock-fightine.
 
 SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 337 
 
 Mr. Seal. Sir, I never saw a man that wenched soberly 
 and discreetly, that ever left it oft'; the decency observed 
 in the practice hides, even from the sinner, the iniquity 
 of it. They pursue it, not that their appetites hurry 'em 
 away, but, I warrant you, because 'tis their opinion they 
 may do it. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Were what you suspect a truth — do you 
 design to keep your daughter a virgin till you find a man 
 unblemished that way? 
 
 Mr. Seal. Sir, as much a cit as you take me for, I 
 know the town and the world ; and give me leave to 
 say, that we merchants are a species of gentry that have 
 grown into the world this last century, and are as 
 honourable, and almost as useful, as you landed folks, 
 that have always thought yourselves so much above 
 us; for your trading, forsooth, is extended no fiirther 
 than a load of hay or a fat ox. You are pleasant 
 I'eople, indeed, because you are generally bred uj) to 
 be lazy; therefore, I warrant you, industry is dishonour- 
 able. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Be not offended, sir; let us go back to 
 our point. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh ! not at all offended ; but I don't love 
 to leave any part of the account unclosed. Look you, 
 Sir John, comparisons are odious, and more particularly 
 so on occasions of this kind, when we are projecting 
 races that are to be made out of both sides of the 
 comparisons. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. But, my son, sir, is, in the eye of the 
 world, a gentleman of merit. 
 
 Mr. Seal. 1 own to you, I think him so. —But, Sir 
 John, I am a man exercised and experienced in chances 
 and disasters. 1 lost, in my earlier years, a very fine 
 wife, and with her a poor little infant. This makes me, 
 perhaps, over cautious to preserve the second bounty of 
 providence to me, and be as careful as I can of this 
 
 Steele. /
 
 338 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act iv. 
 
 child. You'll pardon me, my poor girl, sir, is as valu- 
 able to me as your boasted son to you. 
 
 Sir J.' Bci'. Why, that's one very good reason, Mr. 
 Sealand, why I wish my son had her. 
 
 Mr. Seal. There is nothing but this strange lady 
 here, this incognita., that can be objected to him. Here 
 and there a man falls in love with an artful creature, 
 and gives up all the motives of life to that one 
 passion. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. A man of my son's understanding cannot 
 be supposed to be one of them. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Very wise men have been so enslaved ; 
 and, when a man marries with one of them \ipon his 
 hands, whether moved from the demand of the world or 
 slighter reasons, such a husband soils with his wife for a 
 month perhaps — then good be w'ye, madam, the show's 
 over — Ah ! John Dryden points out such a husband to a 
 hair, where he says, — 
 
 " And while abroad so prodigal the dolt is. 
 Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is." 
 
 Now, in plain terms, sir, I shall not care to have my 
 poor girl turned a-grazing, and that must be the case 
 when 
 
 Sir J. Bev. But pray consider, sir, my son 
 
 Mr. Seal. Look you, sir, I'll make the matter short. 
 This unknown lady, as I told you, is all the objection I 
 have to him;. but, one way or other, he is, or has been, 
 certainly engaged to her. I am therefore resolved, this 
 very afternoon, to visit her. Now from her behaviour, 
 or appearance, I sliall soon be let into what I may fear 
 or hope for. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Sir, I am very confident there can be 
 nothing inquired into relating to my son, that will not, 
 upon being understood, turn to his advantage. 
 
 Air. Seal. I hope that as sincerely as you believe it.
 
 SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 339 
 
 — Sir John Bevil, when I am satisfied, in this great 
 point, if your son's conduct answers the character you 
 give him, I shall wish your aUiance more than that of 
 any gentleman in Great Britain ; and so your servant. 
 
 {Exit. 
 Sir J. Bei'. He is gone in a way but barely civil ; but 
 his great wealth, and the merit of his only child, the 
 heiress of it, are not to be lost for a little peevishness. 
 
 Enter Humphry. 
 
 Oh ! Humphry, you are come in a seasonable minute. 
 I want to talk to thee, and to tell thee that my head and 
 heart are on the rack about my son. 
 
 Humph. Sir, you may trust his discretion ; I am sure 
 you may. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Why, I do believe I may, and yet I'm in 
 a thousand fears when I lay this vast wealth before me ; 
 when I consider his prepossessions, either generous to a 
 folly, in an honourable love, or abandoned, past redemp- 
 tion, in a vicious one; and, from the one or the other, 
 his insensibility to the fairest prospect towards doubling 
 our estate : a father, who knows how useful wealth is, 
 and how necessary, even to those who despise it — I say a 
 father, Humphry, a father cannot bear it. 
 
 Hump/i. Be not transported, sir; you will grow in- 
 capable of taking any resolution in your perplexity. 
 
 Sir /. Boj. Yet, as angry as I am with him, I would 
 not have him surprised in anything. This mercantile 
 rough man may go grossly into the examination of this 
 matter, and talk to the gentlewoman so as to— — 
 
 Humph. No, I hope, not in an abrupt manner. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. No, I hope not ! Why, dost thou know 
 anything of her, or of him, or of anything of it, or all 
 of it? 
 
 Humph. My dear master, I know so much that I told
 
 340 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act iv, 
 
 him this very day you had reason to be secretly out of 
 humour about her. 
 
 Sir J. Bai. Did you go so far? Well, what said he 
 to that ? 
 
 Humph. His words were, looking upon me stead- 
 fastly : " Humphry," says he, "that woman is a woman of 
 honour." 
 
 Sir J. Bev. How ! Do you think he is married to 
 her. or designs to marry her ? 
 
 Humph. I can say nothing to the latter ; but he says 
 he can marry no one without your consent while you are 
 living. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. If he said so much, I know he scorns to 
 break his word with me. 
 
 Humph. I am sure of that. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. You are sure of that — well ! that's some 
 comfort. Then I have nothing to do but to see the 
 bottom of this matter during this present ruffle — Oh, 
 Humphry 
 
 Humph. You are not ill, 1 hope, sir. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Yes, a man is very ill that's in a very ill- 
 humour. To be a father is to be in care for one whom 
 you oftener disoblige than please by that very care — Oh ! 
 that sons could know the duty to a father before they 
 themselves are fathers — But, perhaps, you'll say now that 
 I am one of the happiest fathers in the world; but, I 
 assure you, that of the very happiest is not a condition 
 to be envied. . 
 
 Humph. Sir, your pain arises, not from the thing 
 itself, but your particular sense of it. You are over- 
 fond, nay, give me leave to say, you are unjustly appre- 
 hensive from your fondness. My master Bevil never 
 disobliged you, and he will, I know he will, do everything 
 you ought to expect. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. He won't take all this money with this 
 girl — For ought I know, he will, forsooth, have so much
 
 SCENE III.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 341 
 
 moderation as to think he ought not to force his liking 
 for any consideration. 
 
 HumpJu He is to marry her, not you ; he is to Hve 
 with her, not you, sir. 
 
 Sir J. Bev, I know not what to think. But, I know, 
 nothing can be more miserable than to be in this doubt 
 — Follow me ; I must come to some resolution. 
 
 {^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— Bevil, Jun.'s Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Tom and Phillis. 
 
 Tom. Well, madam, if you must speak with Mr. 
 Myrtle, you shall ; he is now with my master in the 
 library. 
 
 Phil. But you must leave me alone with him, for he 
 can't make me a present, nor I so handsomely take 
 anything from him before you ; it would not be decent. 
 
 Tom. It will be very decent, indeed, for me to retire, 
 and leave my mistress with another man. 
 
 Phil. He is a gentleman, and will treat one properly. 
 
 Tom. I believe so ; but, however, I won't be far off, 
 and therefore will venture to trust you. I'll call him to 
 you. \Exit Tom. 
 
 Phil. What a deal of pother and sputter here is be- 
 tween my mistress and Mr. Myrtle from mere punctilio ! 
 I could, any hour of the day, get her to her lover, and 
 would do it — but she, forsooth, will allow no plot to get 
 him ; but, if he can come to her, I know she would be 
 glad of it. I must, therefore, do her an acceptable vio- 
 lence, and surprise her into his arms. I am sure I go 
 by the best rule imaginable. If slie were my maid, I 
 should think her the best servant in the world for doing 
 so by me.
 
 3^2 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act IV. 
 
 Enter Myrtle and Tom. 
 
 Oh sir ! Voii and Mr. Ikvil are fine gcntleinea to let 
 a lady remain under such difficulties as my poor mistress, 
 and no attempt to set her at liberty, or release her from 
 the danger of being instantly married to Cimberton. 
 
 Alyrt. Tom has been telling — • — But what is to be 
 done ? 
 
 PJiil. What is to be done — when a man can't come at 
 his mistress ! Why, can't you fire our house, or the next 
 house to us, to make us run out, and you take us? 
 
 Myrt. How, Mrs. Phillis ? 
 
 Phil. Ay ; let me see that rogue deny to fire a house, 
 make a riot, or any other little thing, when there were 
 no other way to come at me. 
 
 Tom. I am obliged to you, madam. 
 
 Phil. Why, don't we hear every day of people's hang- 
 ing themselves for love, and won't they venture the 
 hazard of being hanged for love ? Oh ! were I a 
 man 
 
 Myrt. What manly thing would you have me under- 
 take, according to your ladyship's notion of a man ? 
 
 Phil. Only be at once what, one time or other, you 
 may be, and wish to be, or must be. 
 
 Myrt. Dear girl, talk plainly to me, and consider I, 
 in my condition, can't be in very good humour — you 
 say, to be at once what I must be. 
 
 Phil. Ay, ayj I mean no more than to be an old 
 man ; I saw you do it very well at the masquerade. In 
 a word, old Sir Geoffry Cimberton is every hour ex- 
 pected in town, to join in the deeds and settlements 
 for marrying Mr. Cimberton. He is half bHnd, half 
 lame, half deaf, half dumb ; though, as to his passions 
 and desires, he is as warm and ridiculous as when in the 
 heat of youth. 
 
 Tom. Come to the business, and don't keep the
 
 SCENE III.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 343 
 
 gentleman in suspense for the pleasure of being courted, 
 as you serve me. 
 
 Phil. I saw you at the masquerade act such a one to 
 perfection. Go, and put on that very habit, and come 
 to our house as Sir Geoffry. There is not one there but 
 myself knows his person ; I was born in the parish where 
 he is Lord of the Manor. I have seen him often and 
 often at church in the country. Do not hesitate, but 
 come hither ; they will think you bring a certain security 
 against Mr. Myrtle, and you bring ]\Ir. Myrtle. 
 Leave the rest to me ; I leave this with you, and expect 
 — They don't, I told you, know you ; they think you out 
 of town, which you had as good be for ever, if you lose 
 this opportunity — I must be gone; 1 know I am wanted 
 at home. 
 
 Myrt. My dear Phillis ! \^Catches and kisses her, and 
 
 gives her money, 
 
 Phil. O fie ! my kisses are not my own ; you have 
 committed violence ; but I'll carry 'em to the right 
 owner. [Tom kisses her.] — Come, see me downstairs \_To 
 Tom.], and leave the lover to think of his last game for 
 the prize. {^Exeunt Tom and Phillis. 
 
 Myri. I think I will instantly attempt this wild expe- 
 dient. The extravagance of it will make me less sus- 
 pected, and it will give me opportunity to assert my own 
 right to Lucinda, without whom I cannot live. But I am 
 so mortified at this conduct of mine towards poor Bevil. 
 He must think meanly of me — I know not how to re- 
 assume myself, and be in spirit enough for such an 
 adventure as this ; yet I must attempt it, if it be only to 
 be near Lucinda under her present perplexities ; and 
 
 sure 
 
 The next delight to transport, with the fixir, 
 
 Is to relieve her in her hours of care. [Exit.
 
 
 ^. 
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I.— Sealand's House. 
 
 Enter Phillis, zaith ligJits, before Myrtle, disguised like 
 old Sir Geoffry; supported by Mrs. Sealand, 
 
 LUCINDA, rt^/^ClMlJERTON. 
 
 -^y^^ -DC- SEAL. Now I have seen you 
 
 thus far, Sir Geoftry, will you excuse 
 me a moment while I give my 
 necessary orders for your accommo- 
 dation ? V^-^'^ Mrs, Seal. 
 Myrt. I have not seen you, 
 cousin Ciniberton, since you were 
 ten years old ; and as it is incumbent on you to keep 
 up our name and family, I shall, upon very reasonable 
 terms, join with you in a settlement to that purpose. 
 Though I must tell you, cousin, this is the first mer- 
 chant that has married into our house. 
 
 Luc. Deuce on 'em ! am I a merchant because my 
 father is ? {Aside. 
 
 Myrt. But is he directly a trader at this time ? 
 Cimb. There's no hiding the disgrace, sir ; he trades 
 to all parts of the world. 
 
 Myrt. We never had one of our family before who 
 descended from persons that did anything. 
 
 Cimb. Sir, since it is a girl that they have, I am, for
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 345 
 
 tlie honour of my family, willing to take it in again, and 
 to sink her into our name, and no harm done. 
 
 Myrt. 'Tis prudently and generously resolved — Is 
 this the young thing ? 
 
 Cimb. Yes, sir. 
 
 Phil. Good madam, don't be out of humour, but let 
 them run to the utmost of their extravagance. — Hear 
 them out. \To Luc. 
 
 Myrt. Can't I see her nearer? My eyes are but weak. 
 
 Phil. Beside, I am sure the uncle has something 
 worth your notice. I'll take care to get off the young 
 one, and leave you to observe what may be wrought out 
 of the old one for your good. \^To Luc. Exit. 
 
 Cimb. Madam, this old gentleman, your great uncle, 
 desires to be introduced to you, and to sec you nearer ! 
 — Approach, sir. 
 
 Myrt. By your leave, young lady. \^Piits on spec- 
 tacles^ — Cousin Cimberton ! She has exactly that 
 sort of neck and bosom for which my sister Gertrude 
 was so much admired in the year sixty-one, before the 
 French dresses first discovered anything in women below 
 the chin. 
 
 Liic. \Asidc?^ What a very odd situation am I in i 
 though I cannot but be diverted at the extravagance of 
 their humours, equally unsuitable to their age — Chin, 
 quotha — I don't believe my passionate lover there knows 
 whether I have one or not. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Myrt. Madam, I would not willingly offend, but I 
 have a better glass. \PitUs out a large one. 
 
 Pntcr Phillis. 
 
 Phil. \^To CiMHERTON.] Sir, my lady desires to show 
 the apartment to you that she intends for Sir Geoffry. 
 
 Cimb. Well, sir ! by that time you will have sufficiently 
 gazed and sunned yourself in the beauties of my spouse 
 there. — I will wait on you again, [/i.v// Cimh. and Phil.
 
 3 \ 6 TH?: CONS era us l o vers. [act v. 
 
 Myrt. Were it not, madam, that I might be trouble- 
 some, there is something of importance, though we are 
 alone, which I would say more safe from being heard. 
 
 Luc. There is something in this old fellow, methinks, 
 that raises my curiosity. \Aside. 
 
 Myrt. To be free, madam, I as heartily contemn this 
 kinsman of mine as you do, and am sorry to see so much 
 beauty and merit devoted by your parents to so insen- 
 sible a possessor. 
 
 Luc. Surprising ! — I hope, then, sir, you will not con- 
 tribute to the wrong you are so generous as to pity, 
 whatever may be the interest of your family. 
 
 Afyrt. This hand of mine shall never be employed to 
 sign anything against your good and happiness. 
 
 Luc. I am sorry, sir, it is not in my power to make 
 you proper acknowledgments ; but there is a gentleman 
 in the world whose gratitude will, I am sure, be worthy 
 of the favour. 
 
 Myrt. All the thanks I desire, madam, are in your 
 power to give. 
 
 Luc. Name them and command them. 
 
 Myrt. Only, madam, that the first time you are alone 
 with your lover, you will, with open arms, receive him. 
 
 Luc. As willingly as his heart could wish it. 
 
 Myrt. Thus, then, he claims your promise. O 
 Lucinda ! 
 
 Luc. Oh ! a cheat ! a cheat ! a cheat ! 
 
 Myrt. Hush ! 'tis J, 'tis T, your lover, ISIyrtle himself, 
 madam. 
 
 Luc. O bless me ! what a rashness and folly to sur- 
 prise me so — But hush — my mother. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Sealand, Cimberton, and Phillis. 
 
 Mrs. Scat. How now ! what's the matter? 
 
 Luc, O madam ! as soon as you left the room my
 
 SCENE I.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 347 
 
 uncle fell into a sudden fit, and — and — so I cried out 
 for help to support him and conduct him to his chamber. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. That was kindly done ! Alas ! sir, how 
 do you find yourself? 
 
 Myrt. Never was taken in so odd a way in my life — 
 l)ray lead me ! Oh ! I was talking here — (pray carry me) 
 — to my cousin Cimberton's young lady. 
 
 Airs. Seal. [Aside.] My cousin Cimberton's young 
 lady ! How zealous he is, even in his extremity, for the 
 match ! A right Cimberton. 
 
 [Ci.MCERTON a fid LuciNDA kad Am, as one mpain. 
 
 Ciinb. Pox ! Uncle, you will pull my ear off. 
 
 Luc. Pray, uncle ! you will squeeze me to death. 
 
 Afrs. Seal. No matter, no matter — he knows not wliat 
 he does. — Come, sir, shall I help you out ? 
 
 Myrt. By no means ! I'll trouble nobody but my 
 young cousins here. \They lead him off. 
 
 Phil. But pray, madam, does your ladyship intend 
 that Mr. Cimberton shall really marry my young mistress 
 at last? I don't think he likes her. 
 
 Airs. Seal. That's not material ! Men of his specula- 
 tion are above desires — but be as it may. Now I have 
 given old Sir Geofifry the trouble of coming up to sign 
 and seal, with what countenance can I be off? 
 
 Pliil. As well as with twenty others, madam. It is 
 the glory and honour of a great fortune to live in con- 
 tinual treaties, and still to break off: it looks great, 
 madam. 
 
 Airs. Seal. True, Phillis — yet to return our blood 
 again into the Cimbertons is an honour not to be re- 
 jected — But were not you saying that Sir John Bevil's 
 creature, Humphry, has been with Mr. Scaland ? 
 
 Phil. Yes, madam ; I overheard them agree that Mr. 
 Sealand should go himself and visit this unknown lady 
 that Mr. Bevil is so great with ; and if he found nothing
 
 348 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act V 
 
 there to fright him, tliat Mr. I'evil should still many my 
 young mistress. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. How ! nay, then, he shall find she is my 
 daughter as well as his. I'll follow him this instant, and 
 take the whole family along with me. The disputed 
 power of disposing of my own daughter shall be at an 
 end this very night. I'll live no longer in anxiety for a 
 little hussy that hurts my appearance wherever I carry 
 her : and for whose sake I seem to be at all regarded, 
 and that in the best of my days. 
 
 Phil. Indeed, madam, if she were married, your lady- 
 ship might very well be taken for Mr. Sealand's daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Nay, when the chit has not been with me, 
 I have heard the men say as much. I'll no longer cut 
 oft" the greatest pleasure of a woman's life (the shining in 
 assemblies) by her forward anticipation of the respect 
 that's due to her superior. She shall down to Cimberton- 
 Hall — she shall— she shall. 
 
 Phil. I hope, madam, I shall stay with your ladyship. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Thou shalt, Phillis, and I'll place thee then 
 more about me — But order chairs immediately ; I'll be 
 gone this minute. \_Exeiint. 
 
 
 SCENE U.—Charhig- Cross. 
 Enter Mr. Sealand and Humphry. 
 
 Mr. Seal. I am very glad, Mr. Humphry, that you 
 agree with me that it is for our common good I should 
 look thoroughly into this matter. 
 
 Humph. I am, indeed, of that opinion ; for there is no 
 artifice,nothing concealed, in our family, which ought in 
 justice to be known. I need not desire you, sir, to treat 
 the lady with care and respect.
 
 SCENE II.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 349 
 
 Mr. Seal. Master Humphry, I shall not be rude, 
 though I design to be a little abrupt, and come into the 
 matter at once, to see how she will bear upon a sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Humph. That's the door, sir \ I wish you success. — 
 [ While Humphry speaks, Sealand consults his table 
 book.\ — I am less concerned what happens there, because 
 I hear Mr. Myrtle is well lodged as old Sir Geoffry : so 
 I am willing to let this gentleman employ himself here, 
 to give them time at home ; for I am sure 'tis necessary 
 for the quiet of our family Lucinda were disposed of out 
 of it, since Mr. Bevil's inclination is so much otherwise 
 engaged. [^Exif. 
 
 Mr. Seal. I think this is the door. [^Knocks.'] I'll carry 
 this matter with an air of authority, to inquire, though I 
 make an errand, to begin discourse. \^Knocks again, and 
 enter a foot-boy. '\ So young man ! is your lady within ? 
 
 Boy. Alack, sir! I am but a country boy — I dant 
 know whether she is or noa ; but an you'll stay a bit, I'll 
 goa and ask the gentlewoman that's with her. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Why, sirrah, though you are a country boy, 
 you can see, can't you ? You know whether she is at 
 home, when you see her, don't you ? 
 
 Boy. Nay, nay, I'm not such a country lad neither, 
 master, to think she's at home because I see her. I 
 have been in town but a month, and I lost one place 
 already for believing my own eyes. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Why, sirrah ! have you learnt to lie already } 
 
 Boy. Ah, master ! things that are lies in the country 
 are not lies at London. I begin to know my business a 
 little better than so — But an you please to walk in, I'll 
 call a gentlewoman to you that can tell you for certain — 
 she can make bold to ask my lady herself. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh ! then, she is within, 1 finti, though you 
 dare not say so. 
 
 Boy. Nay, nay ! that's neither here nor there : what's
 
 350 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act v. 
 
 matter whether she is within or no, if she has not a mind 
 to see anybody ? 
 
 Mr. Seal. I can't tell, sirrah, whether you are arch or 
 simple ; but, however, get me a direct answer, and here's 
 a shilling for you. 
 
 Boy. Will you please to walk in ; I'll see what I can 
 do for you. 
 
 Mr. Seal. I see you will be fit for your business m 
 timC; child ; but I expect to meet with nothing but 
 extraordinaries in such a house. 
 
 Boy. Such a house ! Sir, you han't seen it yet. Pray 
 walk in. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Sir, I'll wait upon you. \_Exeutit. 
 
 SCENE III. — Indiana's House, 
 E?iter Isabella. 
 
 Isab. What anxiety do I feel for this poor creature ! 
 What will be the end of her ? Such a languishing unre- 
 served passion for a man that at last must certainly leave 
 or ruin her ! and perhaps both I Then .the aggravation 
 of the distress is, that she does not believe he will — not 
 but, I must own, if they are both what they would seem, 
 they are made for one another, as much as Adam and 
 Eve were, for there is no other of their kind but them- 
 selves. 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 So, Daniel ! what news with you ? 
 
 Boy. Madam, there's a gentleman below would speak 
 with my lady. 
 
 Isab. Sirrah ! don't you know Mr. Bevil yet? 
 
 Boy. Madam, 'tis not the gentleman who comes every 
 day, and asks for you, and won't go in till he knows 
 whether you are v/ith her or no.
 
 SCENE III.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 351 
 
 Isah. Ha ! that's a particular I did not know before, 
 "Well ! be it who it will, let him come up to me. 
 
 \Exit Boy ; and rc-cntcrs with ]\Ir. Sealand ; 
 Isabella looks amazed. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Madam, I can't blame your being a little 
 surprised to see a perfect stranger make a visit, and 
 
 Isab. I am indeed surprised ! — I see he does not 
 know me. \Aside. 
 
 Mr. Seal. You are very prettily lodged here, madam ; 
 in troth you seem to have everything in plenty — A thou- 
 sand a year, I Avarrant you, upon this pretty nest of 
 rooms, and the dainty one within them. 
 
 \Aside, and looking about. 
 
 Isab. \Aparti\ Twenty years, it seems, have less effect 
 in the alteration of a man of thirty than of a girl of four- 
 teen — he's almost still the same ; but alas ! I find, by 
 other men, as well as himself, I am not what I was. As 
 soon as he spoke, I was convinced 'twas he ; how shall 
 I contain my surprise and satisfaction ! He must not 
 know me yet. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Madam, I hope I don't give you any dis- 
 turbance ; but there is a young lady here with whom I 
 have a particular business to discourse, and I hope she 
 will admit me to that favour. 
 
 Isab. Why, sir, have you had any notice concerning 
 her ? I wonder who could give it you. 
 
 Mr. Seal. That, madam, is fit only to be communi- 
 cated to herself. 
 
 Isab. Well, sir! you shall see her. — [Aside.^ I find he 
 knows nothing yet, nor shall from me. I am resolved I 
 will observe this interlude, this sport of nature and of 
 fortune. — You shall see her presently, sir ; for now I am 
 as a mother, and will trust her with you. [Exit. 
 
 Mr. Seal. As a mother ! right ; that's the old phrase 
 for one of those commode ladies, who lend out beauty 
 for hire to young gentlemen that have pressing occasions.
 
 352 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act v. 
 
 But here comes the precious lady herself. In troth a 
 very sightly woman 
 
 Enter Indiana. 
 
 Ind. I am told, sir, you have some affair that requires 
 your speaking with me. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Yes, madam, there came to my hands a bill 
 drawn by Mr. Bevil, which is payable to-morrow ; and 
 he, in the intercourse of business, sent it to me, who 
 have cash of his, and desired me to send a servant with 
 it ; but I have made bold to bring you the money 
 myself. 
 
 Itid. Sir ! was that necessary ? 
 
 Mr. Seal. No, madam ; but to be free with you, the 
 fame of your beauty, and the regard which Mr. Bevil is 
 a little too well known to have for you, excited my 
 curiosity. 
 
 Ind. Too well known to have for me ! Your sober 
 appearance, sir, which my friend described, made me 
 
 expect no rudeness, or absurdity, at least Who's 
 
 there ? — Sir, if you pay the money to a servant, 'twill be 
 as well. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Pray, madam, be not oliended ; I came 
 hither on an innocent, nay, a virtuous design ; and, if 
 you will have patience to hear me, it may be as useful 
 to you, as you are in a friendship with Mr. Bevil, as to 
 my only daughter, whom I was this day disposing of. 
 
 Ind. You make me hope, sir, I have mistaken you. I 
 am composed again ; be free, say on — \Aside^^ — what I 
 am afraid to hear. 
 
 Mr. Seal. I feared, indeed, an unwarranted passion 
 here, but I did not think it was in abuse of so worthy an 
 object, so accomplished a lady as your sense and mien 
 bespeak ; but the youth of our age care not what merit 
 and virtue they bring to shame, so they gratify 
 
 Ind. Sir, you are going into very great errors; but as
 
 SCENE III.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 353 
 
 you are pleased to say you see something in me that has 
 changed at least the colour of your suspicions, so has your 
 appearance altered mine, and made me earnestly atten- 
 tive to what has any way concerned you to inquire into 
 my affairs and character. 
 
 Mr. Seal. How sensibly, with what an air she talks ! 
 
 hid. Good sir, be seated, and tell me tenderly ; keep 
 all your suspicions concerning me alive, that you may in 
 a proper and prepared way acquaint me why the care of 
 your daughter obliges a person of your seeming worth 
 and fortune to be thus inquisitive about a wretched, help- 
 less, friendless [ Wecping?\ But I beg your pardon ; 
 
 though I am an orphan, your child is not ; and your con- 
 cern for her, it seems, has brought you hither. — I'll be 
 composed ; pray go on, sir. 
 
 Mr. Seal. How could Mr. Bevil be such a monster, to 
 injure such a woman ? 
 
 Ind. No, sir, you wrong him ; he has not injured me. 
 My support is from his bounty. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Bounty ! when gluttons give high prices for 
 delicates, they are prodigious bountiful. 
 
 Ind. Still, still you will persist in that error. But my 
 own fears tell me all. You are the gentleman, I suppose, 
 for whose happy daughter he is designed a husband by 
 his good father, and he has, perhaps, consented to the 
 overture. He was here this morning, dressed beyond 
 his usual plainness — nay, most sumptuously — and he is 
 to be, perhaps, this night a bridegroom. 
 
 Mr. Seal. I own he was intended such; but, madam, 
 on your account, I have determined to defer my 
 daughter's marriage till I am satisfied from your own 
 mouth of what nature are the obligations you are under to 
 him. 
 
 Ind. His actions, sir; his eyes have only made me 
 think he designed to make me the partner of his heart. 
 The goodness and gentleness of his demeanour made me 
 
 Steele. A A
 
 354 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act v. 
 
 misinterpret all. 'Twas my own hope, my own passion, 
 that deluded me ; he never made one amorous advance 
 to me. His large heart, and bestowing hand, have only 
 helped the miserable ; nor know I why, but from his 
 mere delight in virtue, that I have been his care and 
 the object on which to indulge and please himself with 
 pouring favours. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Madam, I know not why it is, but I, as well 
 as you, am methinks afraid of entering into the matter I 
 came about ; but 'tis the same thing as if we had talked 
 
 never so distinctly he ne'er shall have a daughter of 
 
 mine. 
 
 Ind. If you say this from what you think of me, you 
 wrong yourself and him. Let not me, miserable though 
 I may be, do injury to my benefactor. No, sir, my treat- 
 ment ought rather to reconcile you to his virtues. If to 
 bestow without a prospect of return ; if to delight in sup- 
 porting what might, perhaps, be thought an object of 
 desire, with no otlier view than to be her guard against 
 those who would not be so disinterested ; if these actions, 
 sir, can in a careful parent's eye commend him to a 
 daughter, give yours, sir, give her to my honest, generous 
 Bevil. What have I to do but sigh, and weep, and rave, 
 run wild, a lunatic in chains, or, hid in darkness, mutter 
 in distracted starts and broken accents my strange, 
 strange story ! 
 
 Mr. Seal. Take comfort, madam. 
 
 lud. All my comfort must be to expostulate in mad- 
 ness, to relieve with frenzy my despair, and shrieking to 
 demand of fate why — why was I born to such variety of 
 sorrows. 
 
 Mr. Seal. If I have been the least occasion 
 
 Ind. No, 'twas Heaven's high will I should be such ; to 
 be plundered in my cradle ! tossed on the seas ! and even 
 there an infant captive ! to lose my mother, hear but of
 
 SCENE III.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 355 
 
 my father ! to be adopted ! lose my adopter ! then 
 plunged again into worse calamities ! 
 
 Mr. Seal. An infant captive ! 
 
 Lui. Yet then, to find the most charming of man- 
 kind, once more to set me free from what I thought 
 the last distress, to load me with his services, his bounties, 
 and his favours ; to support my very life in a way that 
 stole, at the same time, my very soul itself from me. 
 
 Mr. Seal. And has young Bevil been this worthy 
 man? 
 
 Itid. Yet then, again, this very man to take another ! 
 without leaving me the right, the pretence of easing my 
 fond heart with tears ! For, oh ! I can't reproach him, 
 though the same hand that raised me to this height now 
 throws me down the precipice. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Dear lady ! Oh, yet one moment's patience : 
 my heart grows full with your affliction. — But yet there's 
 something in your story that 
 
 l7id. My portion here is bitterness and sorrow. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Do not think so. Pray answer me: does 
 Bevil know your name and family ? 
 
 Ind. Alas ! too well ! Oh, could I be any other thing 
 
 than what I am I'll tear away all traces of my former 
 
 self, my little ornaments, the remains of my first state, 
 the hints of what I ought to have been 
 
 \_In her disorder she throws away a bracelet, which 
 Sealand takes up, and looks earnestly on it. 
 
 Mr. Seal Ha! what's this? My eyes are not de- 
 ceived ! It is, it is the same ! the very bracelet which I 
 bequeathed to my wife at our last mournful parting. 
 
 Ind. What said you, sir ? Your wife ? Whither does 
 my fancy carry me ? What means this unfelt motion at 
 my heart ? And yet, again my fortune but deludes me > 
 for if I err not, sir, your name is Sealand ; but my lost 
 fii.ther's name was— —
 
 356 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act v. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Danvers ; was it not ? 
 
 Ind. What new amazement ? That is, indeed, my 
 family. 
 
 Air. Seal. Know, then, when my misfortunes drove me 
 to the Indies, for reasons too tedious now to mention, I 
 changed my name of Danvers into Sealand. 
 
 Enter Isabella. 
 
 Isah. If yet there wants an explanation of your wonder, 
 examine well this face (yours, sir, I well remember), 
 gaze on and read in me your sister, Isabella. 
 
 Mr. Seal. My sister ! 
 
 Isab. But here's a claim more tender yet your 
 
 Indiana, sir, your long-lost daughter. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh, my child ! my child ! 
 
 Ind. All gracious Heaven ! is it possible ! do I embrace 
 my father ? 
 
 Mr. Seal. And I do hold thee. — These passions are too 
 strong for utterance. Rise, rise, my child, and give my 
 tears their way. — Oh, my sister ! [^Embracing Jur. 
 
 Isab. Now, dearest niece, my groundless fears, my 
 painful cares no more shall vex thee. If I have wronged 
 thy noble lover with too much suspicion, my just concern 
 for thee, I hope, will plead my pardon. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh ! make him, then, the full amends, and 
 be yourself the messenger of joy. Fly this instant ! tell 
 him all these wondrous turns of Providence in his favour! 
 Tell him I have now a daughter to bestow which he no 
 longer will decline; that this day he still shall be a bride- 
 groom ; nor shall a fortune, the merit which his father 
 seeks, be wanting. Tell him the reward of all his virtues 
 waits on his acceptance. \Exit Isab.] My dearest 
 Indiana ! \Turns and embraces her. 
 
 Ind. Have I, then, at last, a father's sanction on my 
 love ? His bounteous hand to give, and make my heart 
 a present worthy of Bevil's generosity ?
 
 SCENE III.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 357 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh, my child ! how are our sorrows past 
 o'erpaid by such a meeting ! Though I have lost so 
 
 many years of soft paternal dalliance with thee, yet, in one 
 day to find thee thus, and thus bestow thee, in such per- 
 fect happiness, is ample, ample reparation ! — And yet, 
 again, the merit of thy lover 
 
 Ind. Oh ! had I spirits left to tell you of his actions ! 
 how strongly filial duty has suppressed his love ; and how 
 concealment still has doubled all his obligations ; the 
 pride, the joy of his alliance, sir, would warm your heart, 
 as he has conquered mine. 
 
 Mr. Seal. How laudable is love when born of virtue ! 
 I burn to embrace him 
 
 Ind. See, sir, my aunt already has succeeded, and 
 brought him to your wishes. 
 
 E7itcr Isabella, with Sir John Bevil, Bevil, Jun., 
 Mrs. Sealand, Ciiniberton, Myrtle, mid Lucinda. 
 
 Sir J. Ba>. \Enteriiig?\ Where, where's this scene of 
 wonder? Mr. Sealand, I congratulate, on this occasion, 
 
 our mutual happiness Your good sister, sir, has, with 
 
 the story of your daughter's fortune, filled us with surprise 
 and joy. Now all exceptions are removed ; my son has 
 now avowed his love, and turned all former jealousies 
 and doubts to approbation ; and, I am told, your good- 
 ness has consented to reward him. 
 
 Mr. Seal. If, sir, a fortune equal to his father's hopes 
 can make this object worthy his acceptance. 
 
 Bev.Jun. I hear your mention, sir, of fortune, with plea- 
 sure only as it may prove the means to reconcile the best 
 of fathers to my love. Let him be provident, but let me 
 be happy. — My ever-destined, my acknowledged wife ! 
 
 ^Embracing Indiana. 
 
 Ind. Wife ! Oh, my ever loved ! My lord ! my master ! 
 
 Sir J. Bev. I congratulate myself, as well as you, that
 
 358 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. [act v. 
 
 I had a son who could, under such disadvantages, dis- 
 cover your great merit. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh, Sir John ! how vain, how weak is human 
 prudence ! What care, what foresight, what imagination 
 could contrive such blest events, to make our children 
 happy, as Providence in one short hour has laid before 
 us ? 
 
 Cimh. [To Mrs. Sealand.] I am afraid, madam, Mr. 
 Sealand is a little too busy for our affair. If you please, 
 we'll take another opportunity. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Let us have patience, sir. 
 
 Cwil'. But we make Sir Geoffry wait, madam. 
 
 Myrt. O, sir, I am not in haste. 
 
 [During this, Bev., ^x^^., presenls Lucinda to Indiana. 
 
 Mr. Seal. But here ! here's our general benefactor ! 
 Excellent young man, that could be at once a lover to 
 her beauty and a parent to her virtue. 
 
 Bev. Jun. If you think that an obligation, sir, give me 
 leave to overpay myself, in the only instance that can 
 now add to my felicity, by begging you to bestow this 
 lady on Mr. Myrtle. 
 
 Mr. Seal. She is his without reserve ; I beg he may 
 be sent for. Mr. Cimberton, notwithstanding you never 
 had my consent, yet there is, since I last saw you, another 
 objection to your marriage with my daughter. 
 
 Ci)nh. I hope, sir, your lady has concealed nothing 
 from me ? 
 
 Mr. Seal, Troth, sir, nothing but what was concealed 
 from myself — another daughter, who has an undoubted 
 title to half my estate. 
 
 Cimh. How, Mr. Sealand ? Why, then, if half Mrs. 
 Lucinda's fortune is gone, you can't say that any of my 
 estate is settled upon her. I was in treaty for the whole ; 
 but if that is not to be come at, to be sure there can be 
 no bargain. Sir, I have nothing to do but to take my
 
 SCENE III.] THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 359 
 
 leave of your good lady, my cousin, and beg pardon for 
 the trouble I have given this old gentleman. 
 
 Myrt. That you have, Mr. Cimberton, with all my 
 heart. \piscovcrs himself. 
 
 All. Mr. Myrtle ! 
 
 Myrt. And I beg pardon of the whole company that I 
 assumed the person of Sir Geoffry, only to be present 
 at the danger of this lady being disposed of, and in her 
 utmost exigence to assert my right to her ; which, if her 
 parents will ratify, as they once favoured my pretensions, 
 no abatement of fortune shall lessen her value to me. 
 
 Luc. Generous man ! 
 
 Mr. Seal. If, sir, you can overlook the injury of being 
 in treaty with one who has meanly left her, as you have 
 generously asserted your right in her, she is yours. 
 
 Luc. Mr. Myrtle, though you have ever had my 
 heart, yet now I find I love you more, because I bring 
 you less. 
 
 Myrt. We have much more than we want ; and I am 
 glad any event has contributed to the discover)- of our 
 real inclinations to each other. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Well ! however, I'm glad the girl's disposed 
 of, anyway. \_Asidc. 
 
 Bev. Myrtle, no longer rivals now, but brothers ! 
 
 Myrt. Dear Bevil, you are born to triumph over me ! 
 but now our competition ceases; I rejoice in the pre- 
 eminence of your virtue, and your alliance adds charms 
 to Lucinda. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Now, ladies and gentlemen, you have set 
 the world a fair example : your happiness is owing to 
 your constancy and merit ; and the several difficulties 
 you have struggled with evidently show — 
 
 Whate'er the generous mind itself denies. 
 The secret care of Providence supplies. 
 
 [ Exeunt.
 
 ^^3^_o?M,^k 
 
 tc 
 
 EPILOGUE. <^ 
 
 By Mr. Welsted. 
 
 Intended to be Spoken by Indiana. 
 
 Our author, whom entreaties cannot move, 
 
 Spite of the dear coquetry that you love, 
 
 Swears he'll not frustrate (so he plainly means) 
 
 By a loose Epilogue, his decent scenes. 
 
 Is it not, sirs, hard fate I meet to-day, 
 
 To keep me rigid still beyond the play ? 
 
 And yet I'm saved a world of pains that way. 
 
 I now can look, I now can move at ease, 
 
 Nor need I torture these poor limbs to please ; 
 
 Nor with the hand or foot attempt surprise, 
 
 Nor wrest my features, nor fatigue my eyes : 
 
 Bless me ! what freakish gambols have I played ! 
 
 What motions tried, and wanton looks betrayed ! 
 
 Out of pure kindness all ! to over-rule 
 
 The threatened hiss, and screen some scribbling fool. 
 
 With more respect I'm entertained to-night : 
 
 Our author thinks I can with ease delight. 
 
 My artless looks while modest graces arni, 
 
 He says, I need but to appear, and charm. 
 
 A wife so formed, by these examples bred, 
 
 Pours joy and gladness round the marriage bed ; 
 
 Soft source of comfort, kind relief from care. 
 
 And 'tis her least perfection to be fair. 
 
 The nymph with Indiana's worth who vies, 
 
 A nation will behold with Bevil's eyes. 
 
 FINIS.
 
 THE SCHOOL OF cACTIOUXj 
 
 (A FRAGMENT).
 
 5I4SC)- 
 
 C^^^iHE ScJwol of Action was the play which 
 
 Steele was endeavouring to finish in 
 1723-5. The fragment which we have 
 would have required a great deal of 
 revising before it could have been put 
 upon the stage. The MS., from which 
 the piece was printed by Nichols, is 
 in the British Museum (Add. MS., 
 It is not in Steele's writing, and the first few 
 leaves are now wanting. I have restored the original 
 reading in several instances in which Nichols made un- 
 necessary alterations. There are several memoranda on 
 the subject among the Blenheim MSS. Here is one of 
 them : — 
 
 " Minutes for the play itself. — First Act. The begin- 
 ning as I have it at Home in y" Scheme between Brainwell 
 and Lightfoot ; after y' y"" calling over y^ House w"' the 
 actors, and y'^ severall jjurposes y' y'^ Playhouse might 
 be usefull for signified. — Act 2^- The Country family 
 wait as in an Inn at the playhouse ; all that can be done 
 by the playhouse to terrific y'' Attorney and his Wife, and 
 all that can delight y*" young Lady by Theatricall Powers 
 is exposed and explained. A Critick upon various Actions. 
 — Act 3''- The Electra of Sophocles, where Mrs. Porter 
 is to be the Queen, and y'' Tragedy of Sophocles to be 
 made y'= Moddle is thoroughly set forth in a way 
 attempted to be truly sublime. — Act 4"'- The Country
 
 364 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 
 
 Family, knowing of the Murder done there, resolved to 
 bear Witness of it and prosecute it according to Law." 
 And again, " Let Booth be Orestes, with all the prepos- 
 session and love of His Mother with the necessity upon 
 Him of killing Her, and resolving upon it all of a sudden 
 from passion to passion in an Hurry, — yet commanding all 
 his Resentments to execute His design. — His regard for 
 His sister and her urging Him.'' The following are other 
 rough notes : — " Jenky to be instructed to be a ghost and 
 torment His Brother — not to be y' of Hamlet. Johnson 
 to be the false Brother — Mrs. Willis, His Wife, urging to 
 give up. — They miss the young lady for 2'^- Act — but don't 
 value so y' Her fortune is safe in His hands. . . . Let 
 Pinsars ramble from place to place, and getting clear of 
 the Play House — where he meets Evill Constable (?) and 
 His Mirmidons. — Then Buntho's Ghost and all the other 
 incidents possible — appears still in y'^ House, and gives up 
 to Severn, &c." And again : — " Introduce a Woman, 
 Drunk, to be acted by Gibber, to talk at beginning Lewdly 
 in a Mask, y^ rest in Whisper. Let Pinsars be assisted by 
 an Army of y^ Playhouse to fight his way out ; he and his 
 man Ralph and his Wife Striking all in earnest, assisted 
 by the Constable. . . . Let Him Threaten to demolish 
 the Whore of Babylon — Speak of the Dragon and all the 
 Cant of the Presbyterian Zeal against Plays, &c., but 
 fight. . . . For the Prologue take notice of this play as a 
 Posthumous Work according to Dr. Partridge's freinds. 
 Spider and Dotterell's Quality : Beasts made before men 
 — Therefore the Dotterells must give way, for they were 
 made before Spiders were in being, and not made before 
 they were men." 
 
 The following notes evidently refer to another piece : — 
 "To take the play y' Lyes in loose parts in my Scrutoire 
 and lay it together for the Stage : To ridicule y'' whole 
 Mechanick of Dr. Faustus, &c., and all things of that 
 kind fory^ Theatre — make persons to play tricks, break
 
 THE SCHOOL OF A CTION. 
 
 ,565 
 
 necks, and the like. . . . There is no true nobility but in 
 the practise of Vertue and right reason, where there is 
 nothing can be little. . . . Make him go to his certain 
 Ruin for want of knowledge in a Circumstance he might 
 know if he had looked into a letter w''"' contains a secret 
 Contrived against him, but he cannot pry into because it 
 comes into his Hands unwarrantably : make this y'^ great 
 Incident of his distress. ... To ridicule our Slavery to 
 Italian Musick, to have an ode of Anacreon set in Greek 
 performed. To observe upon y*^ absurdity of making 
 distresses and mirth for y^ Vulgar out of y*" Accidents y' 
 befall the body, as in the play of The Chances : The old 
 Woman in her Colick pains toothless and defective through 
 age is exposed as a Jest."
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Mr. Severn, a barrister, lover of Miss Dolly. 
 
 Mr. HuMBER, his friend. 
 
 Mr. Pincers, an old wealthy country Attorney, guardian 
 
 to Dolly. 
 Ralph, his Man. 
 
 Mr. DOTTERELL 
 
 Mr. Spider 
 
 Mr. GWILLYN 
 
 Buskin 
 
 Tragedian 
 
 General 
 
 Mrs. Pincers. 
 
 Miss Dolly, Ward to Pincers. 
 
 Margery, her Maid. 
 
 Mrs. Umbrage, an Actress. 
 
 Mrs. Fennell. 
 
 Her Daughter, a Candidate for the Stage. 
 
 Barber, Constable, Waiter, Servants, Rabble, &c. 
 
 Comedians. 
 
 Candidates for the Stage. 

 
 THE SCHOOL OF oACTIOU^. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 Enter Mr. Severn and Mr. Humber. 
 
 EV. The world is much more easily 
 imposed upon, than you studious and 
 modest men imagine. 
 
 Hum. Dear Severn, if such superfi- 
 cial qualifications as you talk of will 
 accomplish gentlemen and ladies, I own 
 to you, hard has been our fate, in having suffered pains 
 and penalties (fit only for malefactors) in great schools, 
 and been immured in college the best years of life, to ac- 
 quire learning and attain to sciences that are all useless 
 when we come into the world. 
 
 Se7!. Pardon me, dear Humber, I did not say useless ; 
 I only argue that you had better, to make your fortune, 
 have ordinary qualifications, such as a good mien, 
 common understanding, and an easy address, than great 
 faculties and talents under the oppression of bashfulness, 
 
 rusticity, or 
 
 Bum. Or knowledge.
 
 368 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act i. 
 
 Sev. It shall be or knowledge if you please — if you 
 mean knowledge kept to a man's self, or in a man's 
 keeping, that is afraid or ashamed to exert it. 
 Hum. Well, be it as you propose ; go on. 
 Scv. I say, then, your taste for books and fine writing, 
 your judgment in the faculties of the soul, my town edu- 
 cation, and skill in the airs, motions, graces, and abilities 
 of the body, will enable us to carry on this our design of 
 supporting a new playhouse, and keeping a School of 
 Action. 
 
 Hum. Well, if we break — I can go down again to my 
 fellowship at Oxford, and laugh and be laughed at among 
 a parcel of worthy and ingenious men, whom I will enter- 
 tain with my adventures ; and I think the undertaking 
 cannot but introduce at least matter of humour and 
 mirth : if it does not advance our fortunes, it will 
 heighten our conversation. — But to your School of 
 Action. 
 
 Sev. As all that reside in inns of court and universities, 
 though they do not enter into any of the learned profes- 
 sions, are yet better accomplished for any other ways of 
 life by having the same education with those who go into 
 them ; so will all who come to our School of Action be 
 better qualified in their own characters, by being in- 
 structed among players, who are taught to become any 
 part which shall be imposed upon them. 
 
 Hum. Thou art a rare sanguine fellow to think this 
 will do. But I have observed confidence in a man's 
 self that he shall perform a thing, helps him forward 
 better than any other quality about him — Well, hang it, 
 in order to make this experiment, I will be as enterprising 
 and confident as you. 
 
 Sev. Let me, then, observe one thing, for fear of your 
 relapsing into your academic shyness ; that you must be- 
 ware of standing as if you were a thinking statue, a case 
 for a spirit to reflect in, and not a mind and body acting
 
 ACT I,] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 369 
 
 together. You improve the soul only in your colleges — 
 you neglect the body. 
 
 Hum. Thou art in the right : I have studied eloquence 
 till I am dumb. 
 
 Sev. I am glad you see your want and infirmity. If 
 you will speak, I know you will talk well. I know when 
 you are unreservedly familiar you talk very well, as you 
 did t'other night concerning the principles of motion and 
 rest. Suppose, as you are resolved to talk, you would 
 resolve also to move, and practise a little local motion. 
 Give me leave to show you how you perform it. Go to 
 the other side of the stage. \He 7valks thithcr.\ Thus 
 you walked — thus your shoulders — thus your legs — thus 
 your breast — thus your hips. — Pray adventure back again 
 —thus — 
 
 HicjH. Pish ! I am a little hurt, and grow peevish with 
 this mimicry ; though I believe you are right enough. 
 
 Sev. Well, I only show you : it is not necessary you 
 should, as to the present purpose, be jaunty ; you 
 are to mind more important matters. You are censor, 
 observe, upon the sense and spirit of what is said ; leave 
 the manner of doing it tome, the prompter. 
 
 Hum. But, as you are picking up people from all 
 quarters, are the old gentleman and his lady, the young 
 girl, and the maid and man, who came hither last night, 
 all to be players ? and why are they accommodated here 
 in the tiring-room, as if it were an ordinary lodging? 
 
 Sev. You sh ill know all in due time and order. Ho ! 
 — Harry ! — Who waits there ? \_Eiiters a Servant.] Is 
 the whole house come ? 
 
 Scrv. They are all here, sir, except the thundcrer and 
 the candle-snuffer ; they say it is a mistake, and that they 
 are never required to come to rehearsal. 
 
 Sev. Tell them they shall forfeit ; the thunderer shall 
 pay two groats ; they — they shall be fined a day's pay. 
 \Exit Servan'j.] — My dear friend, while the company is 
 
 Steele. J> 1!
 
 370 THF: school of a CTION. [act I. 
 
 assembling in the several apartments, I will explain 
 further : You are to know that old master Pincers is a 
 rich northern attorney, who understands the law much 
 better as it is the business of it to punish offenders, than 
 as it is to protect the innocent. The young girl is a 
 ward left under his care, and has a very considerable 
 estate in that country. He has brought her up to town 
 to settle her. 
 
 Hum. In the playhouse ? 
 
 Scv. Pray, hear. In the playhouse ? no. Of all 
 things in nature, stage-plays (as he calls them) are his 
 aversion. But they are no less Miss Dolly's delight. As 
 I had my education, that is to say, ate and drank, con- 
 versed and lay some years every night at Gray's Inn, I 
 made a notable pleader before our bench of justices in 
 Cumberland, and grew very intimate with Mr. Pincers. 
 He took such a fancy to my promising parts — for, you 
 must know, I pretended to be a rogue to gain his good- 
 will — that, with a hint of five hundred pounds reward 
 for my share in the transaction, he communicated to me 
 a design of disposing of this young lady by way of sale. 
 
 Hum. Good — and thought you a proper broker to find 
 out a husband, or ratlier a purchaser. 
 
 Sev. Right. " Mr. Severn," said he, "you know there 
 is nothing more common than to observe that orphans 
 are a prey, by reason of their great wealth, and marry 
 unhappily." 
 
 Hum. And therefore 
 
 SeiK And therefore he would have a receipt for all her 
 fortune, for delivering half of it to the man who should 
 marry her — " which," said he, " shall be no fraud to the 
 gentleman ; for he shall settle only an equivalent for ten 
 thousand pounds, which is the moiety. By this means," 
 continued my conscientious friend, " I shall observe how 
 he behaves to this poor girl ; and can, if he deserves it, 
 leave the other moiety to them by my will."
 
 ACT I.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 371 
 
 Hum. And what did you say to this hopeful project? 
 
 Sev. I fell in with it, and promised to find him a right 
 young fellow for his purpose. 
 
 Hum. Did you so, sir ? \^As going^ 
 
 Sct>. Now you grow a mere scholar again. 
 
 Hum. An honest gentleman is a mere scholar where 
 a sharper is a wit — I will leave your accursed town 
 to-night. 
 
 Set'. I will convince you that there is nothing mean or 
 dishonourable on my part ; but a lucky incident I should 
 be stupid not to take hold of. 
 
 Hum. Say it ; but your prologue is so long, you seem 
 to know that the plot of your play is not easily to be 
 defended. 
 
 Sez>. You cannot say that till you know it. I agreed 
 with him to find a young gentleman suitable to her, who 
 shall bring as good an estate as she shall, and settle all 
 upon her and the children of the marriage. 
 
 Hum,. Well — who is the gentleman whom you have 
 thought of to do this ? On whom will you bestow the 
 poor innocent girl who has never injured you ? 
 
 Sev. Why, I have been thinking that over and over ; 
 and it is so hard to look into another's breast, that one 
 may, after all appearances, be mistaken ; and, therefore, 
 I have resolved upon the only man who I was sure was 
 honest — even my own proper self. 
 
 Hum. You are most conscientiously impartial and 
 disinterested. 
 
 Sev. I think myself conscientious, though neither im- 
 partial nor disinterested. I consider that he wouki cer- 
 tainly sell her elsewhere on his own terms, without regard 
 to her happiness. In my hands she will have her estate 
 her own, with the incumbrance only of a man wlio loves 
 her, and whom I believe she loves, and who may increase 
 that estate for her. Consider, he would do what he 
 designed, whether I would or not.
 
 372 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act I. 
 
 Hum. I consider you will do what you design, whether 
 I will or not. Nay, further, I cannot but own the cir- 
 cumstances much alleviate the guilt on your part. Nay, 
 if you fairly get the girl's good-will, I will allow your 
 attempt not only excusable, but praiseworthy. 
 
 Sell. There spoke my good genius. — In the country, as 
 much as he trusted me in the secret of cheating her, he 
 never let me see her alone, or without witnesses ; his 
 wife, the maid, or man, or all of them, were constantly 
 present. But, as she is a great lover and reader of plays, 
 and of a great deal of wit and humour, we could speak 
 one language and look another, above their knowledge 
 or observation. I sent for him to town in order to marry 
 her, insisting on my five hundred pounds ; for he would 
 not trust me, did he not know my price. I have lodged 
 all here, whence they shall never go out till dear miss 
 implores it of me, or has justice done her by me or 
 somebody to her liking. 
 
 Hum. There you justify all the art you can use for 
 yourself. And may you win and wear her, since you plot 
 her redemption though yourself should not succeed ! 
 
 Sei). Well, we have done talking; let us to action. My 
 business is to review my forces, and not neglect my main 
 plot, but consider my playhouse and my mistress at the 
 same time ; and, while I am preparing the one, make 
 love to the other. — Here, Jack, call all the actors — let 
 the whole house march. — Tragedy drums and trumpets, 
 fifes, kettledrums and clarions shall wake my country 
 lodgers, fright my old parchment, and charm my little 
 northern pilgrim — my dear refugee — I will understand 
 her no other. Beat, sound, and play. Make all people 
 be in their posts round the stage, and answer in all parts 
 to the stage. — All shall be done that can be to make her 
 pass her time pleasantly. She shall always expect to see 
 me, but not see me till I have abundant convincing proofs 
 that I am in her favour. Thus if I can save her, and
 
 ACTi.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. ir^ 
 
 save her for myself, it will be an exquisite happiness ; if 
 not, to save her from this rascal is but my duty. Oh ! I 
 should have told you that when Miss Dolly came in, I 
 conveyed a letter into her pocket, intimating where she 
 was, that she may be surprised at nothing ; for I love the 
 dear thing so tenderly that I could not give her the 
 shortest uneasiness, to purchase the most lasting good or 
 pleasure to myself. [Here begins the march.\ Hist ! 
 
 Pin. [ Within.^ Ho ! chamberlain, bring me my 
 boots — where is the chamberlain ? — What is the 
 noise ? 
 
 Ralph [ Within. \ The drums. 
 
 Pin. What is the matter?' 
 
 Ralph. The train-bands, belike, master. 
 
 Pin. Ho ! chamberlain ! 
 
 Hum. While the rest of the country family are thus 
 deceived, Dolly is let into the whole matter, and won't 
 be surprised at anything. If she humours the deceit it 
 is a good symptom on your side. — This must be a fruitful 
 circumstance of mirth. 
 
 Sev. Nymphs, shepherds, ghosts, angels, and demons, 
 shall tease the old rascal ; and all the while Miss Dolly 
 see and hear nothing but according to the notice I have 
 given her. 
 
 Hum. While you are thus busied about your people, 
 and managing your design, which I have not much taste 
 for (I want that mercury about me), I will go about the 
 house and view the accommodations — they say it is the 
 most convenient one in the world. 
 
 Sev. Sir, take your humour ; I will pursue mine, and 
 call you when the circumstance is above my reach. [Exit 
 HuMBER.] Well, march by ; let the kings lake place of 
 all the people, next them bishops, then judges — no, we 
 had as good not to discompose their dresses. [Anions; 
 the march of the actors he observes Will Dotterell.] Ho ! 
 Mr. Dotterell, Mr. Dotterell.
 
 374 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act i. 
 
 Dot. Sir ! Your most humble servant, good Mr. 
 Severn. What, have you a part for me in your new 
 play ? It was you that first thought of making an actor 
 of me, and I have gained some reputation ; and, harkee, 
 you have made a deal of me, I can tell you. 
 
 Sev. Ay, ay, I know thou art a town favourite — 
 thy name is not spoken of but it raises mirth. Let us 
 see, what parts have you acted ? You have acted all 
 manner of things as well as persons. You began, I 
 think, a flower-pot, in Diodesia/i} ; then you have per- 
 formed another ingenious part, been a chair, I think, at 
 another opera ; you have represented all the appetites — 
 as I take it, you do hunger best, you are a fine fellow at 
 a cold chicken — Then you have been all sorts of trades, 
 but you shine most in the tailor in Epsom lVells,~ you 
 beat your wife most successfully. 
 
 Dot. It was thought I laid her on as well as another, 
 for you may remember she was a bitter one, and slie 
 provoked me some six or seven drubs beyond what the 
 poet writ for her. 
 
 Sell. Well, look you. Will, I design greater things for 
 you than any poet of them all ; why, you shall act a ghost 
 in the ensuing play. 
 
 Dot. A ghost of me ! No, it can never be. 
 
 Sev. Yes, yes, you oaf, you shall be a country ghost. 
 You shall come to the country gentleman who lay here 
 last night in the figure of his deceased brother, a fat 
 justice of the peace, who left all his money in his hands 
 — and he cheats him. Why, I don't know but you may 
 be the luckiest ghost that ever appeared. Who knows 
 but the old rascal may repent and pay you ? If he does 
 I'm sure you'll take it. 
 
 1 An adaptation, by Thomas Betterton, of Beaumont and 
 Fletcher's Prophetess. 
 
 * A comedy, by Shadwell, in which Fribble, a haberdasher, is 
 one of the characters.
 
 ACT I.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 375 
 
 Dot. Nay, nay, there's no doubt of that. What has 
 the poor money done ? I will take it, as you say. 
 
 Sev. Look you there : when you have done this part 
 you are a most accomplished player, you have gone 
 through all the degrees of action. You came out of the 
 parsley-bed, as they say to the children ; you have been 
 everything 
 
 Dot. A ghost ! I shall never be sober enough. 
 What if it be a country ghost — yet every man is 
 serious after his death. I shall certainly laugh, and 
 discover all. 
 
 Sev. Well, bid him they call Dicky come to me. 
 
 Dot. Dicky, Dicky, come to me ; come, Dicky, 
 come to Mr. Severn. I am not a ghost yet ; you need 
 not be afraid. 
 
 Enter Spider. 
 
 Sev. Mr. Spider, I have a part for you ; but [ am 
 afraid you have too good an air, too much dignity in your 
 person, to do it well. 
 
 Spi. Oh, I warrant you they never put me to act any- 
 thing in tragedy, though my genius and temper is 
 altogether for great and sublime things. 
 
 Sev. No doubt on't, Mr. Spider, but you must be con- 
 tent at present to do me a courtesy, and still keep in 
 comedy ; for you are to be a tapster. 
 
 Spi. What ! when Mr. Dotterell (as I apprehend) is to 
 be a ghost, am I to be but a tapster ? 
 
 Sev. Why, you are to be a tapster to the inn in which 
 he is to be a ghost, so that he's in a manner in your 
 keeping. All the ghosts in inns are kept there by the 
 tapster or chamberlain ; now you are to be both in this 
 inn that I imagine. 
 
 Spi. Oh ! oh ! I begin to conceive you. 1 am to be 
 a live tapster, and Mr. Dotterell is to be the ghost of a 
 dead man that died in the inn and left a power of money
 
 376 THE SCHOOL OF A CTION. [act i. 
 
 behind, and so haunts the house because his own cousin 
 had not — I understand it very well. — Look you, Mr. 
 Dotterell, it was I and my master contrived to kill this 
 gentleman for the great bag of money he brought into 
 our house. Come, come, we'll go in and consider how 
 to act these parts, without giving Mr. Severn any more 
 trouble about it. 
 
 Sev. But there is another thing that, I fear, will go 
 much against you ; and that is, you are to be excessively 
 saucy. 
 
 Sj>i. No, I shall make no scruple of that if he proves an 
 unmannerly guest, I'll warrant you. — But, Mr. Dotterell, 
 let us go and lay our heads together. 
 
 Sev. Now, gentlemen, you are going out in your own 
 persons, and no man living can tell which of you should 
 take place. Certainly, Mr. Spider, you are somebody or 
 other; and, Mr, Dotterell, so are you. Now I would fain 
 know which of you is to take place. 
 
 Spi. Pray, good Mr. Dotterell. 
 
 Dot. Nay, nay, Mr. Spider, I'll never be outdone in 
 civility ; you must pardon me, indeed, sir. 
 
 Spi. Nay, sir. 
 
 Dot. Nay, sir. 
 
 Spi. Nay, sir. 
 
 Dot. Nay, nay, nay, sir, if you go to that. 
 
 \_Tunis aside. 
 
 Spi. Nay, but, good sir — excuse me, sir. 
 
 ^Turning another way. 
 
 Dot. Oh, Mr. Spider, your servant for diat, sir. 
 
 yfakes him up in his arms. 
 
 Spi. Sir, you conquer me beyond expression ; sir, you 
 run away with me. 
 
 Dot. Indeed, sir, I must say you are a very easy gentle- 
 man ; you are carried away with the least civility, look 
 
 you, sir; for 
 
 [ Carrying him backwards and forwards.
 
 ACT I.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 377 
 
 Spi. Plague on't, what a misfortune it is to be a Utile 
 fellow ! Though I have a soul as great as Hercules, this 
 fellow can deal with me. 
 
 Dot. Oh, my dear little Dicky Spider ! 
 
 \Exit, kicking /litti in /lis arms. 
 
 Set'. \_Solus\. Here's a great piece of difficulty adjusted ; 
 but I observe very few difficulties of ceremony of much 
 greater moment than this, and wish they were all to be 
 so ended. Well, now have I the hardest task in all my 
 affair to pursue : To persuade a woman who is young, 
 pleasant, and agreeable, to act a part for me to another ; 
 to make love for me, instead of receiving love made to 
 her; and there is no way of obtaining of 'em but by 
 making love to them. They are used to no other 
 language, and understand no other. — Ho ! who waits 
 there ? 
 
 Enter Waiter. 
 
 Waiter. Sir ; do you call, sir ? 
 
 Sev. Pray, sir, call Mrs. Umbrage hither. If she 
 be in the green-room, tell her I beg to speak with 
 her — I must form myself into all the good humour I 
 can to entertain her, or I shall never get her to come 
 into it. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Umbrage. 
 
 Oh, here she comes. — Well, madam, I have cast parts 
 for you, and named you to many, but never so very nice 
 a one as 1 am to desire of you to undertake at present. 
 To overlook yourself and deliver the application made to 
 another which had been more rightly directed to yourself, 
 is a greatness of mind — is a candour, to be found only in 
 Mrs. Umbrage. 
 
 Umb. Well, Mr. Severn, you have waved your cap 
 sufficiently ; you have done homage and made your 
 acknowledgments ; pray proceed to the matter.
 
 378 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act i, 
 
 Sev. The northern young lady you have often heard 
 me talk of, is in town, and lay in this house last night. 
 
 Umb. That has been the conversation of the green- 
 room. — But what do you design in all this you are going 
 to let me into ? 
 
 Sev. I would be well with that young lady. Nay, I 
 think I am so. 
 
 Umb. A man may often be mistaken in those points, 
 as knowing as you are. 
 
 Sev. I grant it, madam ; I have a mind to know it 
 more explicitly, and have the most evident proofs of it ; 
 which I will not desire till I have given her sufficient 
 testimony of a disinterested zeal and service for her. 
 
 Umb. That is, indeed, the noblest and the surest way 
 to approach a sensible spirit, as I have heard you describe 
 hers to be. Pray let me hear what argument you have 
 for thinking she has a disposition towards you ; for you 
 know we naturally are too apt to believe what we wish, 
 
 Sev. A good opinion is in a man's own power to 
 create. I took care to appear in the best manner where 
 she was ; to be always in great good humour, and show a 
 wonderful deference to her in all my actions ; which I 
 constantly expressed by my eye only, as afraid of notice 
 and observation. She had her eyes as attentive to mine, 
 and she never lost the least expression that I made to 
 her, but turned away her eyes when mine grew too fami- 
 liar. — But give me leave to tell you one particular occa- 
 sion wherein I plainly think she declared herself to me. 
 
 Umb. That will be worth hearing indeed ; I shall be 
 glad to hear the language of the eyes translated by the 
 tongue. [Smiling. 
 
 Sev. You are to know, madam, that there happened 
 one day in the north, a great Quaker's wedding at which 
 she and I were present. They went with the greatest 
 gravity and decorum through the whole circumstance of 
 it. But at night she was invited, so was I, to see the
 
 ACT I.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION, 379 
 
 bride and bridegroom put to bed. Several of her maidens 
 attended her; several of their young men him. It is 
 the nature of their superstition to keep their passions 
 bridled, restrained, and formally dissembled. They have 
 none of those flights, palpitations, gambols, and follies, 
 which divert the mind and break it from its main object. 
 
 Vmb. You are going into a tine story ; but I must trust 
 your discretion. 
 
 Sev. Madam, you may. \Bo%ving?^ To be sure, the 
 bridegroom is laid by his bride ; the company stands in 
 the most profound silence, as contemplating the objects 
 before them ; he a young man of twenty-five, she a 
 young woman of twenty ; he wishing our absence ; she 
 fearing it. The eyes of everyone of us spectators naturally 
 searching the object with which they could best be 
 pleased in the same condition, my eyes met Miss_ Pincers', 
 in which there was such a sweet compliance, such a revel 
 invitation, immediately checked when observed and 
 answered by me, that I have ever since concluded that 
 she had something more than goodwill for me. 
 
 Umb. Well, if she has it, I shall be far from lessening 
 it ; but will, as you seem to desire, accompany her, and 
 improve it. 
 
 Sev. I form great hopes of success from that declara- 
 tion ; but as the lady is mighty theatrically disposed, I 
 beseech you to show her the pleasure and beauties of the 
 house. 
 
 Uinb. All that is in my power ; all that is not I must 
 leave to you. 
 
 Sev. I will not doubt of success. 
 
 To gain a she, a sure she-friend provide ; 
 For woman is to woman the best guide.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 Pincers a)id his Wife discovered with Miss Dolly, 
 Ralph, and Margery. 
 
 "^^3 ^^Vj' IN. Fie, Miss Dolly ; do you say you 
 
 heard no manner of noise when 
 I was knocking my heart out ? 
 
 Dolly. None in the least. In the 
 country they talked of the rattling 
 of coaches here in London. I heard 
 nothing of it ; I can hardly think I 
 am yet in the City. 
 Airs. Pin. Why, Miss Dolly, you won't say so, sure ! 
 Did you hear no drums nor trumpets ? 
 Dolly. Not in the least. 
 
 Mrs. Pin. O gemini ! Then, to be sure, the house is 
 haunted, and the man of the inn has killed some 
 traveller, and hid him behind the hangings, and we are 
 all disturbed for it — 'tis so to be sure. 
 
 Ralph. It is no otherwise. I wonder Counsellor 
 Severn would bring master to such an inn as this is, 
 so I do. 
 
 Pin. Chamberlain ! why, chamberlain ! 
 
 Enter Spider (as Chamberlain). 
 
 Spi. Do you call, sir ? 
 
 Pi7i. Do you call, sir? Ay, marry do I, sir. What has
 
 ACT II.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 381 
 
 been doing in the inn here, or in the streets, with 
 trumpets and kettle-drums ? 
 
 Spi. Trumpets and kettle-drums ! Poor gentleman ! 
 
 Pin. Poor gentleman ! no, no poor gentleman, — I am 
 afraid this house is no better than it should be. 
 
 Spi. Has not your worship lain warm ? The bed is as 
 good a bed as any in the house. A man of fifteen hun- 
 dred a-year lay in it, and slept all night. He came to 
 town to be fluxed. He was very much a gentleman, and 
 owned he slept very well ; and his bones ached but little 
 in that easy bed. 
 
 Pin. Rogue ! put honest folks, that have been man 
 
 and wife these twenty years, into a p bed 
 
 together ! 
 
 Mrs. Pin. In a p bed, husband ! Take the law 
 
 of him. 
 
 Pill. Sirrah ! has not Counsellor Severn been here this 
 morning ? Go, sirrah, bring me some water and a towel ; 
 I'll go to the Counsellor's chambers immediately. I'll 
 trounce this house. \Exit Spider. 
 
 Dolly. [Aside.] I'll look over my letter again. [Pcads.] 
 " Be afraid of nothing ; but know, that the disagreeable 
 shapes Mr. Pincers is entertained with are not to appear 
 to you ; and when you know this, you may partake of 
 that diversion of tormenting those who attempt only to 
 sell and betray you. What you see are persons and 
 appearances belonging to the several plays which are 
 acted in this house." — Oh me ! how pure is all this ! 
 
 Re enter Spider, with a Barber. 
 
 Spi. Here is the water and towel, and here is a barber 
 if you want him. \Exit. 
 
 Pin. Harkee, Mr. Barber ; you look like an honest 
 man, put on your trimming cloths about me. I'll inquire 
 of you what sort of people live in this house — Ha ! what's 
 this here?
 
 382 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act 11. 
 
 " To Mr. Pincers, Esq." 
 
 [^ letter has come down from the air jviih this direction?^ 
 
 "Sir, repent of the ill you are contriving before it be 
 too late. I shall appear to you and your wife only. In 
 hopes of justice, I remain, 
 
 " Your dead and buried brother, 
 
 " Ralph Pincers." 
 
 Enter Spider, as Tapster. 
 
 Spi. Sir, do you call for nothing this morning ? are not 
 you dry, nor your wife neither, ha, old dry-boots ? 
 
 Pi7i. What does this mean ? A letter come directed 
 to me out of the air — and my brother coming ! Wife ! 
 Margery, do you see that letter ? What can it mean ? 
 Look you, sauce-box; good man, Tapster, I shall take a 
 course with you, sirrah, I shall. 
 
 Spi. You are a sneaking country bumpkin, sir. 
 
 Enter Dotterell, dressed like a Country Squire. 
 
 Fin. Bless us ! there comes on my brother, in his old 
 boots and grey riding-coat. 'Tis he : I ha'n't the heart 
 to speak to it. 
 
 Dot. \_Aside.'\ A country ghost ! I shall laugh out. 
 How frightened the dog is ! I'll warrant the rogue has a 
 great sum of money of mine. I'll make him give it me. 
 — ^To Pincers.] Repent, and don't cheat your brother, 
 and break your word with a man that is dead and buried. 
 
 — I shall laugh before the old put has refunded 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Fin. There is the justice come to fetch us away 
 with him — he's come for Dolly's portion.— You know I 
 was always for giving it all to her since Nancy's death. 
 
 Dot. Give me my money — give me my money. 
 
 Fin. Oh ! how I tremble ! yet dare not speak to him. 
 
 [He comes nearer.
 
 ACT II.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 383 
 
 Dot. Show my last will and testament. Give me my 
 money. 
 
 Phi. I cannot speak to him, to tell him I'll do every- 
 thing. 
 
 Dot. I will haunt thee, and tear thy wife from the 
 fell 
 
 Mrs. Pin. He presents the figure of the poor child we 
 had to cheat Dolly with ! Oh, husband, he'll have me to 
 punish thy sins ! Oh, he has me, now, now, husband ! 
 \Thcy both sink with the Barber at a trap-door ?\^ 
 
 Ralph. " He presents the figure of the poor child we 
 had to cheat Dolly with ! '"' How shall I get off this 
 ground. [ Going away, fearfully. 
 
 Marg. Oh, Ralph ! can you leave me? 
 
 \_Thcy meet trembling, as if they found the place open.^ 
 
 Ralph. Let us keep together, and not go underground 
 in a strange place. 
 
 Marg. Tell me, Ralph, whether there was anything 
 between you and Nan ? 
 
 Ralph. Ask no questions, ask no questions, good 
 Margery. \Exeunt. 
 
 Dolly. Whither shall I go, or where will this adventure 
 end ? Sure, Mr, Severn will 
 
 \Four leaves of the MS. are here missing.] 
 * * * * 
 
 Ufnb. The pretty good-natured absurdity ! [Aside.] — 
 But, madam, you forgot Lorenzo that you mentioned just 
 now : you must see his — [ Whistle. Scene changes.] there, 
 madam, there's the place he spoke those charming words 
 in. But I forget, madam, you are a country lady, and 
 delight rather in airy prospects, tracts of land, and 
 beauteous lawns. \Scene changes to the Park. 
 
 Dolly. Is this the Park? Pray, madam, where is the 
 Birdcage Walk, where lovers meet for intrigue ?
 
 384 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act li. 
 
 Uinb. You shall see it in due time; for I have a thou- 
 sand other things to tell you of. You must understand 
 human life, and what passes in the world, before you give 
 yourself away. — But I must not inform you of it abruptly 
 and hastily. 
 
 Dolly. It will be charitable in you, madam, to do so. 
 
 Umh. I know you must be an admirer of poetry and 
 good sense, without which music is insipid, or at least but 
 half-informed. 
 
 Dolly. I have wished myself at London a thousand 
 times, to see operas ; but I would not have them sing 
 nonsense. 
 
 Uinb. Therefore, madam, I hope you'll like the poetry 
 which Mr. Severn has ordered for the stage in celebration 
 of two faithful lovers : they were persons in an humble 
 condition, and no ways conspicuous but by their passion 
 for each other ; indeed, just what they should be 
 conspicuous for 
 
 An Inscription and Epitaph in a Country 
 Church.^ 
 
 ** Near this place lie the bodies of John Hewett and 
 Sarah Drew, an industrious young man and a virtuous 
 maiden of this parish, who, having been contracted in 
 marriage, and being with many others at harvest-work, 
 were both in one instant killed by lightning on the last 
 day of July, 17 18." 
 
 Dolly. Oh ! but the poetry — what a sad thing 'twould 
 have been if one of them had been left alive — But pray 
 let's see the poetry. 
 
 ' Pope tells the story of these lovers in a letter to Lady M. W. 
 Montagu. He wiote two poeticnl epitaphs, one of which, with 
 slight modifications, is given by Steele, and afterwards this prose 
 inscription, which Lord Harcourt thought would be better under- 
 stood by the common people.
 
 ACT ir.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION, 
 
 385 
 
 Umb. Have but patience and we will have convenience, 
 miss, to sit down and hear it. \Scene changes to a boiver, 
 
 " Think not with rigorous judgment seized, 
 
 A pair so faithful could expire ; 
 Victims so pure Heaven saw well pleased, 
 
 And snatched them in celestial fire. 
 Live well, and fear not sudden fate ; 
 
 When death calls virtue to the grave, 
 Alike 'tis justice soon or late, 
 
 Mercy alike to kill or save. 
 Virtue alike can hear the call. 
 And face the flash that melts the ball." 
 
 But let us take our places, and carry it gravely, suitable 
 to your fortune and merit. 
 
 \Ha'e it is performed. 
 
 Steele, 
 
 C C
 
 iv-^r 
 
 .^^ 
 
 
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 £n/£/- Severn a/id Humber. 
 
 ,-,^ EV. I have often begged you to let me 
 
 shift for myself, let my character sink 
 or swim. Every man who attempts 
 any new thing must allow mankind to 
 talk of him as they please. I do 
 not regard what the world says, but 
 what they should say. 
 JIu//i. It is very odd that we have never happy moments 
 but at midnight, so different are our tempers ; and we are 
 made to keep together from no other rule, but that we 
 never expostulate upon past mistakes ; to meet again 
 after a misunderstanding, contains in itself all manner of 
 apology, all expostulation ; but, if I might, I would com-- 
 plain that the business of the house is neglected while 
 you are attending your amours. 
 
 Se?'. No ; there is a present leisure to attend anything 
 of that kind, to hear any person or persons that pretend 
 to the stage, to examine scenes or goods to be shown or 
 exhibited there, and give them their answers. — Let us 
 take our places accordingly. 
 
 Hum. It is wondrous to consider the folly of mankind, 
 that think so lightly and so meanly of the faculties of a 
 player. — Roscius had three thousand scholars, and but 
 one only fit for the purpose.
 
 ACT III.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 387 
 
 Sn'. There's no arguing mankind out of their humour 
 or their taste; they may be gained upon by skill and 
 labour, but that must be felt before it's seen. 
 
 Hum. Now you begin to philosophise : but let us hear 
 the people, in spite of vernacular dialect or tone, attempt- 
 ing to represent the most difficult characters of state. 
 Mr. Duntaxat, if you please, we will now sit down and 
 hear them. \They sit doiun at table accordingly.\ Mr. 
 Severn, you see he consents to take out places. ^Rings 
 the bell?\ Who waits ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. A great many people, sir ; but none so im- 
 portunate to be admitted as the Welsh gentleman, 
 who offers to act the character of Hamlet for his own 
 pleasure. 
 
 Hum. Plague on him, whose pleasure will it be 
 besides ? 
 
 Sev. Ohj all the world will like him ; let us admit him 
 by all means. 
 
 Hum. He, in his vernacular tone, will disparage a scene 
 for ever by repeating it ; but do as you will. 
 
 Sev. Pray desire the gentleman to walk in : pray, 
 gentlemen, keep your countenance, for he is no fool ; or 
 if he is, he is a valiant one, and hath a great estate half- 
 way up the atmosphere. 
 
 E)itcr Mr. Gwillyn. 
 \They all rise from their seats. \ 
 
 Sir, we understand the high obligation you lay upon 
 us (pray sit down, sir) in condescending to tread the 
 stage in the character of the Prince of Denmark ; in 
 which, sir, you are so far right, that he was a prince of 
 a very ancient family, and not unworthy a gentleman of 
 your character to represent.
 
 388 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [ACT ill, 
 
 Gwil. I have a respect for him, both for his phitt and 
 his prains, and think I could do him justice. 
 
 Sev. There is no doubt of it, good sir ; and if you 
 please to pronounce the sentence, " To be and not to be," 
 you'll mightily raise these gentlemen's expectations and 
 gratitude to you for the favour you intend them. 
 
 Giuil. Sir, that will I do, if the gentlemen please to 
 hear it. \They all rise, and come forward ivith him. 
 
 Gwil. " To pee and not to pee," &c.' 
 
 Sev. Most admirably spoke, sir. Be pleased to give 
 us time to concert measures what day to act this play. 
 Let our tailor wait upon you to adjust the shape and all 
 things necessary. [^avV Gwillyn. 
 
 Hum. It's well we have got well clear of this humorous 
 exceptions gentleman ; but I was in terrible pain lest he 
 should have observed your inclination to laugh. — But let 
 us not lose time, but go on to answer other persons. 
 
 \^Rings the bell. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Hum. Who waits without? 
 
 Servafit. Very many people, sir ; but the lady with her 
 daughter says she has been here so often that she will be 
 next admitted. 
 
 Sei>. She will ! she insists to see us altogether and 
 makes a difficulty even to show her daughter's face. Now 
 that is so preposterous and humourous, that I could not 
 answer her civilly and in general, and so put her oft". 
 
 Hum. Let her come in, however, and have her answer 
 from us all. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Fennell, with her Daughter. 
 
 Hum. Madam, what are your commands here.? 
 
 1 A copy of the speech from Pope's edition of Shakespeare, was 
 sent to Steele by William Plaxton, on July 22, 1725; and in the 
 margin Steele wrote : " Mr. Gwillim speaks this speech in the 
 Welsh tone, looking at the gentlemen suspiciously, not speaking 
 improperly, but as he is a Welshman" (Add. MS. 51450 f. 170).
 
 ACT III.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 389 
 
 Mrs. Fen. Gentlemen, I am a gentlewoman of a very 
 ancient family. 
 
 Sev. Very likely, madam ; but, indeed, madam, we sit 
 here to provide for the stage, and not to hear pedigrees. 
 If you are of a house of yesterday, and please to-day — 
 you'll pardon me, madam— that is what we arc to mind 
 chiefly; but pray, madam, break into your business. 
 
 Mrs. Fen. Why, gentlemen, this young lady in a mask 
 with me is my daughter, and I propose her for the stage ; 
 for I am reduced, and starve or beg we must not. 
 
 Sei'. But, madam, please to show us how your daughter 
 will help to keep us from wanting. Madam, we have a 
 great charge already. 
 
 Mrs. Fen. Why, you see, gentlemen, her height is very 
 well ; she is neither tall nor short. 
 
 Sev. We allow it, madam ; but that is not all : she 
 must speak with a good air and grace. — Won't she un- 
 rnask? Must not we see more than thus much of her? 
 
 Mrs. Fen. No, no, gentlemen, we must come to some 
 manner of agreement before you see any further. To be 
 a maid of honour, a waiting lady on your Statiras and 
 Roxanas,^ or any of your theatrical princesses, she'll 
 deserve twenty sliilHngs a week for mere dumb show — 
 and I'll have assurance of that in case you like her 
 face ; or else it shan't be said she was offered to the 
 playhouse. 
 
 Sev. Well, but, madam, that is not all ; for let her be 
 for dumb show only, her face is not all ; she must be well 
 limbed \They la/iisper and confer.'] — she may sometimes 
 be in a boy's dress — a Cupid, a young heir to a great 
 family, a page, or a gentleman-usher. 
 
 Mrs. Fen. Why, I was aware of the objection, and 
 have had a model taken of her legs, which you shall see, 
 gentlemen. There they are ; as fine a straight leg and 
 
 1 Statira, wife of Alexander, is murdered by Roxana, the Bactrian, 
 in Lee's tragedy, The Rival Queens.
 
 390 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [ACT III. 
 
 as proper a calf — you shall seldom see a woman's leg so 
 well made. — I don't question, gentlemen, but you have 
 seen great choice, gentlemen, in your posts; are well 
 acquainted with the symmetry of parts, and correspondence 
 of limbs. 
 
 Sev, Well, madam, you speak of your goods so advan- 
 tageously, and set them off so reasonably, that if the lady 
 pleases to show her face, we shall give twenty shillings 
 a week, certain. 
 
 Mrs. Fai. She is your servant, and shall constantly 
 attend rehearsals. [Daughter unmasks. 
 
 So.!. On my word, a very surprising face. — Pray, 
 madam, may I beg the favour to see those pretty lips 
 move ? 
 
 Daughter. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sev. Piay, madam, raise your voice a note higher. 
 
 Mrs. Feu. Gentlemen, I beg she may be kept wholly 
 for tragedy, for she takes prodigiously after me. She can 
 act only an haughty part; I was prodigiously haughty in 
 my youth. She will never act naturally anything but 
 what's cruel and unnatural, as the men call it. 
 
 Sev. But, madam, can't she repeat any verses, any 
 parts of a play ? It's strange she should have an 
 inclination to the stage, and yet nothing by heart. 
 
 Airs. Fen. Oh, I have inured her to get as many things 
 as possible to arm her against the wiles of men ; as those 
 concerning Sir Charles Sedley — Say on, good Betty. 
 
 Daughter. " Sedley has that prevailing gentle art, 
 That can with a resistless charm impart 
 The loosest wishes to the chastest heart." ' 
 
 Sev. " The loosest wishes ! "■ — I fancy somebody or 
 other has seen her legs otherwise than by a model^ — she 
 speaks so sensibly ! [AsiWe. 
 
 Daughter. " Raise such a conflict, kindle such a fire 
 Between declining virtue and desire, 
 
 ^ These well-known lines are by Lord Rochester.
 
 ACT III.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 391 
 
 Till the poor vanquish'd maid dissolves away, 
 In dreams all night, in sighs and tears all day." 
 
 Sev. Well, madam, pluck up a spirit ; and let us hear 
 you grace it, and do it with an air. Speak it politely, 
 with a side face ; you are to imagine an audience though 
 there is none ; and pray speak it with courage — 
 
 " Sedley has that prevailing," &c. 
 
 Hum. Madam, you may be sure of all the encourage- 
 ment and care your beauty and merit deserve. 
 
 \^Exeunt Mrs. Fennell and Daughter. 
 
 Well, now, let us look into some scenes that are under 
 examination, whether proper to be exhibited or not. Let 
 the scene of Mr. Buskin come on. 
 
 \Trutnpets sound, and drums beat a march.\ 
 
 Enter Buskin. 
 
 Busk. " In vain has conquest waited on my sword. 
 In vain th' obedient waves have wafted o'er 
 The bark in which I sailed ; as if the gods 
 Had ordered nature to preserve her course 
 With gentle clime and season, to convey 
 In safety me, their instrument of fate." 
 
 Hum. Ho ! brave, ho ! brave. What's to come after 
 that? 
 
 Busk. '• All this was vain, since Clidiamira's eyes 
 Have met with mine — and stopped my race of glory. 
 Oh, Clidiamira— Oh ! oh ! oh ! let all 
 The elements break loose — " 
 
 Hmn. Ay, ay, to be sure, they can do no less, if 
 Clidiamira's really angry ; but not so fast, not so fast, if 
 you please. 
 
 Busk. Pray, sir, give mc leave — Oh, Mr. Humber, is 
 it you? Your humble servant. — I submit — I know you 
 are a critic. 
 
 Hum. To be free, sir, you must know this way of
 
 392 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act ill. 
 
 blustering is a stage legerdemain ; a trick upon the eyes 
 and ears of the audience. Look you, sir, this is a time 
 of licentiousness ; and we must examine things, now we 
 are setting up to strip you, to know whether what you 
 say is good or not. 
 
 Busk. How, strip me ! 
 
 Hum. Ay. strip you — for if it be not sense in your 
 doublet, it is not in your long robe. High heels on your 
 shoes, or the feathers on your beaver, cannot exalt you a 
 tittle. No ; you must know, good folks, this is all a 
 cheat. Such stuff as this is only a tragedy of feathers — 
 it is only lace and ribbon in distress ; undress the actor, 
 and the speech is spoiled. 
 
 All. Strip him — strip him ! 
 
 \Thcy pull off his clothes. 
 
 Hum. Now speak, now speak. 
 
 Busk. Givememy truncheon at least; I got it by heart 
 with a stick in my hand. 
 
 Many. Ha, ha, ha ; let him have his truncheon — let him 
 have his truncheon. 
 
 Busk. Nay — pray, gentlemen and ladies, let me come 
 on the same board. — Nay — 
 
 Hmn. You shall do that.— Well, but begin. 
 
 Busk. "In vain has conquest" — shan't I have a little 
 of the trumpet? 
 
 All. No, no, no. 
 
 Busk. Then the drum only ? 
 
 All. No, no. 
 
 Busk. '' Oh, Clidiamira— oh ! oh! oh ! "—It won't do ; 
 one can't follow either love or honour without some 
 equipage. 
 
 Hum. Well then, master, to keep you in countenance, 
 you shall take up your things, and in your doublet speak 
 that sentiment in the play called The Patriot^ wherein 
 
 ' The only dramatic piece called The Patriot that was in print in 
 Steele's time was Gildon's tragedy (1703); and no such lines as 
 those given here are to be found in it.
 
 ACT in.] THE SCHOOL OF action: 393 
 
 the great lord speaks to his friend, who applauds the 
 bestowing of his bounty. The friend, taking notice of 
 his conveying secretly relief to a distress'd person of 
 great merit, and thinking to please him, tells him that the 
 man obliged has found out who sent it, and said it was a 
 God-like action. To which the answer : 
 
 " God-like indeed, could one bestow unseen ! 
 Thanks are too large returns, from soul to soul. 
 For anything that we can handle thus : 
 Heaven has no more for giving us our all. 
 The means of sustenance man owes to man. 
 As angels give each other thought for thought." 
 
 Mr. Buskin, your most humble servant ; mingle with 
 the company. — Take your things. Say that in a doublet, 
 cap, or waistcoat, with or without shoes, and make it little 
 if you can. \The crotvci takes in Buskin. 
 
 Hum. But I see you grow uneasy, to be diverted from 
 your main design ; I'll only trouble you with two circum- 
 stances, which to me appear very magnificent, tragical, 
 and great : the one is a great favourite in a court, a man 
 of consummate honour, who was surrounded with many 
 difficulties and enemies. They got the better of him so 
 far, as that he must be sacrificed unless he would open a 
 letter which came by an error into his hand, but was 
 directed to his enemy. He comes on in a soliloquy, but 
 chooses to preserve his honour and abstain from opening 
 it, and goes on to his ruin. He says but a word or two ; 
 but let him come. 
 
 Enter a Tragedian, jvith a letter in his Jiand. 
 
 Tragedian. " Here is my fate : 'tis put into my hands ; 
 'Tis in my hands to take or to refuse ; 
 I cannot open it but with loss of honour — ■ 
 Be it for ever closed. 
 
 I cannot escape death ; that will come soon or late ; 
 'Tis in my power to make it find me innocent." [£xit.
 
 394 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act in. 
 
 Hum. You observe, Mr. Severn, liere's no noise, no 
 eclat, no bustle, but simple and calm greatness. — The 
 next circumstance for which I beg your patience is that 
 of a great English general, who, observing the confederate 
 horse seized with a panic fear, and all, to a man, in the 
 utmost disorder, assumes himself and mounts an emi- 
 nence, and says he would stand there to revive the army. 
 He did so ; the enemies soon observed so remarkable an 
 object, and cannonaded it. He stood the fury of their 
 cannon while the army marched — But he comes on, 
 
 [Drums and trumpets to precede his viarchl\ 
 
 Enter General. 
 
 Gen. " Nothing, but seeing me meet all they fear, 
 Can avert the same contagion from the troops. 
 Let them behold me die ; or, what is more. 
 Let them behold how I expect to die ! " [£xit. 
 
 Hum. It is allowable to help great thoughts, and 
 alarm the audience with warlike instruments, to give the 
 inattentive a sense of what is truly sublime. But I won't 
 detain you longer ; let us go in ; but as we are going off 
 a stage, let me repeat to you a couple of verses. 
 
 Would you reform an heedless guilty age, 
 Adorn with virtuous characters the stage.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 Enter Mr. Pincers, and Barber, and Constable. 
 
 IN. How do you say, sir? All this is a 
 delusion ! an imposition ! 
 
 Barb. Perfectly so, sir; no other- 
 wise, indeed, sir ; and they have 
 seized Mr. Constable there, my neigh- 
 bour, who came into the house to 
 keep the peace, when they were 
 waging war in it. 
 
 Pin. What, lay hold upon a constable! detain the 
 constable ! Do they know what they do? 
 
 Barb. Ay, they know very well ; but they don't care 
 what they do. 
 
 Pin. And was the ghost a cheat, and calling this an 
 inn all imposition ? 
 
 Barb. Yes, sir ; but here Mr. Constable has found 
 below stairs an inlet into the house, and whence he can 
 let in all the people of Drury Lane and the parts 
 adjacent. 
 
 Pin. I have heard of Drury Lane in the country ; but 
 they will do as well as any for this purpose. 
 
 Barb. That is most excellent good luck; we will swing 
 them for false imprisonment, and that of so great an 
 officer as a constable.
 
 396 THE SCHOOL OF A CTION. [act IV. 
 
 Constable. But, sir, I want a warrant to do wliat I 
 would on this occasion. 
 
 Pin. There need none, sir; you have the law, which 
 will uphold you in it ; the recovery of your liberty, and 
 my liberty, as well as that of the barber, will support 
 you. There is in your person the liberty of every man in 
 England. As you are a constable concerned, I am a 
 lawyer. I'll stand by you, I warrant you. But let's be 
 silent before you bring in the posse. Take these deeds 
 in your care and custody. \Giving hiiii deeds. ^ Observe, 
 Mr. Barber, I deliver them to him ; and' now let us go, or 
 him go, and let in his people. \^Exit Constable.] What 
 a prodigious villainy was here, Mr. Barber ! I placed 
 such a confidence in this Mr. Severn, and took counsel 
 with him for the disposal of my niece, and thus he has 
 served me ; but I have put my deeds relating to her into 
 the constable's hand ; and if he can let \\\s posse into the 
 house, I'll warrant you we will recover all. 
 
 \^A noise of people : — " Beat down the doors ; deliver 
 the lady."] 
 
 Barb. Hark, hark 1 he has got them in, I warrant ye 
 the posse is raised ; I'll warrant we shall have the whole 
 city and country on our side. 
 
 Pin. The whole matter is, how to conduct it legally. 
 Let me be but of the council, and we will knock them all 
 o' the head, and not transgress the law at all ; we will 
 murder the dogs, I would say the rogues. Why, what is 
 there in it? they are no people, they are nobody in law; 
 and if they are no people, to kill them is to kill nobody ; 
 for to fire 2A.fera natura, creatures by nature wild — those 
 animals are lawful game, and any man that has so much 
 a year may kill them ; so, Mr. Barber, any man may fire 
 upon these fellows ; these stage-players, who are no per- 
 sons, have no right in themselves ; and therefore any man 
 may kill them.
 
 ACT IV.] THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. 397 
 
 \A noise icnthout :—"■ Deliver the lady ; give her to her 
 guardian ; give her to her uncle."] 
 
 Barb. They are just a-coming in ; I know the neigh- 
 bourhood and the constable ; you shall direct us all. 
 
 Pin. Nay, I'll warrant you all shall be safely and 
 legally done. 
 
 \Enter a croivd of people.^ 
 
 Rabble. Where is the gentleman ? where is the gentle- 
 man ? 
 
 Barb. Here he is, gentlemen ; and the players have 
 taken his niece from him ; and, for aught we know, they 
 have ravished her; but, let it be so or no, we'll indict 
 them for it. Harkee, Mr. Pincers, will an indictment 
 for a rape lie in Drury Lane ? 
 
 Pin. Lookee, gentlemen, we will fall upon them for 
 taking her and her clothes ; and then afterwards come 
 upon them for the body, as we shall see cause ; but we 
 must find this body before we can do anything. 
 
 Barb. We will bear all down before us but we will find 
 her. Down with all their sham heavens, their counterfeit 
 seas ; down with their false unsafe lands ; down with 
 their windmills and their dragons ; burn their barns ; and 
 when we have got the lady, fire the house. — Come, follow 
 the gentleman. 
 
 All. Ay, ay. 
 
 Pin. Huzza, huzza ! 
 
 All. Huzza, huzza ! \Dog barks. 
 
 \st Rabble. Don't mind their great dog; he barks a 
 sham. He is no true dog. Unkennel the dog within. 
 Harkee, neighbour, keep up your dogs — keep your dogs. 
 Halloo, halloo ! 
 
 27id Rabble. Keep your dogs, gentlemen butchers ; 
 keep the dogs to charge their house. I'll warrant we'll 
 spoil their battling, and rioting and fighting, and decoy- 
 ing all our daughters and nieces to see sights, and never
 
 398 
 
 THE SCHOOL OF ACTION. [act iv. 
 
 mind their business. Ho ! the lady, the lady — we'll 
 have the lady. 
 
 Barb. We'll make this young lady as famous as Helen 
 of Troy was. We'll burn all before us for her sake. 
 Come, let us hunt, let's see what's about this house in all 
 its parts— halloo, hunt. 
 
 Pin. Let the constable march first ; there's our safety, 
 that's our security. — Take notice, I declare before all 
 this company, it is in defence of this honest
 
 THE GENTLEmoAN, 
 
 (A FRAGMENT.)
 
 HE date of this fragment, which 
 Nichols named The Gentleman, is 
 uncertain ; it was first printed in 
 1809, together with The School for 
 Scandal. The autograph MS. is in 
 the British Museum (Add. MS. 
 5145c). Steele had written of 
 high life below stairs in the Spec- 
 tator (No. Z?>), where he says that menservants "are 
 but in a lower degree what their masters themselves 
 are ; and usually affect an imitation of their manners : 
 And you have in liveries, beaux, fops, and cox- 
 combs, in as high perfection as among people that 
 keep equipages. It is a common humour among the 
 retinue of people of quality when they are in their revels, 
 that is when they are out of their master's sight, to 
 assume in a humorous way the names and titles of those 
 whose liveries they wear." He then describes their 
 behaviour at an ordinary at Westminster, where he 
 " heard the maid come down and tell the landlady at the 
 bar that my Lord Bishop swore he would throw her out at 
 window if she did not bring up more mild beer, and that 
 my Lord Dick would have a double mug of purl." When 
 news arrived that the House of Lords was rising, " down 
 came all the company together, and away ! '' Servants 
 were wont to congregate at the entrance to Hyde Park, 
 while the gentry were at the Ring. " There are men of 
 wit in all conditions of life ; and mixing with those people 
 at their diversions, I have heard coquets and prudes as 
 well rallied, and insolence and pride exposed (allowing 
 for their want of education), with as much humour and 
 good sense as in the politest companies." (See page 281.)
 
 THE GEN7LEmc4N. 
 
 Enter Tom Dimple and Sir Harry Severn. 
 
 ^^^S^M£^'^:._, OM. I'll serve you very faithfully in 
 tills particular, since you have a 
 curiosity to pry into the affairs of 
 us poor servants. 
 
 Sir Har. I think you are happier 
 than we masters. But how do you 
 contrive it, to be at a ball and mas- 
 querade of your own, all the time we are at ours, and 
 yet be in readiness to attend when we break up or 
 want you ? 
 
 Tom. Sir, we leave sentries at all the i)laces where 
 you come out. All of us cannot expect to be at the 
 diversion every night ; but the forty or fifty who are to 
 stay about the jjlayhouse, or the person of (luality's who 
 entertains, send frequent expresses to us. Besides, I own 
 to you, sir, that we find means to have tickets of our own, 
 and can send in among you, by the help of them, when we 
 please, and have warning enough of your motions. If we 
 are a little too tardy, the coachmen can, when they think 
 it convenient, make stops so as no one can stir, and keep 
 everything in a ferment till all troops are come together. 
 
 Steele. D T)
 
 402 THE GENTLEMAN, 
 
 Sir Har. You put me in mind of a great many things 
 that have been till now unaccountable. Why, then, the 
 sudden motion when we have been all locked fast, tearing 
 and swearing, coachmen lashing, footmen bawling, and 
 link-boys offering help to call chairs or coaches, and 
 striving to lead or light you, is usually a hurry contrived 
 and made up on purpose ; and the sudden getting loose 
 of one another, is only that the word is given, " all are 
 come," "all is right "! 
 
 Tom. It is nothing else in the world. 
 
 Sir Har. But, then, how do you do for your habits 
 and your music, and all the rest of the conveniences ? 
 
 Tom. You have been so good and kind a master, that 
 I'll hide nothing that may contribute to your diversion. 
 We are in fee with the wardrobe keepers at the play- 
 houses ; and when the play is over, and all the parties 
 concerned are disposed of, as you are at your diversions, 
 the whole stock of clothes are in their hands ; and they 
 let them out for so many hours, and pack [them] up again 
 with great order, and no harm done. 
 
 Sir Har. Well, well, now there is no mystery ; there 
 is nothing so easy, as all is safe without possibility of dis- 
 appointment or surprise. — But as to what is to be done 
 to-night 
 
 Tom. This alehouse, where we all meet, is joining to a 
 great house very well furnished ; and the care of letting 
 it is committed to our landlord. He has broken tlown 
 a partition, which he can, in a day or two, make up again ; 
 and we have noble apartments for our entertainments, not 
 inferior to those wherein our masters themselves are 
 received. 
 
 Sir Har. You divert me extremely with this new scene 
 of pleasure. 
 
 Tom. We shall be in our tip-top jollity to-night ; all 
 the lower world [will] be together to-night in as much 
 pleasure as ever the upper themselves enjoyed.
 
 THE GENTLEMAN. 403 
 
 Sir Har. What have you extraordinary at this time 
 more than any other ? 
 
 Tom. Our landlord is giving up' his business, and 
 ir.arries his daughter, Mrs. Jenny, my Lady Dainty's 
 chambermaid, to the favourite footman of Sir John 
 Plover, who is a great leader among us, and will keep 
 and increase the custom of the house. But the humour 
 is, no one is to know which is tlie bridegroom ; for none 
 but the girl herself [knows] which of the company is 
 Sir John. 
 
 Sir Har. How ! Sir John ? 
 
 Tom. I should have told you that we always call one 
 another by the names of our masters ; and you must 
 not be surprised at hearing me answer to your honour's 
 to all who call to me ; for, as I am a manager, and to be 
 barefaced, I cannot disguise that / am you. 
 
 Sir Har. It is no matter if they will take me as readily 
 for your fellow-servant. 
 
 Tom. They'll never suspect you for my master. — But 
 here comes my landlord. 
 
 Landlord. Come, Sir Harry, Sir Harry, 'tis past nine 
 o'clock ; the company is coming — they have put all in 
 at the masquerade and the assemblies. 
 
 Tom. \Whispering Sir Harry.] As I am barelaced, 
 you can come to me when you please, when you are at a 
 loss. — But you see I must attend my charge. 
 
 Sir Har. I beg your pardon; I'll interrupt you no 
 more ; but if I like — you understand. 
 
 Tom. You know my skill and diligence, my good 
 master ; but adieu.— Landlord, you see the house fills ; 
 let all the waiters be ready ; pipes, tobacco, bread, cheese 
 and the like, for those who arc in hal)its proper for such 
 coarse fare. What 1 none of the stewards ready but 
 myself? 
 
 > TheMS. h.ns "off."
 
 404 THE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Enter three others with wands, barefaced. 
 
 2nd Stavard. Ay, ay, here we are — here we are. 
 
 yd Steivard. We stayed only till we saw some quality 
 figures coming in. 
 
 2nd Steicard. Look you, how we are overrun with 
 nymphs and shepherds ! — But look, look 1 there is some 
 sense in those stalking things, which move like pageants, 
 and are not of human shape. 
 
 ist Steward. Right, they cannot be out in their parts- 
 there are no such things in nature — but patched-up 
 beings, out of mere fancy and imagination. 
 
 2,rd Ste7vard. But have a care, ladies, shepherdesses, 
 nymphs; run, run — Here, here is a dragon that devours 
 virgins, as a pike does small fish. 
 
 2nd Steward. Have a care — here he comes, here he 
 come— he eats all virgins without mercy, but will touch 
 nobody else. 
 
 Several womaCs voices together^ 
 
 Let him come, let him come. 
 
 An old withered Maid, crying out. 
 
 Old Maid. Have a care, have a care, have a care; let 
 me get off, let me get off; oh me — oh me ! 
 
 {Running ojf. 
 
 Figure of St. George — Dicky, borns 07i a war-horse. 
 
 Dicky. Fear not, fair one, fear not* I am St. George, 
 I'll save thee. 
 
 Dragon and St. George fghi. 
 
 The crowd cry out. Ho-boy, St. George ! Ho-boy, 
 dragon ! — there's the knight of the worlds 
 
 \st Masquer. Hear, hear, the knight is going to speak. 
 As he's stout, he's mercifuL He is going to give the 
 dragon his life — no, no, he's going to speak to him.
 
 THE GENTLEMAN. 405 
 
 Constable. Hold, hold, sir knight ; the dragon's my 
 neighbour — he's a tailor in my neighbourliood. 
 
 2ttd Masquer. Open the dragon ; open the dragon ; 
 keep the peace ; take out the tailor. 
 
 Lawyer Masquer. Take care what you do ; take care 
 what you do. If he is a denizen, the law is very severe. — 
 Though there are nine to make up a man, by a fiction 
 of law it is murder to kill any one of them : the law 
 supposes him a whole man, 
 
 \st Steward. Ho ! Mr. Fly-flap, Mr. Wardrobe- 
 keeper, give the company an account of the knight and 
 of his horse. 
 
 Wardrobe- keeper. This is the poet's horse that trod 
 down all the persons who have been killed in tragedy 
 ever since I came to the house. The gentleman that 
 rides him has some verses about him, if he would 
 speak them. 
 
 Many Masquers. Hear, hear ! — Hear the verses ! 
 
 St. George. On this bold steed, with this dead-doing 
 arm, 
 Without art magic, help of draught or charm, 
 Crowds have I slain, and routed from the field, 
 Or made, as captives, to my mercy yield. 
 My horse and me none could escape by flying, 
 But saved their lives by well dissembled dying. 
 
 Cobbler Masquer. Very well, very well, i'failh. Look 
 ye, look ye, gentlemen, I know the humour of that. 
 I live just by in Vinegar Yard, and I know the 
 humour of that. You must know he means by that 
 — that by pretending to be dead, the men whom the 
 valiant man in the play rides over, or cuts down, are 
 carried [off"] safe and sound. Why, I have been called 
 in, when there has been a great battle in the house, 
 to help to carry off the dead ; and I have brought a 
 man off dead over-night, and mended his shoes next 
 morning.
 
 4o6 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ^th Masquer. Ho, brave Crispin ! — that's a good jest, 
 i'faith. 
 
 Cobbler. But my wife said a very good thing upon 
 that. "Look thee. Will," said she, for you must know 
 my name is William, "we shall never make anything of 
 this, if we are to wait for dead men's shoes." 
 
 ^th Masquer. Ho-boy, Crispin ! Thou art a merry 
 rogue, Crispin ! 
 
 % * X' *
 
 cATTENVIX.
 
 APPENDIX/ 
 
 I. 
 
 STEELE V. RICH. 
 
 (P.iges xxviii— XXX.) 
 
 PLAINTIFF S BILL.^ 
 
 3° die Julii 1707. 
 
 To ihc rigJii /unf'"''' William Lord Coivper Baron of 
 Wingham Lord Jiigli C/iancc/ior of Great Brittaine 
 
 Humbly Complaining, Sheweth unto y' Lordship your 
 Orator Richard Steele of Westm" Gent Thai your 
 Orat™ haveing writt Severall Comedyes & Playes at the 
 request of «& for Christopher Rich Esq"^ for the use of the 
 Theater or Playhouse in or near Bridges Street in Covent 
 Garden in the County of MicMx of which playhouse the 
 said Christopher Rich was & is cheife Patentee or has an 
 assignm' or some other Conveyance of the Patent thereof 
 or otherwise hath the cheife Interest therein and the 
 
 ' The documents printed in this Appendix are taken from my 
 Life of Steele^ 1889, in order to illustrate, more fully than was 
 possible in the Jntroduction, Steele's relations with the theatre at 
 different periods. 
 
 '■^ Chancery Proceedings (Pub. Rec. Office), B and A. Hamilton, 
 IV., before 17 14, Mo. 642.
 
 410 APPENDIX. 
 
 pfitts ariseing from the acting of Playes there He the said 
 Christopher Rich to induce your Orator to write further 
 for him on or about the Month of December in the year 
 of our Lord one Thousand seaven hundred & two 
 advanced & payd to your Orat"' the Suiue of Seaventy & 
 two pounds upon this Agreement then or about that 
 time made between them That your Orator should bring 
 to him the said Christopher Rich & for his use the next 
 Comedy your Orator Should be the Author of and out of 
 the Profitts when the same should come to be acted that 
 belonged to your Orator as the Author according to the 
 Usage and Custome in such Cases he the said Chris- 
 topher Rich was to deduct & pay himself for the said 
 seaventy & two pounds and Interest thereof and in the 
 meane time for the said Christopher Rich's security your 
 Orator was pvailedwith to give and accordingly did give 
 his bond of one hundred forty and four pounds penalty 
 condiconed for the payment of the said seaventy two 
 pounds and alsoe a \Varrant of Attorney to enter up 
 Judgment on the said bond to him the said Christopher 
 Rich And afterwards (viz.) sometime in or about the 
 Month of Aprill in the Year of our Lord one thousand 
 seaven hundred & fouri your Orator being the Author of 
 the Comedy called the Tender Husband he did bring to 
 and deliver into the hands of the said Christopher Rich 
 the said Comedy being the next Comedy your Orator 
 was author of and it being then in an ill season of the 
 Year and your Orator being therefore unwilling to have 
 it then acted the said Christopher Rich promised to & 
 agreed with your Orator that it should not be to your 
 Orator's losse or Detriment but that your Orator should 
 have assigned to him the profitts of Two Nights made by 
 
 ' There is a curious mistake in the date of the Tender Husband 
 throughout Steele's Bill. As we have seen, it was first produced 
 in April, 1705. There aie several allusions in the play to the 
 battle of Blenheim, which was not fought until August, 1704.
 
 APPENDIX. 411 
 
 acting of the said Play the next following Winter in Lieu 
 of his Two dayes Protitts according to the Usage & 
 Custome in such case And the said Christopher Rich did 
 cause the said Comedy or Play to be acted on the said 
 Theatre in or about the Month of Aprill & year one 
 thousand seaven hundred & four aforesaid And severall 
 dayes in the Autumne or Winter following which proved 
 very successefull and the said Christopher Rich made & 
 received great profitt thereby And by the Agreement 
 aforesaid and accordinge to Usage & Custome in the like 
 Cases your Orator was to have the whole profilts of the 
 first third day it was acted in Autumne or Winter afore- 
 said without any diduccon of Charges of Acting and 
 alsoe of the second third day or Sixth day it was acted 
 on as aforesaid diducting only the charges of Acting 
 Which profitts of the said two dayes came to the hands 
 of & was received by the said Christopher Rich and was 
 more than sufficient to pay & satisfye the said Seaventy 
 two pounds & Interest \Vhereupon your Orator expected 
 as he had reason that the said Christopher Rich would 
 have delivered up to your Orator the said bond & 
 acknowledged satisfaccon on the Record of the Judgment 
 which the said Christopher Rich had caused to be 
 Kntred upon Record against your Orator and would have 
 payd your Orator what was over & above the said 
 seaventy Two pounds & Interest thereof — But now soe 
 it is May it please your Lordship That the said Chris- 
 topher Rich minding to oppresse your Orator and extort 
 great sumes of Mony from him refuses to allowe your 
 Orator the profitts of the said two dayes Acting in 
 Autumne or Winter fcjllowing according to his Agree- 
 ment or any dayes profitts or any other profitt whatsoever 
 in consideracon of the said Comedy or Play but threatens 
 to Sue your Orator on the said Judgment & take your 
 Orator in Execucon for the same and hath caused a 
 Scire facias or some other Suite or accon to be coiuenced
 
 412 APPENDIX, 
 
 against your Orator on the said Judgment ^ In Tender 
 Consideracon of all which pmisses & for as much as your 
 Orator can have noe releife therein save in a Court of 
 Equity and for that your Orator's witnesses who could 
 ■prove all & singular the premisses are either dead or in 
 parts beyond the Seas or in other parts remote & to your 
 Orator unknown To the end therefore that the said 
 Christopher Rich niay true & perfect answarc make to 
 all and singular the premisses as if here againe particularly 
 interrogated and charged and in a more particular manner 
 sett forth & discover what Playes your Orator hath 
 brought & delivered to him & for his use And whether he 
 did not advance & pay your Orator the said suiue of 
 seaventy two pounds upon such Agreement as aforesaid 
 
 1 In Easter term, 1707, the Queen sent her writ to the Sheriff of 
 Middlesex in these words : Whereas Christopher Rich, Esq., in 
 our Court at Westminster by our wiit and by judgment of the said 
 Court recovered against Richard Steele, gentleman, alias Richard 
 Steele of the parish of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, genlleman, £\i\i\ 
 of debt, also 53s. for his damages, whereof Richard is convicted as 
 is manifest to us by the Recoids: Now on the part of the said 
 Christopher we understnnd tiiat in spite of the judgment aforesaid 
 the debt and damages siill remain unpaid, wherefore Christopher 
 prays us to give him a suitable remedy We willing to do what is 
 just in the matter command you by honest men of your bailiwick 
 to cause Richard to know tliat he is to come before us at West- 
 minster on Wednesday next after the Quindene of Easter to show 
 if he knows or can say anytliing in bar of execution why Christo- 
 pher may not have execution of his debt and damages, according 
 to the force, form, and effect of recovery, if he shall think proper, 
 and further to do and receive what the Court shall consider to be 
 just in the matter. — On the 12th February, 5 Anne (170?), at West- 
 minster, Christopher came, and the Sheriff acknowledged that 
 Richard has nothing in his bailiwick by which he could cause him 
 to know, &c. \i.e<, he had no property to which he could affix the 
 notice]. Richard did not come ; therefore it was commanded to 
 the Sheriff to make known to him that he was to be before the 
 Queen at Westminster on Wednesday next after the month of 
 Easter, to show if, &c., and further, &c. The same day was given 
 to Chiistopher, whereupon he came, and the Sheriff again acknow- 
 ledged that Richard had nothing, &c., but Richard did not come. 
 It was therefore considered that Chiistopher might have execution 
 against him of debts and damages, according to the form and effect 
 of the recovery aforesaid (Queen's Bench Judgment Roll, Easter 
 6 Anne, 375). I have not found the original judgment here 
 referred to.
 
 APPENDIX 413 
 
 or upon what other Termes or Agreement and whether 
 your Orator did not bring and deliver to him for his use 
 the said Comedy or Play called the Tender Husband 
 and when the same was soe given or delivered as afore- 
 said & whether he & your Orator did not come to such 
 agreement for your Orator's share of the profitts of the 
 said play as aforesaid and what other Agreement was 
 made between him and your Orator about itt and how 
 often the same play was acted in the suilier of the said 
 Year one thousand seaven hundred & four & how often 
 in the aulumne or Winter of that year and whether your 
 Orator was not to have been allowed all or any and what 
 profitts of any & what days and what & how much he the 
 said Christopher Rich hath received of the said profitts 
 and that the said Christopher Rich may come to an 
 account with your Orator and that the said bond may be 
 delivered up to your Orator and the said Christopher 
 Rich may acknowledge satisfacion of Record on the 
 said Judgment and your Orator may have what is over 
 and above the payment of the said seaventy two pounds 
 and Interest payd to him and may be further relieved in 
 all & singular the premisses according to Equity & good 
 Conscience & that in the Meantime all his vexatious 
 proceedings att Law against your Orator may be stayed 
 by the Injuncon of this hon'^''''-' Court May it please your 
 Lordship to grant unto your Orator her Maj'^" most 
 gracious writt of Spa to the said Christopher Rich directed 
 therein & thereby commanding him personally to be & 
 appeare before your Lordship in this hon''''''"" Court at a 
 certaine day & place therein to be limited & appointed to 
 true & perfect answare make to all & singular the 
 premisses and further to stand to abide & obey such 
 Order & Decree as your Lordship shall think fitt to 
 make touching the premisses And your Orator shall ever 
 pray etc. 
 
 Jn^ SguiBu. 
 llawling.
 
 414 APPENDIX. 
 
 DEFENDANT'S ANSWER. 
 
 Jurat 9 die Novenibris 1707 Coram me Jo: Edisbury. 
 
 The Aiiswa-e of Christopher Rich Esq^ Deft to the hill 
 of Coinplaynt of Richard Steele gent Complay7iant. 
 
 This deft now & att all times hereafter saveing & 
 receiving to himselfe all & all manner of Benefitt & ad- 
 vantage of Exeption that may be had or taken to the 
 manyfold Errors untruthes unsufficiencies & Imperfections 
 in the Com[)laynant's said Bill of Complaynt conleyned 
 ffor answere iheretmto or unto as much thereof as this 
 Defend' is advised is any wise materiall for him this Deft 
 10 make answere unto Hee this Deft answereth and sayth 
 That this Deft being one of the Assignees of the patents 
 of the Theatre or Playhouse in or neare Bridges Street in 
 Covent Garden as the Complt's Bill meuconed and of 
 one other Theatre or Playhouse in Dorsett Garden 
 London'and owner of part of the shares or profitts arising 
 by acting (if any) To his owne use the Complaynant in 
 or about the month of October in the yeare of our Lord 
 One thousand seaven hundred and one brought a Comedy 
 or play to this Defend' which he the Complaynant 
 alleadged he had written and stiled the ffunerall for which 
 he the Complaynant came to an Agreement with this 
 Defend' in writing on about the Ninth day of October 
 Anno Dni 1701 and thereby for the Consideracon therein 
 menconed sold the same to this Deft to be acted by the 
 Actors under this Deft's Government as soone as they 
 could conveniently which Comedy was soone after acted 
 in pursueance of the said Agreement and the said Com- 
 playnant was paid and satisfyed in full according to the 
 Conditions and the tenor and true Intent of the said 
 Agreement and to the Content and Satisfaccon of him 
 the Complt as he acknowledged and declared and this' 
 Deft is informed and believeth that he the Complt gave
 
 APPENDIX. 415 
 
 a Receipt to M' Zachary Baggs ' the tlien and now 
 Treasurer of the said Company for his the Coniplayn'' 
 profitts arising by acting of the said Comedy by vertue of 
 the Agreement aforesaid And this Defend' liuiher sayth 
 that the Complayn' in or about the month of January 
 Anno Dni 1702- inforeming this Defend' that he had 
 nearc finished another Comedy which he intended to call 
 the Election of Goatham he proposed to sell the same t-o 
 this Deft and accordingly in or by a certaine writing or 
 Agreement beareing date on or about the Seaventh of 
 January Anno Dni 170;-, signed by the Complaynant in 
 Consideracon of one sliiiling to him the Complt then 
 paid by this deft and for the Consideracon therein and 
 herein after menconed he the said Complaynant did sell 
 or is therein or thereby menconed to sell unto this 
 Defend' his heires and assignes A Certaine Comedy whicli 
 he the Complayn' was then writing called the Election of 
 Goatham and wliich he was to deliver to this Defend' on 
 or about the Twentyeth day of ftebruary then next in 
 order to be acted by the Company of Actors under this 
 Defend'^ Governm' assoone as they could conveniently ' 
 In Consideracon whereof the said Complayn' was to have 
 all the Recei])ts of the third day on which the said play 
 should be acted liee the Complt paying out of the same 
 all the Charges of the house both constant and Incident 
 But if the Receipts on the tfourth day should double the 
 Charges thereof then the Charges of the third should be 
 returned to him and he thereby obliged himselfe to make 
 good the Charges of the second day out of the profitts of 
 
 ' Baggs commenced an action for debt against Steele in the 
 Court of" Queen's Bencli in Michaelmas term, 1707, claiming 
 damages oi ^'15. 
 
 ■^ 1703, N.S. 
 
 3 Tii»' Exaininer for October 1 2, 1 7 13, evidently written by some 
 one well acquainted with Steele's affairs, said, "I and the Up- 
 holsteier retiied to the bencli and parade in the Park, not doubting 
 but your Author would finish his lough draught of the Election at 
 Goatham, according to agreement with Mr. Rich."
 
 416 APPENDIX. 
 
 the third day in case the Charges of the second day 
 should not arise to soe much Item if the Receipts on the 
 ffourth day of acting the said play sliould amount to 
 fforty pounds or upwards the said Company was to act it 
 the ftifth day and if the ffifth dayes Receipts should be 
 fforty pounds Then they were to act it the sixth day for 
 the Benefitt of the Complayn' Hee paying out of the 
 same the Charges of that day But if att any time there 
 should appeare Reason to doubt whether the play would 
 bring Chardges or not Then the Company should not be 
 obliged to act it the next day unlesse he the Com[)Iayn' 
 would oblige himselle to make good the full charges And 
 lastly the Complaynant was not to print the said play 
 untill a montli should be expired from the fifirst day it 
 should be acted and three of the printed Books in Marble 
 paper Covers and Gilt edges were to be delivered into 
 the office for the use of the patentees assoone as the same 
 should bee printed (As in and by the said Agreem' in 
 Writing last menconed under the hand of the said Com- 
 playn' and to which this Defend' for more Certainty 
 referreth himselfe ready to be produced to this honoble 
 Court may appeare) And this deft sayth that there being 
 a ffreindship contracted between him the Complt and 
 this Deft and the Complt expressing greate kindnesse to 
 this Deft and telling him of his the Complts want of 
 Money and of his being likely to be arrested for moneys 
 oweing by him prevayled with this Deft to advance lend 
 and pay to him the Complt and to his use the Suilie of 
 Seaventy and Two pounds And he the Complaynant in 
 or by one Bond or Obligacon bearinge date on or about 
 the Seaventh day of January Anno Dni 1702 ' became 
 bound unto this Defen' in the penall Sume of One 
 Hundred fforty and ffower pounds Conditioned for the 
 payment of the said Seaventy and two pounds with 
 Interest on the Eighth day of March then next And alsoe 
 1 1703, N.S.
 
 APPENDIX. 417 
 
 he the Complt executed a Warrant of Attorney to con- 
 fesse a Judgem' upon the said Bond in the Court of 
 Queen's Bench att Westm' which Judgement was Entred 
 up accordingly as by the said Bond Warrant of Attorney 
 and the Record of the said Judgement and to which this 
 Defend' referreth himselfe may appeare And this defend' 
 sayth that he the Complt Steele as an Additional Security 
 for the better payment of the said Debt did by a writing 
 under his hand beareing date the Seaventh day of 
 January Anno Dai 1702 ^ assigne and sett over or is 
 therein menconed to assigne and sett over unto this Deft 
 all the Money and profitts which was or were to come to 
 him the Complt for his play intended to be called the 
 Eleccon of Goatham by the Agreem' therein before 
 written upon this Condition That if the said debt should 
 not be paid unto this Deft before the acting of the said 
 play That then this deft his Executors or assignes might 
 retaine and apply such profitts for or towards paym' of 
 the said debt of Seaventy and two pounds with damages 
 But if such profitts should amount to more moneys then 
 should be due to this Deft or his assignes att the time of 
 acting such play then the Overplus of the moneys and 
 profitts arising due to the Complaynant on his play by the 
 agreem' aforesaid was to goe to the use of the Complt 
 and his assignes after payment of the aforesaid debt with 
 damages to this deft and his assignes as by an Agreement 
 in writing under the hand of the Complt bearing date 
 the said Seaventh day of January Anno Dni 1702'- ready 
 to be produced to this honoble Court and to which this 
 deft alsoe referreth himselfe may appeare And this deft 
 sayth that the Complt did not pay or cause to be paid 
 unto this deft the said debt of seaventy and two pounds 
 or any part thereof or any Interest for the same according 
 to the Condition of the said recited Bond on the Eighth 
 day of March next after the date thereof nor hath he ever 
 1 1703, N.S. - 1703, N.S. ( 
 
 Steele. E E
 
 41 8 APPENDIX. 
 
 since paid the said debt or any part thereof or any 
 Interest for the same to this deft And this deft sayth that 
 he the Complt did not deliver to this deft the said 
 Comedy sold as aforesaid to this deft by the writing 
 before menconed to beare date the seaventh of January 
 Anno Dni lyof on the twentyeth of ffebruary then next 
 as thereby was mentioned nor hath he the Complt ever 
 since that time delivercil to this deft any Comedy called 
 the Election of Goatham altho this deft very often 
 requested him the Complt for the same But this deft 
 confesseth that the Complt about the latter end of March 
 Anno Dni 1705 brought a Comedy to this deft which he 
 stiled or called the Tender Husband or the accomplished 
 ffooles & desired and urged this deft and his cheife 
 Actors that the same might be acted by them with all 
 speed which he the Complt said was in leiu and in stead 
 of the said play which he intended to have called the 
 Election of Goatham and the same was the next and 
 onely play or Comedy which the Complt has brought 
 sold and delivered to this deft since the lending of the 
 said Seaventy Two pounds as aforesaid And this deft 
 Beleiveth that his this defts Company of Actors did 
 according to his the Complts desire gett up the said 
 Comedy called the Tender Husband with all the speed 
 they could and acted the same the first time on the three 
 & twentyeth of Aprill 1705 and acted the same the 
 second time the next day after and the third time on 
 Wednesday the five and twentyth of the same month of 
 Aprill for the Benefitt of the Complt the Author accord- 
 ing to the same Conditions in the said ffirst and second 
 Agreements menconed and acted the same the ffourth 
 time on the next day after being Thursday the sixth and 
 twentyeth of Aprill 1705; on which day the Receipts 
 being but Twenty Six pounds and Eleaven shiUings as 
 this deft beleives the same was thirteen pounds and Nine 
 shillings short or wanting of fforty pounds the contingent
 
 APPENDIX, 419 
 
 in the said agreement menconed This deft was not 
 obHged by the said Articles or any Agreement to cause 
 the same to be acted on the Sixth day or any more for 
 the Benefitt of the Complayn' save as hereinafter is men- 
 coned And this deft sayth that the said M' Baggs the 
 Treasurer computing each dayes charge of acting the said 
 play called the Tender Husband to amount to Thirty 
 Eight pounds ffifteen shillings and Ten pence and the 
 Receipts of the third day being Sixty one pounds and 
 six shillings & noe more as this deft beleives out of which 
 the said Sume of Thirty Eight pounds ffifteen shillings 
 and ten pence being deducted there \\\t\\ rested two and 
 twenty pounds ten shillings and two pence as this Deft 
 computes the sume But the Receipts of the second day 
 of acting the same play amounting to but twenty and six 
 pounds and ffourteen shillings being deficient Twelve 
 pounds one sliilling and ten pence to make up the charge 
 of that day which twelve pounds one shilling and Ten 
 pence being deducted out of the said two and twenty 
 pounds and ten shillings the Residue of Neate and cleere 
 profitts to come to the Complt pursueant to the Agree- 
 ment aforesaid amounted to Ten pounds Eight shillings 
 and two pence and noe more as this Deft is informed 
 and beleives with which this deft beleives the Complt 
 was acquainted and ihat he was well contented and 
 satisfyed with the account given to him the Complt of 
 the Receipts and Charges of and for the said play called 
 the Tender Husband for the ffower ffust dayes of acting 
 tliereof And this Deft sayth that the profitt accrewing due 
 to tlie Complaynant being soe small the Complaynant 
 applyed himselfe to this deft and alsoe to the principall 
 Actors under this deft's Government That he the Complt 
 would waive his profitt by the said play being Ten 
 pounds Eight shillings and two pence as aforesaid and 
 permitt the same to goe to the use of the Company pro- 
 vided they would act the said play the then next Winter
 
 420 APPENDIX. 
 
 one day for his the said Complt's Benefit instead of the 
 third day aforesaid he paying or allowing out of the 
 Receipts on such day in Winter the constant and incident 
 charge thereof and alsoe what money the Receipts on the 
 said second day of acting the said play wanted to make 
 up the full charge for that day being Twelve pounds one 
 shilling and ten pence as aforesaid which this deft as well 
 as most of the Cheife Actors Consented to or to such 
 effect And thereupon the said Treasurer made the full 
 Receipts on the third day of acting the said play called 
 the Tender Husband to be charged for the use of the 
 Company without chargeing any part thereof paid to the 
 Complaynant in regard the Complaynant refused to 
 receive the profitts due to him for that day But chose to 
 have a day in Winter in Leiu thereof as aforesaid And 
 this deft sayth that in pursueance of such Request made 
 by the Complt to this deft and the Cheife actors as afore- 
 said a day was appoynted in the winter following accord- 
 ing as the Complaynant desired and Bills were sett up 
 the day before it was to have been acted and it was 
 ordered by this deft to be geven out that Night and Bills 
 putt up for the same to be acted the next day for the 
 Author's Benefitt ; But a little before it was to have been 
 given out the Complt forbidd the same to be given out 
 on the Stage or putt into the Bills for his Benefitt saying 
 that he did not thinke there would be such an Audience 
 att it as would please him or used words to some such or 
 the like Effect But how ever the same play was acted on 
 the then next day and the whole Receipts that day being 
 Thursday the Tvventyeth of November' one thousand 
 seaven hundred and ffive amounted to sixty ffower pounds 
 three shillings and Six pence and noe more (as this deft 
 beleives & is informed by the said Treasurer) which was 
 about two pounds seaventeen shillings more then the 
 
 ^ There is some mistake in this date. On November^20, 1705, 
 the Bassttt Table was acted for the first time.
 
 APPENDIX. 421 
 
 Receipts came to on the said third day that the same 
 play was acted as aforesaid which two pounds seaventeen 
 shilUngs and Six pence this deft and the said principal 
 Actors were wilHng should be paid to the said Complt as 
 well as the suiue of Ten pounds Eight shillings and two 
 pence before menconed And this deft sayth that as to the 
 Ten pounds Eight shillings and two pence which was 
 due to the Complt out of the Receipts of the said third 
 day according to the Agreement before menconed this 
 deft never received the same or any part thereof nor the 
 said two pounds seaventeen shillings and six pence But 
 both the said Sumes remaine in the said Treasurers hands 
 for the use of the Complt as this deft beleives And this 
 deft gave order to the said M' Baggs the Treasurer to 
 pay the same to the Complaynant amounting together to 
 Thirteen pounds fitive shillings and Eight pence as this 
 deft computes the same And this deft beleives that M' 
 Baggs hath severall times offered to pay the same to the 
 Complt and is still ready to doe the same But that he 
 the Complt hath neglected or refused to receive the same 
 as the said Treasurer has informed this deft And this deft 
 denyeth that the said play called the Tender Husband 
 was acted att any time in the yeare one thousand seaven 
 Hundred and ffower either in the Summer or Winter as 
 in the Complt's Bill is suggested But the first time the 
 same was acted was on the said three & twentyeth of 
 Aprill Anno Dni 1705 as this Deft verily Beleives and as 
 is before sett forth And this deft denyeth that he this deft 
 ever made any other agreement with the Complt touching 
 or concerning the Comedyes or Playes before menconed 
 or either of them other than as is herein before sett forth 
 And this deft denyeth that he lent the said Seaventy two 
 pounds upon any other agreement then as aforesaid and 
 Sayth that he this deft did never agree to stay for the 
 said debt untill the Complt should bring the said play 
 called the Eleccon of Goatham or any other play to this
 
 422 APPENDIX. 
 
 (left And this cleft denyes that he was or is minded to 
 Oppresse the Com pit and extort gieate Suiues of money 
 from him and not allow the Complt any profitt whatso- 
 ever in Consideracon of the said Cometly called the 
 tender Husband which Comedy as this deft hath been 
 informed and beleives hath been severall times acted in 
 the last yeare by the Company of Actors in the playhouse 
 in the Hay Markett ' without this deft's consent or 
 direccion & in Opposition to this deft's Interest which 
 this deft has reason to beleive was soe done by the 
 Incouragement or att least the Conniveance of the 
 Complt But what Benefitt or profitt the Complt hath had 
 from thence for the same this deft doth not know And 
 this deft Confesseth that the Complt haveing for a long 
 time delayed the payment of the said debt of seaventy 
 two pounds with Interest and Damages to this deft and 
 not keeping his promises touching the same this deft hath 
 caused proseciicon to be made against Complt for 
 Recovery of the said debt with Interest & damages 
 which this deft humbly insists was & is lawfuU for him 
 to doe and humbly hopes this honoble Court will not 
 hinder him therein & this deft denyeth all and manner of 
 unlawfull combinacon & Confederacy for any the ends or 
 purposes in the Complt's Bill menconed without that that 
 \sic\ there is any other matter or thing Clause Sentence 
 or allegacon in the Complt's said Bill of Complaynt con- 
 teyned materiall S: effectual in the Law for him this deft to 
 make answere unto and not herein and hereby well and 
 sufficiently answered unto confessed or avoyded traversed 
 or denyed is true to the knowledge of this Deft all which 
 
 1 " Never acted there before. At the desiie of severall Ladies 
 of Quality. By her Majesty's Company of Comedians. At the 
 Queen's Theatre in the Haymarket, this presant Saturday being the 
 7'h of December [1706] will be presented a Comedy, called The 
 Tender Husband or the Accomplished Fools." The Play was 
 repeated at the Haymarket Theatre on Monday, Dec. 9"% and on 
 Feb. 25"' 1707, "for the benefit of Mrs. Oldfield" {Daily Couiant 
 passim).
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 423 
 
 matters & things this Deft is and shall be ready to avene 
 justifye niaintaine and prove as this honoble Court shall 
 direct & humbly prayes to be hence dismissed with his 
 Reasonable Costes & Charges in this behalfe most wrong- 
 fully sustcyned 
 
 Turner John Metcalfe
 
 II. 
 
 STEELE V. WILBRAHAM, &c., 1722. 
 
 (Pa-eliii.) 
 
 STEELE'S bill/ after referring to the 
 Letters Patent of the 14th January 17 14 
 — 15, and to the agreement then made 
 by Steele with Wilks, Gibber, and 
 Booth, proceeds to state that in or 
 about 17 13 Steele had contracted an 
 acquaintance with Edward Minshull, 
 Esq., of the parish of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, who pro- 
 fessed great friendship, and offered to help Steele to 
 money to supply his then urgent occasions. The offer 
 being accepted, Minshull became bound with Steele to 
 one Cox for ^^500 or thereabouts, and to one Aston- for 
 ;^4oo or thereabouts, and to some other persons, of whom 
 he borrowed, as he pretended, money to lend Steele ; and 
 he lent Steele at several times some small sums, and 
 about the 24ih July 17 16 desired Steele to give him some 
 security for the money he had lent to and stood engaged 
 to pay for Steele, all which he then pretended to compute 
 at ;^i5oo and more ; and particularly he desired that a 
 security might be made to him of Steele's fifth part of 
 the Letters Patent and of the clothes, scenes, &c., and 
 of the profits of the Theatre in Drury Lane ; and Steele 
 
 ' Chanceiy Proceedings, Zincke, 1714-58, No. 1424. 
 '^ Robert Aston brought an action against Steele for debt in 
 Michaelmas term, 17 16.
 
 APPENDIX. 425 
 
 having a good opinion of MinshuU's integrity, and believ- 
 ing the account made out to be true, readily agreed to make 
 such security, whereupon Minshull got and prepared an 
 assignment of Steele's share to him, his executors and 
 assigns, dated the said 24th July 17 16, the consideration 
 whereof was expressed to be the sum of ^1500 paid to 
 Steele ; but in truth there was not any sum then paid to 
 Steele, nor were the debts for which Minshull was bound 
 then paiti, nor was any account then drawn out or settled 
 between Steele and Minshull. And at the same time 
 Minshull signed a defeasance to Steele, that upon pay- 
 ment of the ;^r5oo and interest at a day therein men- 
 tioned the said assignment should be void ; and Steele 
 thereupon directed Castleman, Treasurer of the Theatre, 
 to pay his share to Minshull or his order. And there 
 having been great dealings between Minshull and Charles 
 Gery, Esq., of London, of whom Minshull had at times 
 borrowed several sums on several securities, and Minshull 
 proposing to assign over the security from Steele, Gery 
 insisted that Steele should join in the assignment ; but 
 Minshull declared there was no occasion for it, and that 
 Steele should make affidavit that he had no otherwise 
 encumbered his share in the Theatre ; and Gery being 
 satisfied with this, Minshull told Steele that he was much 
 pressed for the payment of the debts to Cox and Aston, 
 and that he must raise money on Steele's assignment to 
 discharge those debts, and that for that purpose the 
 affidavit must be made, to which Steele consented. And 
 some time afterwards, as Steele had been lately informed, 
 Minshull assigned the security to Gery, but Steele could 
 not discover what money was paid by Gery. Minshull 
 endorsed Steele's note to Castleman, and gave it to Gery, 
 who received several sums from Castleman. Minshull 
 and Gery formed at that lime a design to get Steele's 
 share of the scenes, clothes, and profits ; and Minshull 
 undertook to purchase the same absolutely of Steele for
 
 426 APPENDIX. 
 
 ^4000, which it was agreed between Miusluill and Gery 
 should be for their joint and equal benefit ; but the 
 ^4000 was to be paid by Gery, and ^^2000 repaid by 
 Minshull as he could raise the same out of his moiety of 
 the profits ; and this agreement was marked in the 
 assignment made by Minshull to Gery, or in some other 
 deed or writing between them. Minshull then often 
 requested Steele to sell his share, but being unsuccessful 
 he said he perceived Steele was in straits for money, and 
 that it would be proper for Steele to raise a considerable 
 sum at once, and professed that he would advance a 
 further sum of ;i^2 5oo upon the security of the said 
 premises, and allow Steele two years for the payment 
 thereof. This Steele accepted, and Minshull being in 
 daily expectation, as he pretended, of receiving ;;<^30oo, 
 or some such sum, directions were given by him to Mr. 
 Ralph Wilbraham, his attorney, to draw up an assign- 
 ment to him of Steele's share, which Wilbraham accord- 
 ingly got drawn up and engrossed. It was dated on 
 or about the 31st January i7i6[-7], and was made 
 absolute, Minshull undertaking to give Steele a defeas- 
 ance thereof in payment of the said ^^4000 and interest 
 within two years of the date thereof. And this assign- 
 ment being drawn and engrossed, Minshull and Wilbraham 
 came to Steele, who was then attending the service of 
 his country in the House of Commons, and carried him 
 to the Horn Tavern, in the Palace Yard, Westminster, 
 and after the assignment was read over, Minshull, speak- 
 ing with Steele in another room, said that, being dis- 
 appointed of money, he could not pay Steele any part of 
 the said J[,'2^oo, but would in a few days, and in the 
 meantime would give a note for the money, and that for 
 Steele's security the assignment should remain in Wilbra- 
 ham's hands till the sum was paid, and that he (Minshull) 
 would execute a proper defeasance to Steele. Steele, 
 being ignorant of matters of law, spoke to Wilbraham, who
 
 APPENDIX. 427 
 
 assured Iiim that he would receive no prejudice thereby, 
 adding that he (Wilbraham) was obliged to take extraor- 
 dinary care that Steele should not suffer because Steele put 
 such great confidence in him.' Steele was thus, at the 
 earnest request of MinshuU and Wilbraham, induced to 
 sign the assignment of the 31st January 1717, and to sign 
 a receipt endorsed on the back of tlie paper for the sum 
 of ;j^40oo as the consideration thereof; and Wilbraham 
 was a witness that Steele executed this assignment and 
 signed the receipt, well knowing that not one penny was 
 advanced as the consideration thereof, and that the 
 same was only to be security for the ;^i50o for which 
 the former assignment was given, and the ;^2 5oo when 
 the same should be paid to Steele, and for which Min- 
 shuU then gave Steele a receipt, Wilbraham being a 
 witness ; and Wilbraham assured Steele that this receipt 
 would screen him from any prejudice by signing the 
 receipt for ;^4ooo, and that if the ^2500 were not paid 
 to Steele, by virtue of the said receipt for ^2500, Steele 
 would be entitled to an allowance thereof out of the 
 ^^4000. By agreement between Steele and MinshuU 
 the assignment of the 31st January 1717 was then 
 deposited in the hands of Wilbraham as a common 
 trustee between them, until the ;^2 5oo should be paid 
 to Steele and a proper defeasance executed by MinshuU ; 
 and until that was done no use was to be made of the 
 assignment, and then Steele's former assignment for^i5oo 
 was also to be delivered up to him. And Steele requiring 
 some further memorandum from Wilbraham of such trust, 
 
 ^ The following memorandum, in Steele's writing, is among the 
 Blenheim MSS. : " Whereas S'' R : S : has made a Sale of His 
 income and interest in a Patent of the "... (some words illegible) 
 " an absolute sale in Words yet it was never intended nor should 
 be ever insisted upon as a s;de in fact, but that when the money 
 lent by M' Alinsluill should be repaid to Him, the Instruments of 
 Sale and all other deeds or securities shouki be rescinded and made 
 void and ineffecUial in what proper manner S' Richartl Steele 
 should require either before or after the time limited in the said 
 instiuments."
 
 428 APPENDIX. 
 
 Wilbraham wrote a short memorandum, acknowledging 
 that he had received the indenture of the 31st January, 
 purporting a sale from Steele to Minshull of the fifth part 
 of the Letters Patent, scenes, clothes, &c., and profits in 
 consideration of ^^^4000, which Deed was deposited in 
 his hands in order that in case Steele, his executors, &c., 
 should redeem the same within two years, the same 
 should be delivered up to be cancelled and destroyed ; 
 and this he promised to do, unless the Deed were lost by 
 fire or other unavoidable accident. Wilbraham and 
 Minshull witnessed this memorandum by afiixing their 
 signatures ; and Steele depended upon MinshuU's Note, 
 and Wiibraham's memorandum, and Wilbraham's privity 
 to and knowledge of the whole affair, and the Deed being 
 kept by Wilbraham, so that there should be no prejudice 
 to Steele, that the ^2500 would have been paid, and the 
 former assignment delivered up; and he therefore then 
 delivered his counterpart and defeasance thereof to 
 Minshull. And Minshull, or Gery at his order, continued 
 by virtue of the first assignment of July 17 16 to receive 
 Steele's fifth part of the profits ; but Minshull never paid 
 Steele the ^2500, to the very great disappointment of 
 Steele, who, depending upon the same, was reduced to 
 great straits, and therefore desired Minshull would supply 
 him with some part of it; this Minshull agreed to do if 
 Steele would consent that the agreement in Wilbraham's 
 hands should remain as security for such further sums as 
 Minshull should advance beyond the ;!^i5oo for which 
 the first security was given. Steele consented, being 
 desirous that whatever money was really advanced to 
 him should be repaid with interest; and thereupon Min- 
 shull supplied several sums and paid several sums for 
 Steele ; and Gery received out of Steele's share of the 
 profits ;^2398 i6s. lod., or some such sum; and Steele's 
 share was received by Minshull, or his order, Gery, for 
 the years 17 16 and 1717, to the amount of ;^i4i8.
 
 APPENDIX. 429 
 
 Having paid to MinshuU by one Mr. Paterson J[.\o<:), 
 Steele desired MinshuU, on or about the 22nd October, 
 to state accounts with him, which MinshuU did, and not- 
 withstanding the debt of Aston was inchided in the first 
 security for ^1500, yet MinshuU charged Steele with the 
 sum of ;^47 8s. for the costs thereof, and also with 
 several sums over and above the ^^1500, the total of one 
 account amounting to ^768 19s. gd., and the total of 
 the other to ^7 12 .5s. rod., so that on the whole Min- 
 shuU charged Steele as debtor for ^^3029 3s. 7d., and at 
 the same time gave Steele credit for ;j^i4i8 received of 
 Castleman and ;^4oo received of Paterson, whereby 
 there was a balance of ^1211 3s. 7d. due from Steele to 
 MinshuU, as will appear by the said account signed by 
 MinshuU and Steele ; and Gery was privy to the stating 
 of this account, and continued by virtue of Steele's note 
 endorsed by MinshuU to receive Steele's share of the 
 profits until the 24th January 17 19, and received thereby 
 ;^348. There remained then due to MinshuU for prin- 
 cipal and interest only ;^886 i6s. 6d. or thereabouts, but 
 Steele tendered to MinshuU jQgoo, and demanded the 
 assignment for;ir4ooo, and also the assignment for^i5oo, 
 which MinshuU pretended he had long before redeemed, 
 and often promised to deliver to Steele, and had received 
 back the defeasance and counterpart from Steele, and 
 also Steele's note to Castleman. MinshuU sent to Wil- 
 braham's house for the said assignment, but Wilbraham 
 being out of town or from home, MinshuU desired the 
 matter might be put off to another opportunity, and that 
 in the meantime he might continue to receive the profits 
 belonging to Steele, the same to be afterwards deducted 
 out of the said ;^886 i6s. 6d. To this Steele agreed ; 
 and on the 4th February 1719 paid MinshuU the further 
 sum of ;^3oo. And afterwards, on or about the 26th 
 November 17 19, Gery, by virtue of Steele's note, received 
 the further sum of ;2^238 ; but MinshuU had in the mean-
 
 430 APPENDIX. 
 
 time paid to and for Steele some other sums, so that, on 
 the iiih December 17 19, there remained due from Steele 
 to Minshull £,^^(i 2s. gd. ; and thereupon MinshuU by a 
 writing dated the said iilh December declared that 
 Steele before the expiration of two years from the 31st 
 January 171 7 tendered to him full satisfaction for the 
 consideration money mentioned to be advanced to Steele 
 by the said deed of sale, but that he (Minshull) could not 
 then come at the deed by reason of Wilbraham not being 
 at home when he sent for it, and therefore he desired 
 Wilbraham by this writing to deliver up to Steele or his 
 order the deed dated 31st January 17 17 on payment of 
 the sum of ^^596 2s. 9d., that being all the money then 
 due to Minshull, Steele sent this writing to Wilbraham, 
 offering to pay the ;!^596 2s. 9d., and well hoped the 
 deed would have been delivered up to him, and that the 
 other assignment of the 24th July 17 16, and the order to 
 Castleman, would have been delivered up by Minshull. 
 But now Minshull, Wilbraham, and Gery, combining to- 
 gether, and with William Woolley, Esq., of the county of 
 Derby, and with others as yet unknown, to defraud Steele 
 of his share in the Theatre, Wilbraham utterly refused to 
 deliver up the deed of assignment of the 31st January 
 1717, but threatened to deliver it to Gery, with whom 
 he entered into an agreement for that purpose ; and Gery 
 insisted that there was due to him from Steele ^2500 or 
 some such great sum, and that Steele's fifth share ought 
 to be charged therewith ; and to cover these unjust pro- 
 ceedings he pretended that he advanced ;^i5oo to 
 Minshull upon Minshull assigning over to him Steele's 
 security of the 24th July 17 16, and that on the 31st 
 January 17 17 he advanced to Minshull the further sum 
 of;^25oo, and that Minshull paid the same to Steele ; 
 and that by a deed poll dated on or about the 31st 
 January 1717, Minshull declared that the ;^4ooo men- 
 tioned to be the consideration money of the said deed of
 
 APPENDIX. 431 
 
 sale of that date was the proper money of Gery, Min- 
 shuU's name being used only in trust for Gery ; and by 
 means of this pretended deed poll of trust MinshuU and 
 Gery endeavoured to charge Steele with the whole 
 ;^4ooo, although for ^^1500, part thereof, they or one of 
 them had a former assignment, which was never delivered 
 up, and no part of the residue, ;;^2 5oo, was paid until 
 long after, and then only some part thereof in small 
 sums, and, as Steele had reason to believe, raised out of 
 the very share of the profits belonging to him ; and in 
 truth no such sum of p{^2 500 was advanced by Gery at 
 that time upon the said security, nor was the said de- 
 claration of trust executed till long afterwards, when there 
 v/ere various accounts between MinshuU and Gery, and 
 Gery was apprehensive that he should lose money by 
 MinshuU ; nor did Gery tiU lately inform Steele of the 
 said declaration of trust, and Steele apprehended he had 
 nothing to do with any person but MinshuU, as MinshuU 
 often informed him ; and he looked upon Gery only as 
 the order of MinshuU, and accountable to MinshuU for 
 wliat he received ; nor did Gery ever oppose or forbid 
 Steele paying money to MinshuU. And if any such trust 
 were fairly declared for Gery, yet he ought only to stand 
 in the place of MinshuU as to what was due to MinshuU 
 on the 31st January 17 17, and which he long since 
 received with interest and a great overplus ; and Wil- 
 braham, in whose custody the assignment for ^4000 was 
 left, ought to have acquainted Gery that no part of the 
 ;^4ooo was advanced except the ;;^i5oo secured by 
 Steele for the assignment ; or at least Gery would have 
 received such information if he had inquired of Wilbra- 
 ham or Steele. And at other times Gery pretended he 
 had assigned his interest in the premises to WooUey, and 
 would not concern himself about the same, although he 
 well knew that since the nth December 17 19, he had 
 received of Castleman at several times the further sum of
 
 432 APPENDIX. 
 
 ;^394, so that upon a fair account there now remained 
 due from Steele to MinshuU or his order only about 
 ;^2 2o, which sum Steele was willing to pay to MinshuU 
 or Gery or Woolley, as the Court should ordain, upon the 
 cancelling of the several securities entered into by Steele 
 to MinshuU. But MinshuU, Gery, and Woolley most un- 
 reasonably insisted upon charging Steele with the whole 
 ^2^4000 and interest from the 31st January, 17 17, and 
 nevertheless refused to discover when or how this 
 ^£'4000 was advanced or paid by Gery to MinshuU, or 
 what they knew or had been informed, or what interest 
 Woolley had therein. All which being contrary to 
 equity, Steele prayed that writs of subpoena might be 
 directed to MinshuU, Gery, Wilbraham, and Woolley, 
 commanding them to answer the matters contained in 
 this Bill. 
 
 Wilbraham's answer, dated 17th March i72i[-2], is 
 the only one existing. It states that some short time 
 before the 31st January 171 7 MinshuU gave Wilbraham 
 directions for preparing such assignment or sale from 
 Steele to MinshuU of Steele's fifth part in the Theatre, as 
 was mentioned in Steele's Bill, and two parts of such 
 assignment were engrossed, leaving a blank for the con- 
 sideration money ; and Wilbraham said that to the best 
 of his remembrance he carried the engrossments to 
 Steele's then house in St. James's Street, and not to the 
 Horn Tavern ; and Wilbraham read over the assignment, 
 and then Steele and MinshuU retired to another room, as 
 he apprehended to converse together upon the subject- 
 matter of the assignment. When they returned, a pro- 
 posal was made by one or both of them, that inasmuch as 
 the assignment was drawn absolute and without any 
 clause of redemption, and yet it was intended to be 
 redeemable and to be only in the nature of a mortgage, 
 the assignment, when executed by Steele, should be de- 
 posited in Wilbraham's hands as a common trustee, and
 
 APPENDIX. 433 
 
 that he should give to MinshuU a note that the deed was 
 in his custody, and that he would deliver it up to Steele 
 upon Steele's redeeming the same within two years' time 
 from the date of the deed. Steele particularly asked 
 Wilbraham whether, in case the deed was deposited in 
 his hands, the note would be sufficient to make the deed 
 a mortgage, and Wilbraham said that it would, if the note 
 were attested and witnessed by Minshull, Steele then 
 acquiesced in the proposal, and did not in Wilbraham's 
 hearing require any other defeasance of the deed ; and 
 Wilbraham was ordered to fill up the blank, and make 
 the consideration ;!^4ooo. The engrossed copies were 
 then signed, and Steele gave a receipt for ;^4ooo, which 
 was endorsed on the deed executed by him, and Wilbra- 
 ham added his signature as witness. The deed was then 
 handed to Wilbraham, who gave a receipt — as mentioned 
 in Steele's Bill — which was attested by Minshull. Wil- 
 braham was of opinion that Steele, like himself, then 
 believed Minshull to be a man of substance. Wilbraham 
 did not remember to have seen any money paid by 
 Minshull to Steele, but believed MinshuU gave Steele a 
 note or receipt for ;^25oo, for which sum Minshull pro- 
 mised to be accountable to Steele, and Wilbraham be- 
 lieved he added his signature as witness. Wilbraham 
 denied that he assured Steele that this note or receipt 
 would effectually secure him from any prejudice which 
 might arise to him by his signing the receipt for jC^a^ooo^ 
 or that he told Steele that if the ^£"2500 were not paid 
 him he would, by virtue of the note or receipt for ;!{^2 5oo, 
 be entitled to an allowance thereof out of the ;2^4ooo, or 
 that Steele asked him any questions relating thereto. He 
 also denied that the deed was placed in his hands as a 
 common trustee until the ^^2500 should be paid to Steele 
 and a proper defeasance executed, or that until the same 
 was done no use was to be made of the deed, or that 
 then Steele's former assignment for ^^1500 was to be 
 Steele. Y F
 
 434 APPENDIX. 
 
 delivered up to Steele ; and he also denied that the deed 
 was given to him upon any other terms than those set 
 forth in the note which he gave \ nor did he use any per- 
 suasion to induce Steele or MinshuU to entrust the deed 
 to him, or to induce Steele to sign the deed or the receipt 
 thereon endorsed, or to accept Minshull's note or receipt 
 for ^^^2500; nor was he any way privy to or acquainted 
 with the reasons which induced Steele to do the same, 
 save that he knew the ^1500 was or was mentioned to 
 be the consideration of a former deed of sale of Steele's 
 .fifth share, dated about 24th July 17 16. And Wilbraham 
 had heard that Gery had, before the 31st January 17 17, 
 advanced ;!^i5oo to MinshuU upon the credit of Steele's 
 first assignment, and that MinshuU had assigned over to 
 Gery Steele's first assignment as security; but he did not 
 then apprehend that Gery had advanced to MinshuU, or 
 was to advance, ^^2500, and therefore he understood 
 himself to be only a trustee as between Steele and Min- 
 shuU. But some time afterwards MinshuU and Gery came 
 to Wilbraham and told him that Gery had advanced a 
 further sum of ;^25oo, and that the whole ;;{^4ooo was 
 therefore, in truth, Gery's money. Wilbraham then drew 
 up a declaration of trust to that effect, dated 31st 
 January 1717, which was duly executed by MinshuU in 
 the presence of one Mr. William Aspin and Wilbraham, 
 witnesses. But Wilbraham admitted that this deed was 
 not executed on the 31st January 1717,33 dated, but 
 some time afterwards, though he could not remember the 
 particular time. After the execution of this last deed 
 Wilbraham considered himself as a common trustee 
 between Steele and Gery. After all this, when, as Wil- 
 braham believed, MinshuU had failed in answering 
 Steele's drafts of money upon him, Steele sent to Wil- 
 braham and offered him thirty guineas to deliver up the 
 deed of assignment of the 31st January, and said MinshuU 
 was consenting thereto; but Wilbraham answered that
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 435 
 
 MinshuU's consent would not indemnify him for so doing, 
 because he knew that the money intended to be secured 
 by the assignment was not then MinshuU's but Gery's, 
 and that he must have Gery's consent ; he therefore 
 refused to dehver up the deed. And he beheved Min- 
 sliuU sent to him when he was not at home, as narrated 
 in Steele's Bill ; and he from time to time acquainted 
 Gery with the proceedings of Steele and MinshuU; but 
 he denied that he had threatened to give the deed to 
 Gery, or had entered into any engagement with Gery for 
 that purpose. The deed was still in his hands or power. 
 He was never taken into council by Steele and Minshull, 
 except that he paid, subsequently to the assignment of 
 the 31st January 1717, ;^7o to Hugh Reason, Esq./ for 
 Steele by order of, and with the money of, Minshull, 
 and had also seen several notes which Steele drew on 
 Minshull, which he believed were paid by Minshull. 
 
 There is no record of this case having ever come 
 before the Court, and there are no answeis to Steele's 
 Bill from Minshull, Gery, or Woolley. Fresh arrange- 
 ments were entered into in 1723, as will be seen below. 
 
 ^ Reason was landlord of the house in York Buildings where 
 Steele had his Censorium, and he brought im action for debt against 
 Steele in 17 18. 
 
 ,a#i^.
 
 III. 
 
 STEELE AND SCURLOCK 
 
 WILKS, GIBBER, BOOTH, CASTLEMAN, 
 AND WOOLLEY, 1725—8. 
 
 (Page Ixviii.) 
 
 N their bill, dated 4th September 1725, 
 the complainants,' after describing the 
 Indenture Quadrupartite of June 3, 
 1724 ,'■ the Articles of Agreemen t of Sep- 
 tember, 1721,^ the Indenture between 
 Steele andW'oolley of June 17, 1723, 
 and the note to Castleraan of July 17, 
 1723,^ said that they well hoped they should have had the 
 benefit of the assignment and letter of attorney to Scurlock 
 
 ^ Cliancery Proceedings, Sewell 1714 — 58, No. 300. 
 
 ^ Page Ixvii. . 3 Page Ivii. 
 
 * On the 17th June, 1723, an indenture was m;ide 1 etween Steele 
 and Woolley, reciting that theie then remaii.ed due to Woolley 
 _i!^90O, the residue of a greater sum for whicli one-fifth pait of the 
 profits of the theatre was mortgaged by Steele to AliPiShull, by 
 whom it was assigned to Charles Gery, and by him to Woolley 
 (page 430). This oiiginal mortgaged deed for _;^"i200 Woolley 
 delivered to Steele, upon payment of ^300 on delivery, and the 
 assignment to Woolley, his executors, &c., of the fifih part of the 
 stock, for the better security of the payment of the remaining ^900 ; 
 and on the 17th July Steele signed a note upon Richard Castleman 
 and every oiher treasurer of the Company of Comedians at Drury 
 Lane, lequiiing each of them yearly on the 23rd January to pay to 
 Woolley or his order ^200 out of the profits coming due to Steele, 
 until the ^^900 with interest at five per cent., should be fully paid.
 
 APPENDIX. 437 
 
 for the payment of Steele's debts and incumbrances, 
 and that Wilks, Gibber, and Booth would have ordered 
 the treasurer of the theatre to have paid and duly 
 accounted with Scurlock weekly, and for all arrears due 
 to Steele at the time of the assignment, as in all justice 
 and equity they ought to have done, the rather because 
 WooUey had been long since paid the ^^900 due to him, 
 together with all interest thereupon. But Wilks, Gibber, 
 and Booth, confederating together with Castleman, their 
 treasurer, and with Woolley and others, to defraud the 
 complainants of their just right, and to elude the force of 
 the assignment made by Steele for the benefit of his 
 creditors, refused to come to any account with the com- 
 plainants touching the profits, pretending that the charges 
 they had been put to in finding clothes, scenes, &c., had 
 been so great that they had made little or no clear profit, 
 and yet they at the same time refused to disclose their 
 expenses ; and at other times they pretended that Steele 
 by himself or his agents had from time to time received 
 his full share of the profits ; whereas the complainants 
 expressly charged that the profits, over and above all 
 expenses, had been very great, and that neither Steele 
 nor any person acting by his order had received any but 
 a very small and inconsiderable part of his share of the 
 profits since the time of his entering into partnership 
 with Wilks, Gibber, and Booth, and that there was now a 
 very great sum owing to him. And at other times the 
 defendants, and especially Woolley, pretended that the 
 ;;^9oo secured for Woolley was not yet paid, and that 
 until that was paid the provisions for the other creditors 
 could not and ought not to take place ; but the com- 
 plainants expressly charged that this p^Qoo was and 
 ought long since to have been paid out of the profits of 
 the fourth part belonging to Steele ; and Woolley and the 
 others refused to inform Steele how much had been paid 
 to Woolley, And at other times Wilks, Gibber, and
 
 438 APPENDIX. 
 
 Booth pretended that they, on the 24th January 
 i7i9[-2o], were, together with Steele, suspended by the 
 Lord Chamberlain from further acting, and that from the 
 time of this suspension (whatever licence they afterwards 
 obtained for proceeding therein), they were not answer- 
 able to Steele for any part of the profits; whereas Steele 
 expressly charged that the suspension lasted only two 
 days or thereabouts, neither could the Lord Chamberlain 
 or any other person thereby or otherwise except by due 
 course of law deprive him of his share of the profits, 
 wherein he had a just freehold during his life by the 
 Grant and Letters Patent from His Majesty ; and there- 
 fore Wilks, Cibber and Booth ought to pay and be 
 accountable to him for his just share as if no such suspen- 
 sion had been. And at other times the defendants pre- 
 tended that by some provision in the aforesaid Articles of 
 Agreement it was provided that neither of the parties 
 thereto should at any time sell, mortgage, part with or 
 incumber his Or their share without the consent in writing 
 of the rest of the said parties, and it was pretended that 
 Wilks, Cibber, and Booth never gave such assent to the 
 assignment made by Steele to Scurlock ; whereas Steele 
 and Scurlock declared that Wilks, Cibber, and Booth 
 were well aware of the assignment before it was made, 
 and had copies of it delivered to them severally after- 
 wards, and although they did not give their consent in 
 writing, yet they did not oppose or forbid the same ; and 
 if they had, yet the same being for the payment of Steele's 
 creditors, it ought to be supported and made good by 
 the Honourable Court, or at least it could not debar 
 Steele from having an account of his share of the profits. 
 Yet upon these and the like pretences the defendants not 
 only refused to pay Scurlock, on behalf of Steele's 
 creditors, but likewise refused to come to an account with 
 Steele. Sometimes they pretended that they were 
 entitled to a dividend of ;^io a piece each week, or
 
 APPENDIX, 439 
 
 some such considerable sum, out of the profits, in con- 
 sideration of their extraordinary trouble in the manage- 
 ment of the theatre and their playing their several parts, 
 previous to and exclusive of the dividend to be made 
 under the Articles between them and Steele, and they had 
 accordingly ever since the date of the said Articles appro- 
 priated these sums, regardless of Steele's share or interest. 
 And they pretended to be entitled to the whole of the 
 money given by His Majesty or any of the Royal Family 
 when they were graciously pleased to be present at any 
 performances, and they had kept such moneys ; whereas 
 the complainants declared that Steele had a right to his 
 share of all profits whatsoever. And the defendants 
 pretended that they had a right to, and had set aside for 
 their own use, ;!^2o a night or some greater sum under 
 the name of several constant charges, contingencies, and 
 bills, and pretended that Steele had no right to share 
 therein ; and Steele charged that in favour of Mrs. Old- 
 field, Mrs. Porter, and Mrs. Booth, three of the actresses 
 at Drury Lane, on their respective benefit nights the 
 defendants had forborne to deduct the necessary expenses 
 of the house out of the profits of the night, as they ought 
 to have done, but had placed the same to the account of 
 the partnership, whereby Steele had been charged a fourth 
 part of those expenses without any profit whatever ; and 
 on the benefit nights allowed to under-oflicers and others 
 of the theatre, they had deducted ;^5 each night, which 
 they had shared and divided, without admitting Steele to 
 any share. And sometimes the defendants pretended 
 that Steele had no colour to call them to account touch- 
 ing any of these deductions or allowances to themselves, 
 because he had from time to time passed and allowed 
 these accounts without objection, and agreed to the said 
 deductions, &c. ; but this he never did ; if he had passed 
 accounts without objection, it was through want of know- 
 ledge or Qversight, And Wilks, Gibber, and Booth had
 
 440 APPENDIX. 
 
 in other ways defrauded Steele ; it was therefore prayed 
 that writs of subpoena might be issued to compel them, 
 together with Castleman and Woolley, to answer these 
 premises. 
 
 The *' joint and several answers" of Wilks, Gibber, 
 Booth, and Castleman are dated October 13, 1725. Long 
 before the Letters Patent to Steele, Wilks, Gibber, and 
 Booth had, as they said, a licence to act at Drury Lane, 
 and were acting there at the Queen's death, and had 
 scenes, &c., there of great value ; and a short time after 
 the Queen's death, they, looking upon Steele as a person 
 who had a great acquaintance, and who was fit and able 
 to promote the interest of the theatre, did, for these 
 reasons, and out of friendship and kindness to Steele, 
 invite him to come into a share and benefit of the theatre, 
 for which he seemed very thankful ; and it was agreed he 
 should apply for a new licence, which he obtained, and 
 which was afterwards, by agreement with them, changed 
 for a Patent. The application for the Patent was to be 
 in Steele's name only, but upon the express trust that 
 Wilks, Gibber, and Booth should have an equal share in 
 it ; and when Steele applied, he informed these defendants 
 that he could not obtain a reference to the Attorney and 
 Solicitor-General for having such a Patent without first 
 having their consent, as they shared with him in the 
 licence ; and they thereupon gave their written consent 
 to Steele, to whom a Patent was then granted. And 
 some time afterwards Steele agreed to give them ^^1200 
 as a consideration for the fourth part of the scenes, clothes, 
 &c., belonging to them, and did pay to each of them 
 ^£'400, as appears from the receipts. Then came the 
 Articles Quadrupartite of September 172 1. By acting 
 under the Letters Patent the defendants had received 
 large sums, which had been entered in books and kept 
 by Richard Gastleman, their treasurer and cashier. 
 Pivers sums had been paid to great numbers of persons
 
 APPENDIX, 441 
 
 weekly and otherwise, as they were entitled to receive 
 tlie same ; and the accounts had been at sundry times 
 stated and settled by the defendants and Steele, and 
 Steele had received his share; on the i8th June 1723, in 
 particular, he gave his receipt as follows : " Received of 
 Richard Castleman ;z^7o8 8s. 2d., being so much due to 
 me arising from the profits of the Theatre Royal in Drury 
 Lane, I say received in full to this day, Richard Sxeele." 
 This was a stated account, and ought not to be ravelled 
 into. From June 18, 1723, to June 25, 1725, divers 
 other considerable sums had been received and paid on 
 account of the theatre; and Steele, or persons lawfully 
 authorised by him, had received his share thereof. On 
 June 25, 1725, Richard Eadnell received of Castleman, 
 by virtue of a letter of attorney executed to him by Steele, 
 ;^52 los. 3d., as Eadnell's receipt showed: "I say 
 received for Sir Richard Steel's use ballance due for the 
 year 1725, ;!^47i 13s. 2d., being a fourth part of the clear 
 profits," &c. ; and these defendants acknowledged that 
 they had each of them received to their own use from the 
 i8th June, 1723, £^\ 13s. 4d. for every day upon which 
 a play had been acted, exclusive of Steele. This they 
 claimed as a consideration for their acting and the extra, 
 ordinary charge they were put to in respect thereof, for 
 which they had no allowance in the said accounts ; and 
 they said that Steele never made any objection to the 
 same to their knowledge till the filing of this bill. There 
 had been from time to time paid to other actors more 
 than ^\ 13s. 4d. a day for acting. On the i8th June 
 last the defendants left off acting under the Letters 
 Patent, and so discontinued until the 4th September last, 
 during which interval no profits did or could arise ; and 
 since the 4th September they had acted seventeen nights 
 and no more up to the time of putting in this answer, and 
 the clear profits of those seventeen nights could not at 
 present be set forth, because tradesmen's bills were not
 
 443 APPENDIX. 
 
 sent in ; but as soon as they could the defendants were 
 ready to account for the same and to share all just allow- 
 ances. They denied that they had deducted or claimed 
 ;^io a week for management or acting, or any sum other 
 than as above mentioned, nor had they set apart or 
 divided among themselves ^20 a night or other sum on 
 pretence of incidental charges, &c., exclusive of Steele, 
 nor had they taken to their own use, exclusive of Steele, 
 any part of such bounty money as His Majesty or any 
 members of the Royal Family had given. And they said 
 that Mrs. Oklfield, Mrs. Porter, and Mr. Mills had plays 
 once in every year acted for their respective benefit, 
 without any sums being deducted for the charge of the 
 house, which was the best agreement the defendants 
 could make widi them ; no other actors had the like 
 privilege of having benefit plays without deduction for 
 the charges of the house ; and these defendants denied 
 that they had had any benefit thereby, exclusive of 
 Steele. And they said that, finding by long experience 
 that the profits grew less towards the end of the spring 
 and until June or July, the time of leaving off acting, £^^ 
 for every acting night was and had been kept back in 
 order to make up the charges of the house in case the 
 money received should not be sufficient for that purpose, 
 — which often happened about the latter end of the 
 season ; but when they left off acting the said sum of £^i^ 
 was always brought to account, and what remained after 
 the charges were paid was divided among these defend- 
 ants and Steele equally. And these defendants said that 
 they had great ground to expect that Steele would not, 
 contrary to his own express agreement with them in 
 writing, have sold, parted with, or encumbered his pro- 
 perty in the Patent, clothes, scenes, and profits to any 
 one without the defendants' consent in writing, especially 
 because that to accommodate Steele and at his particular 
 request (he being indebted to Edward MinshuU, Esq., ia
 
 APPENDIX. 443 
 
 the sum of;^2oo, by whom the debt was assigned to 
 Mr. Geiy, and by huii to Mr. Woolley) these defendants 
 consent etl and agreed with Steele and Woolley that 
 Castleman should pay to Woolley ;^200 a year out of 
 Steele's share till the debt, with interest, should be paid. 
 There was now ^{^500 of the debt unpaitl, and no interest 
 had been paid. By Articles Quadrupartite, dated 19th 
 September 1721,1 between Steele, Wilks, Gibber, and 
 Booth, reciting the aforesaid Articles, and also that the 
 then Lord Chamberlain did some time since by his order 
 direct that Steele should not be paid his fourth part, 
 Steele did, for himself, his executors, &c., agree that if 
 at any time the King, Lord Chamberlain, or other person 
 authorised by the King should order that Steele be not 
 paid his share, but should direct that Steele's share 
 should be paid to any other person, that Steele's share 
 should cease to be paid to him, and he should be de- 
 barred from demanding his share during the continuance 
 of such order ; and so with any proportion of Steele's 
 share. Steele had some time since been suspended, but 
 the defendants denietl that they ever took, advantage 
 thereof. They were strangers to the several demands 
 matle by persons named in the complainants' bill as 
 creditors of Steele, and conceived they were in nowise 
 concerned therein. Castleman denied that he refused to 
 let Steele see the books. 
 
 Richard Eadnell, of the Inner Temple, Gent., solicitor 
 to Steele and Scurlock, made oath on the 27th October, 
 that on Wednesday the 20th October he applied to 
 Castleman, treasurer at the old playhouse in Drury Lane, 
 on behalf of the complainants, and told him that he had 
 occasion to look in the books of accounts kept for Steele 
 and the defendants, and that he, the deponent, would 
 wait on Castleman for that purpose when convenient. 
 But Castleman said he could show no books or give any 
 > Page Ivii,
 
 444 APPENDIX. 
 
 information without an order to do so from the other 
 defendants. And on the 21st Eadnell applied to AVillcs, 
 Gibber, and Booth, but they utterly refused to give an order 
 to Castleman, saying that no one should inspect the books 
 or papers save Steele himself. Notice was subsequently 
 given to the defendants' solicitor that the Court would be 
 asked to make an order that these books could be ex- 
 amined by Steele or his solicitor ; ^ and the order was 
 duly granted. On the 2nd February 1726 Eadnell made 
 oath that by virtue of this order he had looked over the 
 booksj and by them it appeared that Wilks, Gibber, and 
 Booth had each received of Gastleman ^^480 ids. {sic) 
 for clear profits from the beginning of that season till 
 Saturday, 15th January last, and Castleman had received 
 the like sum of;^487 los.for the use of Steele, out of which 
 he had paid ^200 to Woolley, as arranged ; but Castleman 
 refused to pay Eadnell the remaining ;!^287 los. without 
 the consent of Wilks, Gibber, and Booth. Eadnell there- 
 upon applied to them, and gave them a copy of a letter of 
 attorney duly executed by Steele and Scurlock, empower- 
 ing him to receive and give discharges for such money as 
 should become due to them from the theatre ; but Wilks, 
 Gibber, and Booth absolutely refused to direct Gastleman 
 to pay Eadnell, unless Eadnell would give them dis- 
 charges for ;^3o which they received weekly on pretence 
 of acting exclusive of Steele, and which was now in dis- 
 pute in that Court. Wilks, Gibber, and Booth had 
 received this J[^io apiece weekly over and above the 
 ^^487 I OS. since the commencement of the winter season, 
 and still intended to receive the same, as they informed 
 Eadnell, notwithstanding the same was in dispute. And 
 it appeared that over and above the ;;^487 los. and the 
 _;^3o weekly, the sum of ^^30 a week was kept in the 
 hands of the treasurer under the name of contingencies, 
 in case there should be occasion to advance any money 
 ' Chancery Affidavits (Registers), Mich. 1725, Nos. loi, I03,
 
 APPElSfDiX. 445 
 
 at any time on account of any new performances or other- 
 wise.' 
 
 The defendants having put in their answer, Steele's 
 counsel obtained leave, on the i^th February, to amend 
 the complainants' bill.^ The answer of Wilks, Gibber, 
 and Booth to this amended bill is dated 15th June 1726. 
 The defendants said they never refused to disclose to 
 Steele the expenses incurred for scenes, clothes, &c. ; 
 those charges were entered in books which Steele could 
 examine, and which they had reason to believe he had 
 often inspected. In accordance with the order of the 
 Court of the 28th October last, Eadnell had often exa- 
 mined the books, and was never denied the same. They 
 submitted, therefore, whether they need do more than 
 refer to the books as regards the particular sums laid out 
 in clothes, scenes, &c. They never denied that Steele 
 might controvert the accounts, but they apprehended he 
 had no reason to do so, for the allowances they de- 
 manded were reasonable, and were for the daily and 
 extraordinary labour and expenses in acting their several 
 parts not otherwise charged for. If they had not taken 
 upon themselves to look after and manage the theatre, 
 they and Steele, instead of being gainers, would have 
 lost by it ; and if Steele had been as active on his part 
 in the management as they (which he ought to have 
 been by their Agreement), the same would have been an 
 addition to the clear profits of the theatre, at least one 
 fourth part. 
 
 In the meantime, Wilks, Gibber, and Booth had com- 
 menced a cross action against Steele." In their bill, 
 dated nth January 1725 — 26, they said that Swiney and 
 GoUier had both constantly attended the business of the 
 theatre, and much benefit had resulted therefrom ; Collier 
 
 1 Chancery Aflidavits (Registers), Hilary i725[-6], No. 204. 
 ^ Chancery Deciees, 1725B, 203. 
 
 * Chancery Proceedings, Reynardson, 1714 — 58, No. 2416; 
 Chancery Deciees, 1727B, 224.
 
 446 APPENDIX. 
 
 solicited persons of quality, and drew audiences to the 
 theatre. When Steele was invited to come into partner- 
 ship, he faithfully promised to attend the meetings and 
 consultations of the Company, and to write plays and 
 other performances, and to use his utmost endeavour to 
 support the interest thereof ; and he did continue to 
 attend the business of tlie Company until 2SLh January 
 17 19 — 20, since when he had altogether absented himself. 
 From that date they had each taken to their own use 
 ;£,\ 13s. 4d. a day, and Steele was so conscious that they 
 deserved a mucli greater sum that he allowed the accounts 
 wherein the same was charged. The scope of this cross 
 bill, therefore, was that Wilks, Cibber, and Booth might 
 be quieted in receiving the said ^v 13s. 4d. apiece 
 exclusive of Steele, and might have such allowance as 
 the Court should think reasonable for the expense they 
 were at in clothes, periwigs, laces, and linen, and for 
 their trouble in instructing the actors and overseeing 
 artificers, &c., and might be indemnified in paying the 
 ;^i20o and interest to Woolley, and be relieved. 
 
 Steele's answer to this bill was taken by commission 
 by Alexander and Theophilus Scurlock on June 23, 1726. 
 He denied that on entering into the partnership he pro- 
 mised to attend meetings or instruct young actors, not 
 being qualified or required to appear as an actor ; but he 
 believed he did in general promise to write plays, and to 
 promote the interests of the theatre, and this he had 
 done to the utmost of his power, as the managers had 
 often admitted ; see, for example. Gibber's dedication to 
 him of Ximena. The Conscious Lovers " brought more 
 money to the House than any play was ever known to 
 do \ " and he was at that time preparing, as fast as his 
 health would permit, a new Comedy, which, God willing, 
 he hoped to finish by the next season, the plot of which 
 play was formed for the reformation of the theatre, and 
 restoring the credit and good sense of theatrical enter-
 
 APPENDIX. 447 
 
 tainments, which he was sadly sensible was never more 
 wanted. He had done and was doing as much as his 
 health would permit. He had entered into an agreement 
 on the 4th September 1727, and then or shortly before, 
 when accounting for his share during the time of the 
 pretended suspension by the Lord Chamberlain, the other 
 managers had urged that they had lost much in 1720 in 
 connection with the South Sea scheme, and that Steele 
 had not borne his share of the cost of scenes ; and he 
 then, out of pure friendship and good-will, forgave them 
 ;^i,200, which he believed was due to him." Steele in- 
 sisted that he was not obliged to make Wilks, Gibber, 
 and Booth any allowance for their managing and acting, 
 as they were by the Articles obliged to do their duty in 
 consideration of the three fourth parts they received ; 
 but he denied that he had pretended they ought not to 
 be allowed for clothes, &c., used on the stage, he being 
 willing to allow his share out of the joint stock ; and he 
 believed they had frequently taken out of the joint stock 
 for their own private clothes, which they brought to 
 the joint account ; all which Steele allowed without ob- 
 jection. He admitted he asked permission to assign his 
 share, and, being refused, assigned his interest without 
 such consent to Scurlock, and he hoped that what he did 
 through the need of satisfying his creditors wouUl not in 
 equity be a breach of his covenant. He did not know of 
 the deduction of £,1 13s. 4d. a day till the beginning of 
 i724[-5], when he brought his bill to be relieved against 
 it; and he hoped that notwithstanding his signing the 
 receipt of the iSth June 1723, he should be at liberty 
 to call the managers to an account touching the said de- 
 duction. 
 
 The original cause was before the Court several times 
 in August and October 1726.^ Leave was given to 
 Wilks, Cibber, and Booth to examine Castleman, a 
 1 Cluincery Decrees, 17258, 425; 1726B, 464, 2, 115.
 
 448 APPENDIX. 
 
 material witness for their case, and in no way concerned 
 in point of interest in the matters in question ; and upon 
 application that Castleman should pay Steele ^^468 4s., 
 which was found to be his share of the clear profits for 
 1725, it was ordered, by consent, that Castleman should 
 pay Steele ;^2oo, subject to the order which should be 
 made upon the hearing of the cause. In December leave 
 was given to Steele and Scurlock to examine Castleman 
 as a witness for them. The "answer of William WooUey, 
 Esqre., one of the Defendants to the Bill of Complaint " 
 of Steele and Scurlock, was not put in until the 20th 
 October 1726.^ It contains nothing fresh of importance. 
 VVoolley said he had received ^600 of the ;^9oo due to 
 him from Steele, and that ^300 was still due, besides 
 interest ; and he urged that he was entitled to his ;^2oo 
 a year in preference to all other creditors mentioned in 
 Steele's bill. On the 21st November, Wilks, Cibber, and 
 Booth obtained leave to amend their bill in the case in 
 which they were complainants ; and Alexander and 
 Theophilus Scurlock were again commissioned to take 
 Steele's answer,- In this answer to the amended bill, 
 which was not sworn until the nth May 1727, Steele 
 said it was true that he had declared that Cibber's zeal 
 for the Conscious Lovers was an obliging favour and 
 friendship to him, but he was referring to Cibber's care 
 in instructing the actors, &c. Cibber did make several 
 alterations in the play before it was acted, but to its dis- 
 advantage, and therefore he did not pay Cibber anything 
 for his meddling. The piece ran eighteen nights, and 
 brought ;^2,536 3s. 6d. to the house, but how much was 
 paid foi charges and how much to him Steele could not 
 say, save ;^329 5s. or thereabouts, which he received 
 for three author's benefit nights. He could not set 
 
 1 Chancery Proceedings, Sewell, A., 17 14 — 58, No. 66. 
 
 2 Chancery Decrees, 1726B, 105 ; Chancery Proceedings, Rey- 
 naidson, 1714 — 58, No. 2416.
 
 APPENDIX. 449 
 
 forth particular passages altered by Gibber; if he did, 
 it might run him, in vindication of his own perform- 
 ance, into a sort of criticism very improper, as he 
 apprehended, for the entertainment of that Honom'able 
 Court. 
 
 In October and November 1727, publication in the 
 original cause was twice enlarged, upon the petition of 
 the defendants, and on the 3rd February 1728, upon the 
 original cause coming before the Court, the defendants' 
 counsel alleged that the counter action was ready for 
 hearing, but that as Steele lived at Carmarthen the 
 plaintiffs in that action had not had time to serve him 
 with a subpoena to hear judgment; and they said that 
 both causes were proper to be heard together. Where- 
 upon it was ordered that the original cause should stand 
 over to the fourth day of causes after the term, and that 
 judgment should then be pronounced in both causes.^ 
 The combined suits accordingly came to a hearing before 
 Sir Joseph Jekyll, Master of the Rolls, on Saturday night, 
 the 17th February 1728, at the Rolls Chapel,- when 
 Cibber addressed the Court, acting upon the advice of 
 his counsel, who pointed out that he could speak better 
 upon the question of the business of a manager than the 
 most learned lawyer. Two of the counsel for Steele 
 afterwards held the post of Lord Chancellor, and Cibber 
 professes to have almost broken down with nervousness ; 
 but he succeeded, with the help of notes, in making a 
 successful speech of an hour's length, which he has 
 printed at length in the sixteenth chapter of his Apology. 
 He maintained that Steele was as much obliged to do the 
 
 1 Chancery Decrees, 1726B, 461 ; 1727B, 8, 133. 
 
 ■■* Ch mcery Decrees, 1727B, 224 ; St. James's Evening Post, 
 February 17 — 20, 1728; The Weekly Jounial (Read's), and Tlie 
 Country yournal ; or, The Craftstnan, i'chxMMy 2i\, 1728. Cibber, 
 wilh his usual inaccuracy, speaks of the case coming to a hearing in 
 1726, though, as Genest remarks, he mentions a theatrical corona- 
 tion which, of course, was prompted by the coronation of George II. 
 in 1727. 
 
 Steele. G G
 
 450 APPENDIX. 
 
 duty and business of a manager as either Wilks, Booth, 
 or Gibber ; and tlie reason why he had ceased to take 
 any part in the management was, that he was annoyed at 
 his fellow-managers, who had often helped him when he 
 was in want of money, but who found it necessary at last 
 to peremptorily refuse to advance another shilling until it 
 was due to him. After that Steele not only absented 
 himself, but made an assignment of his share, v/ithout the 
 consent of the others, in breach of their Agreement, 
 thereby exposing them to the chance of trouble and in- 
 convenience. His absence, too, had led to more than 
 proportionate loss, because his rank, and figure in the 
 world, and the ready access which he had at Court, had 
 been of great service ; that was, in fact, the very end and 
 consideration of his share in the profits. Gibber pro- 
 ceeded to argue that he, Wilks, and Booth had been 
 justified in charging ;Q\ 13s. 4d. a day for their extra- 
 ordinary labour, in Steele's absence, by graphically 
 describing the multitude of duties and disagreeable tasks 
 which fell to a manager's lot. Steele had not written 
 plays for nothing, and though, said Gibber, in writing 
 The Conscious Lovers, " he had more assistance from one 
 of the managers than becomes me to enlarge upon, of 
 which evidence has been given upon oath by several of 
 our actors, yet, Sir, he was allowed the full and particular 
 profits of that play as an author, which amounted to three 
 hundred pounds, besides about three hundred more 
 which he received as a joint sharer of the general profits 
 that arose from it." Gibber adds, in another place, that 
 when they told Steele of the salary they meant to take 
 for themselves in future, Steele only remarked that he 
 had no reason to doubt of their doing him justice, 
 and he never complained for nearly three years ; indeed 
 it was not until his affairs were put into the hands 
 of lawyers and trustees that his lawyer thought that 
 here was a fair field for an action in Ghancery, in
 
 APPENDIX. 451 
 
 which, whatever the result might be, his bill would be 
 paid. 
 
 After hearing Gibber, and the counsel on both sides, — 
 the proceedings lasted five hours, — the Master of the 
 Rolls declared that he saw no good cause for breaking 
 through the account dated iSth June 1723, or for varying 
 the allowances of ^\ 13s. 4d. which had been made at 
 that time to each of the defendants, Wilks, Gibber, and 
 Booth. He therefore ordered that the account dated the 
 i8th June 1723 should stand, and that it should be 
 referred to Mr. Bennett to take an account of the profits 
 of the theatre from that time ; the defendants were to 
 produce before the said Master upon oath all books of 
 account, &c., and to be examined as the Master should 
 direct; and in taking the account the Master was to 
 make to the defendants all just allowances. His Honour 
 declared he conceived the allowance of ;£'i which had 
 been already made to each of the defendants for manage- 
 ment every night was a reasonable allowance, and that 
 they ought to have this allowance continued to them 
 until Steele should come into the management of the 
 theatre ; but the Master must determine what the defen- 
 dants respectively deserved for their charges for wigs, 
 lace, and linen, for which Steele admitted by his answer 
 that an allowance should be made ; and he was also to 
 take an account of what was due to Woolley for principal 
 and interest on his mortgage, and to tax Woolley's costs 
 in this suit. The Master was also to ascertain what would 
 be coming to Steele for his fourth part of the profits on 
 the balance of the account, and from what was certified as 
 due to Steele, Wilks, Gibber, and Booth should pay to 
 Woolley what was reported due to him in the first place 
 for principal, interest, and costs as aforesaid, and should 
 pay the remainder to Scurlock for the uses mentioned 
 in the deed of assignment from Steele to Scurlock, or to 
 whoever Scurlock should authorise to receive the same ;
 
 452 APPENDIX. 
 
 and AVilks, Gibber, and Booth were hereby indemnified 
 for so doing ; and they were to continue to pay Steele's 
 fourth part of the growing profits, under such allowances 
 as aforesaid, to Steele or to whoever he should authorise 
 to receive the same. And it w-as further ordered that 
 Steele and Scurlock's bill against Castleman be dismissed 
 out of the court ; and that no costs be paid to either of 
 the said parties, except to Woolley. 
 
 The Master's Report is dated July lo, 1728.^ Mr. 
 Bennett said that the plaintiffs' solicitors having allowed 
 Wilks, Gibber, and Booth 13s. 4d. apiece for every day a 
 play was acted, from the i8th June 1723, as the same 
 had been allowed up to that time, he had taken an 
 account of Steele's fourth part of the profits from the said 
 iSth June to the present time, and found that that fourth 
 part amounted to J[^'2.fi<^2 3s. 3d,, in discharge whereof 
 he found that the said defendants had paid to Steele or 
 order several sums, amounting to ^^i, 601 3s. 3d., leaving 
 due to Steele ^1,091. And the clerk in court for 
 Woolley had admitted that Woolley had been already 
 paid off and discharged all the principal and interest due 
 to him on Steele's account ; and the Master had already, 
 by his Report of the 5th instant, taxed Woolley's bill of 
 costs at p^29 2S. lod., which sum he appointed Wilks, 
 Gibber, and Booth to pay Woolley out of the said sum 
 of ;^i,o9i in their hands, and the residue, ^{^1,061 
 17s. 2d., they were to pay to Scurlock, as directed by 
 the order of the 17th February. On the following day, 
 July II, 1728, upon motion made by the counsel for the 
 defendants in the original cause, this Report and all con- 
 tained therein was confirmed by order and decree of the 
 Gourt." 
 
 1 Masters' Reports, Easter, 1728 ; Steele, &c., v. Wilks, <^c. 
 " Chancery Decrees, 1727B, 425. 
 
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 WORKS Br 
 
 MARK RUTHERFORD. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 In Two Vols., cloth, price 12s. 
 
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 A NOVEL. 
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 rare skill and power." 
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 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARK 
 RUTHERFORD. 
 
 Edited by His Friend, REUBEN SHAPCOTT. 
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 side of life, it is one of the most wholesome ever written." 
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 NEW EDITION. 
 
 MARK RUTHERFORD'S DELIVERANCE. 
 
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 WORLD : — ■'' A strong, plain, thoughtful, contemplative, profoundly human 
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 MIRIAM'S SCHOOLING. 
 
 AND OTHER PAPERS. 
 
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 Front, by Waltkr Crane. 
 
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 DAILY CHRONICLE:— "In insight, in subtlety, and delicacy of delinea 
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 Works by J. J. Jusserand. 
 
 PIERS PLOWMAN, 1363-1399. 
 
 A Contribution to the History of English Mysticism. Photogravure 
 
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 study of English literature." 
 
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 laE COMTE SE COMINGS S. 
 
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 Demy Zvo, cloth, \2s. 
 
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 ENGLISH WAYFARING LIFE IN THE 
 MIDDLE AGES. 
 
 (XlVth CENTURY). 
 
 Third and Revised Edition. Illustrated. 
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 SATURDAY REVIEW:— "He has treated his subject so pleasantly that 
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 London: T. FISHER UNWIN, Paternoster Square, E.G.
 
 370Z 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
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 APR! 1968 N 
 
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