The Project Gutenberg EBook of Burlesque Plays and Poems, by Henry Morley and Geoffrey Chaucer and George Villiers and John Philips and Henry Fielding This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Burlesque Plays and Poems Author: Henry Morley Geoffrey Chaucer George Villiers John Philips Henry Fielding Release Date: November 26, 2016 [EBook #53606] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BURLESQUE PLAYS AND POEMS *** Produced by Susan Skinner, Jane Robins and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
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Table of Contents added by Transcriber.
THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS
THE KNIGHT OF THE BURNING PESTLE
THE_REHEARSAL
THE_SPLENDID_SHILLING
TWO ODES
NAMBY PAMBY
A WORD UPON PUDDING.
THE TRAGEDY OF TRAGEDIES: OR, THE LIFE AND DEATH OF TOM THUMB THE GREAT
CHRONONHOTONTHOLOGOS
THE ROVERS
BOMBASTES FURIOSO.
REJECTED ADDRESSES.
LOYAL EFFUSION.
THE BABY'S DEBUT.
AN ADDRESS WITHOUT A PHOENIX.
CUI BONO?
TO THE SECRETARY OF THE MANAGING COMMITTEE OF DRURY LANE PLAYHOUSE.
IN THE CHARACTER OF A HAMPSHIRE FARMER.
THE LIVING LUSTRES.
THE REBUILDING.
DRURY'S DIRGE.
A TALE OF DRURY LANE.
JOHNSON'S GHOST.
THE BEAUTIFUL INCENDIARY.
FIRE AND ALE.
PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS.
DRURY LANE HUSTINGS.
ARCHITECTURAL ATOMS.
THEATRICAL ALARM BELL.
THE THEATRE.
THE THEATRE.
TO THE MANAGING COMMITTEE OF THE NEW DRURY LANE THEATRE.
CASE NO. I.
CASE NO. II.
CASE NO. III.
PUNCH'S APOTHEOSIS.
ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE.
ODE TO MR. GRAHAM.
ODE TO MR. M'ADAM.
ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQUIRE,
AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.
LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE
ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQUIRE,
ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQUIRE,
ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.
ROUTLEDGE'S EXCELSIOR SERIES
Fifteen Volumes in an Oak Bookcase.
Price One Guinea.
"Marvels of clear type and general neatness."—Daily Telegraph.
In Monthly Volumes, ONE SHILLING Each.
READY ON THE 25th OF EACH MONTH.
Ballantyne Press
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO., EDINBURGH
CHANDOS STREET, LONDON
CHAUCER'S | HENRY CAREY'S |
RIME OF THOPAS. | NAMBY PAMBY and |
CHRONONHOTONTHOLOGOS. | |
BEAUMONT & FLETCHER'S | |
KNIGHT OF THE BURNING PESTLE. | CANNING, FRERE & ELLIS'S |
ROVERS. | |
GEORGE VILLIERS, Duke of Buckingham's | |
REHEARSAL. | W. B. RHODES'S |
BOMBASTES FURIOSO. | |
JOHN PHILIPS'S | HORACE & JAMES SMITH'S |
SPLENDID SHILLING. | REJECTED ADDRESSES. |
and some of | |
FIELDING'S | THOMAS HOOD'S |
TOM THUMB THE GREAT. | ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. |
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HENRY MORLEY
LL.D., PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE AT
UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
NEW YORK: 9 LAFAYETTE PLACE
1885
MORLEY'S UNIVERSAL LIBRARY.
——♦——
VOLUMES ALREADY PUBLISHED.
SHERIDAN'S PLAYS.
PLAYS FROM MOLIÈRE. By English Dramatists.
MARLOWE'S FAUSTUS & GOETHE'S FAUST.
CHRONICLE OF THE CID.
RABELAIS' GARGANTUA and the HEROIC DEEDS OF PANTAGRUEL.
THE PRINCE. By Machiavelli.
BACON'S ESSAYS.
DEFOE'S JOURNAL OF THE PLAGUE YEAR.
LOCKE ON CIVIL GOVERNMENT & FILMER'S "PATRIARCHA."
SCOTT'S DEMONOLOGY and WITCHCRAFT.
DRYDEN'S VIRGIL.
BUTLER'S ANALOGY OF RELIGION.
HERRICK'S HESPERIDES.
COLERIDGE'S TABLE-TALK.
BOCCACCIO'S DECAMERON.
STERNE'S TRISTRAM SHANDY.
CHAPMAN'S HOMER'S ILIAD.
MEDIÆVAL TALES.
VOLTAIRE'S CANDIDE & JOHNSON'S RASSELAS.
PLAYS and POEMS by BEN JONSON.
LEVIATHAN. By Thomas Hobbes.
HUDIBRAS. By Samuel Butler.
IDEAL COMMONWEALTHS.
CAVENDISH'S LIFE OF WOLSEY.
DON QUIXOTE. In Two Volumes.
BURLESQUE PLAYS and POEMS.
"Marvels of clear type and general neatness."
Daily Telegraph.
——♦——
The word Burlesque came to us through the French from the Italian "burlesco"; "burla" being mockery or raillery, and implying always an object. Burlesque must, burlarsi di uno, mock at somebody or something, and when intended to give pleasure it is nothing if not good-natured. One etymologist associates the word with the old English "bourd," a jest; the Gaelic "burd," he says, means mockery, and "buirleadh," is language of ridicule. Yes, and "burrail" is the loud romping of children, and "burrall" is weeping and wailing in a deep-toned howl. Another etymologist takes the Italian "burla," waggery or banter, as diminutive from the Latin "burra," which means a rough hair, but is used by Ausonius in the sense of a jest. That etymology no doubt fits burlesque to a hair, but, like Launce's sweetheart, it may have more hair than wit.
The first burlesque in this volume—Chaucer's "Rime of Sir Thopas," written towards the close of the fourteenth century—is a jest upon long-winded story-tellers, who expatiate on insignificant detail; for in his day there were many metrical romances written by the ancestors of Mrs. Nickleby. Riding to Canterbury with the other pilgrims, Chaucer good-humouredly takes to himself the part of the companion who jogs along with even flow of words, luxuriating in all trivial detail until he brings Sir Thopas face to face with an adventure, for he meets a giant with three heads. But even then there is the adventure to be waited for. The story-teller finds that he must trot his knight back home to fetch his armour, and when he "is comen again to toune," it takes so many words to get him his supper, get his armour on, and trot him out again, that the inevitable end comes, with rude intrusion of some faint-hearted lording who has not courage to listen until the point of the story can be descried from afar. So the best of the old story-tellers, in a book full of examples of tales told as they should be, burlesqued misuse of his art, and the "Rime of Sir Thopas" became a warning buoy over the shallows. "I cannot," said Sir Thomas Wyatt, in Henry VIII.'s reign,
The second burlesque in this volume, Beaumont and Fletcher's "Knight of the Burning Pestle," written in eight days, appeared in 1611, six years after the publication of the First Part, and four years earlier than the Second Part, of Don Quixote. The first English translation of Don Quixote (Shelton's) appeared in 1612. The Knight of the Burning Pestle is, like Don Quixote, a burlesque upon the tasteless affectations of the tales of[Pg 6] chivalry. Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher worked together as playwrights in the reign of James I. All their plays were produced during that reign. Beaumont died in the same year as Shakespeare, having written thirteen plays in fellowship with Fletcher. Forty more were written by Fletcher alone, but the name of Beaumont is, by tradition of a loving fellowship, associated with them all. "The Knight of the Burning Pestle" is all the merrier for being the work of men who were themselves true poets. It should be remembered that this play was written for a theatre without scenery, in which gentlemen were allowed to hire stools on the stage itself for a nearer view of the actors; and it is among this select part of the audience that the citizen intrudes and the citizen's wife is lifted up, when she cries, "Husband, shall I come up, husband?" "Ay, cony; Ralph, help your mistress up this way; pray, gentlemen, make her a little room; I pray you, sir, lend me your hand to help up my wife.... Boy, let my wife and I have a couple of stools, and then begin."
The next burlesque in our collection is "The Rehearsal," which was produced in 1671 to ridicule the extravagance of the "heroic" plays of the Restoration. The founder of this school in England was Sir William Davenant who was living and was Poet Laureate—and wearer of the bays, therefore, was Bayes—when the jest was begun by George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, and other wits of the day. The jest was so long in hand that, in 1668, when Davenant died, and Dryden succeeded him as Laureate, the character of Bayes passed on to him. The plaster on the nose pointed at Davenant, who had lost great part of his nose. The manner of speaking, and the "hum and buzz," pointed at Dryden, who was also in 1671 the great master of what was called heroic drama. Bold rhodomontade was, on the stage, preferred to good sense at a time when the new French criticism was enforcing above all things "good sense" upon poets, as a reaction against the strained ingenuities that had come in under Italian influence. Let us leave to Italy her paste brilliants, said Boileau, in his Art Poétique, produced at the same time as "The Rehearsal," all should tend to good sense. But Dryden in his plays (not in his other poems) boldly translated Horace's serbit humi tutus, into
The particular excellence attained by flying out of sight of sense is burlesqued in the Duke of Buckingham's "Rehearsal."
John Philips, the delicate and gentle son of a vicar of Bampton, read Milton with delight from his boyhood and knew Virgil almost by heart. At college he wrote, for the edification of a comrade who did not know how to keep a shilling in his pocket, "The Splendid Shilling," a poem first published in 1705—which set forth, in Miltonic style applied to humblest images, the comfort of possessing such a coin. The Miltonic grandeur of tone John Philips happily caught from a long and loving study of the English poet whom he reverenced above others, and "The Splendid Shilling" has a special charm as a burlesque in which nobody is ridiculed.
The burlesque poem called "Namby Pamby," of which the title has been added to the English vocabulary, was written by Henry Carey, in ridicule of the little rhymes inscribed to certain babies of distinguished persons by Ambrose Philips, or, as he is translated into nursery language, "Namby Pamby Pilli-pis." Ambrose Philips was a friend and companion of[Pg 7] Addison's, and a gentleman who prospered fairly in Whig government circles. Pope's annoyance at the praise given to Ambrose Philips's pastorals which appeared in the same Miscellany with his own, and Addison's praise in the Spectator of his friend's translation of Racine's Andromache as "The Distrest Mother," have caused Ambrose Philips to be better remembered in the history of literature than might otherwise have been necessary. When he wrote no longer of
and took to nursery lyrics, he gave Henry Carey an opportunity of putting a last touch to his monument for the instruction of posterity. The two specimens here given of the original poems that suggested "Namby Pamby" are addressed severally to two babes in the nursery of Daniel Pulteney, Esq. Another of the babies who inspired him was an infant Carteret, whose name Carey translated into "Tartaretta Tartaree." Some lines here and there, seven in all, which are not the wittier for being coarse, have been left out of "Namby Pamby." This burlesque was first published in 1725 or 1726; my copy is of the fifth edition, dated 1726, and was appended to "A Learned Dissertation on Dumpling; its Dignity, Antiquity, and Excellence, with a Word upon Pudding, and many other Useful Discoveries of great Benefit to the Publick. To which is added, Namby Pamby, A Panegyric on the new Versification address'd to A—— P——, Esq."
Henry Fielding produced his "Tom Thumb" in 1730, and added the notes of Scriblerus Secundus in 1731, following the example set by the Dunciad as published in April 1729, with the "Prolegomena of Scriblerus and Notes Variorum." Paul Whitehead added notes of a Scriblerus Tertius to his "Gymnasiad" in 1744. Fielding was twenty-four years old when he added to his "Tom Thumb" the notes that transmit to us lively examples of the stilted language of the stage by which, as a gentleman's son left to his own resources, he was then endeavouring to live. This was four years before his marriage, and ten years before he revealed his transcendent powers as a novelist.
Henry Carey's "Chrononhotonthologos," three years later, in 1734, carried on the war against pretentious dulness on the stage. The manner of the great actors was, like the plays of their generation, pompous and rhetorical, full of measured sound and fury signifying nothing. Garrick, who made his first appearance as an actor in 1741, put an end to this. "If the young fellow is right," said Quin, "We are all in the wrong;" little suspecting that they really were all in the wrong. Henry Carey, a musician by profession, played in the orchestra and also supplied the stage with ballad and burlesque farces and operas. But also he wrote "Namby Pamby." It was said of him that "he led a life free from reproach, and hanged himself October 4th, 1743."
"The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement," was a contribution to "The Anti-Jacobin," by George Canning, and his friends George Ellis and John Hookham Frere. Canning had established "The Anti-Jacobin," of which the first number was published on the 20th of November, 1797. Its poetry, generally levelled through witty burlesque at the false sentiment[Pg 8] of the day, was collected in 1801 into a handsome quarto. This includes "The Rovers," which is a lively caricature of the sentimental German drama. Goethe's "Stella," as read in the translation used by the caricaturists, is not less comical than the caricature. I have a copy of the "Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin," in which one of the original writers has, for the friend to whom he gave the book, marked with his pen and ink details of authorship. From this it appears that the description of the dramatis personæ in "The Rovers" was by Frere, the Prologue by Canning and Ellis, the opening scene by Frere as far as Rogero's famous song, which was by Canning and Ellis. All that follows to the beginning of the fourth act was by Canning, except that Frere wrote the scene in the second act on the delivery of a newspaper to Beefington and Puddingfield. The fourth act and the final stage directions were by Frere, except the Recitative and Chorus of Conspirators. These were by George Ellis.
"Bombastes Furioso," first produced in 1810, was by William Barnes Rhodes, who had published a translation of Juvenal in 1801 and "Epigrams" in 1803. He formed a considerable dramatic library, of which there was a catalogue printed in 1825.
Next comes in this collection the series of burlesques of the styles of poets famous and popular in 1812, published in that year as "Rejected Addresses," by Horace and James Smith. Of these brothers, sons of an attorney, one was an attorney, the other a stockbroker, one aged thirty-seven, the other thirty-three, when the book appeared which made them famous, and of which the first edition is reprinted in this volume. The book went through twenty-four editions. James Smith wrote no more, but Horace to the last amused himself with literature. "Is it not odd," Leigh Hunt wrote of him to Shelley, "that the only truly generous person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, was a stockbroker! And he writes poetry too; he writes poetry, and pastoral dramas, and yet knows how to make money, and does make it, and is still generous." The Fitzgerald who is subject of the first burlesque used to recite his laudatory poems at the annual dinners of the Literary Fund, and is the same who was referred to in the opening lines of Byron's "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers:"
This Miscellany closes with some of the "Odes and Addresses to Great People," with which Thomas Hood, at the age of twenty-six, first made his mark as a wit. The little book from which these pieces are taken was the joint work of himself and John Hamilton Reynolds, whose sister he had married. It marks the rise of the pun in burlesque writing through Thomas Hood, who, when dying of consumption, suggested for his epitaph, "Here lies one who spat more blood and made more puns than any other man."
H. M.
June, 1885.
Burlesque Plays and Poems.
——♦——
PROLOGUE TO SIR THOPAS.
——♦——
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Enter Prologue.
Enter Citizen.
Cit. Hold your peace, good-man boy.
Pro. What do you mean, sir?
Cit. That you have no good meaning: these seven years there hath been plays at this house, I have observed it, you have still girds at citizens; and now you call your play "The London Merchant." Down with your title, boy, down with your title.
Pro. Are you a member of the noble city?
Cit. I am.
Pro. And a freeman?
Cit. Yea, and a grocer.
Pro. So, grocer, then by your sweet favour, we intend no abuse to the city.
Cit. No, sir, yes, sir, if you were not resolved to play the jacks, what need you study for new subjects, purposely to abuse your betters? Why could not you be contented, as well as others, with the legend of Whittington, or the Life and Death of Sir Thomas Gresham? with the building of the Royal Exchange? or the story of Queen Eleanor, with the rearing of London Bridge upon woolsacks?
Pro. You seem to be an understanding man; what would you have us do, sir?
Cit. Why, present something notably in honour of the commons of the city.
Pro. Why, what do you say to the Life and Death of fat Drake, or the repairing of Fleet privies?
Cit. I do not like that; but I will have a citizen, and he shall be of my own trade.
Pro. Oh, you should have told us your mind a month since, our play is ready to begin now.
Cit. 'Tis all one for that, I will have a grocer, and he shall do admirable things.
Pro. What will you have him do?
Cit. Marry I will have him——
Wife. Husband, husband! [Wife below.
Ralph. Peace, mistress. [Ralph below.
Wife. Hold thy peace, Ralph, I know what I do, I warrant ye. Husband, husband!
Cit. What sayest thou, cony?
Wife. Let him kill a lion with a pestle, husband; let him kill a lion with a pestle.
Cit. So he shall, I'll have him kill a lion with a pestle.
Wife. Husband, shall I come up, husband?
Cit. Ay, cony. Ralph, help your mistress up this way: pray, gentlemen, make her a little room; I pray you, sir, lend me your hand to help up my wife; I thank you, sir, so.
Wife. By your leave, gentlemen all, I'm something troublesome, I'm a stranger here, I was ne'er at one of these plays, as they say, before; but I should have seen "Jane Shore" once; and my husband hath promised me anytime this twelvemonth, to carry me to the "Bold Beauchamps," but in truth he did not; I pray you bear with me.
Cit. Boy, let my wife and I have a couple of stools, and then begin, and let the grocer do rare things.
Pro. But, sir, we have never a boy to play him, every one hath a part already.
Wife. Husband, husband, for God's sake let Ralph play him; beshrew me if I do not think he will go beyond them all.
Cit. Well remembered wife; come up, Ralph; I'll tell you, gentlemen, let them but lend him a suit of reparrel, and necessaries, and by Gad, if any of them all blow wind in the tail on him, I'll be hanged.
Wife. I pray you, youth, let him have a suit of reparrel: I'll be sworn, gentlemen, my husband tells you true, he will act you sometimes at our house, that all the neighbours cry out on him: he will fetch you up a couraging part so in the garret, that we are all as feared I warrant you, that we quake again. We fear our children with him, if they be never so unruly, do but cry "Ralph comes, Ralph comes" to them, and they'll be as quiet as lambs. Hold up thy head, Ralph, show the gentlemen what thou canst do; speak a huffing part, I warrant you the gentlemen will accept of it.
Cit. Do, Ralph, do.
Cit. How say you, gentlemen, is it not as I told you?
Wife. Nay, gentlemen, he hath played before, my husband says, "Musidorus," before the wardens of our company.
Cit. Ay, and he should have played "Jeronimo" with a shoemaker for a wager.
Pro. He shall have a suit of apparel, if he will go in.
Cit. In, Ralph, in, Ralph, and set out the grocers in their kind, if thou lovest me.
Wife. I warrant our Ralph will look finely when he's dressed.
Pro. But what will you have it called?
Cit. "The Grocer's Honour."
Pro. Methinks "The Knight of the Burning Pestle" were better.
Wife. I'll be sworn, husband, that's as good a name as can be.
Cit. Let it be so, begin, begin; my wife and I will sit down.
Pro. I pray you do.
Cit. What stately music have you? Have you shawns?
Pro. Shawns? No.
Cit. No? I'm a thief if my mind did not give me so. Ralph plays a stately part, and he must needs have shawns: I'll be at the charge of them myself rather than we'll be without them.
Pro. So you are like to be.
Cit. Why and so I will be, there's two shillings, let's have the waits of Southwark, they are as rare fellows as any are in England; and that will fetch them all o'er the water with a vengeance, as if they were mad.
Pro. You shall have them; will you sit down, then?
Cit. Ay, come, wife.
Wife. Sit you, merry all gentlemen, I'm bold to sit amongst you for my ease.
Enter Merchant and Jasper his man.
Cit. Fie upon 'em, little infidels, what a matter's here now?
Well, I'll be hang'd for a half-penny, if there be not some
abomination knavery in this play; well, let 'em look to it, Ralph
must come, and if there be any tricks a-brewing——
Wife. Let 'em brew and bake too, husband, a God's name. Ralph will find all out I warrant you, and they were older than they are. I pray, my pretty youth, is Ralph ready?
Boy. He will be presently.
Wife. Now I pray you make my commendations unto him, and withal, carry him this stick of liquorice; tell him his[Pg 22] mistress sent it him, and bid him bite a piece, 'twill open his pipes the better, say.
Enter Merchant and Master Humphrey.
Wife. Husband, I prithee, sweet lamb, tell me one thing, but tell me truly. Stay, youths, I beseech you, till I question my husband.
Cit. What is it, mouse?
Wife. Sirrah, didst thou ever see a prettier child? how it behaves itself, I warrant you: and speaks and looks, and perts up the head? I pray you brother, with your favour, were you never one of Mr. Muncaster's scholars?
Cit. Chicken, I prithee heartily contain thyself, the childer are pretty childer, but when Ralph comes, lamb!
Wife. Ay, when Ralph comes, cony! Well, my youth, you may proceed.
Wife. By my faith and troth, George, and as I am virtuous, it is e'en the kindest young man that ever trod on shoe-leather; well, go thy ways, if thou hast her not, 'tis not thy fault i'faith.
Cit. I prithee, mouse, be patient, a shall have her, or I'll make some of 'em smoke for't.
Wife. That's my good lamb, George; fie, this stinking tobacco kills me, would there were none in England. Now I pray, gentlemen, what good does this stinking tobacco do you? nothing; I warrant you make chimnies o' your faces. Oh, husband, husband, now, now there's Ralph, there's Ralph!
Enter Ralph, like a grocer in his shop, with two prentices, reading "Palmerin of England."
Cit. Peace, fool, let Ralph alone; hark you, Ralph, do not strain yourself too much at the first. Peace, begin, Ralph.
Ralph. Then Palmerin and Trineus, snatching their lances from their dwarfs, and clasping their helmets, galloped amain after the giant, and Palmerin having gotten a sight of him, came posting amain, saying, "Stay, traitorous thief, for thou mayst not so carry away her that is worth the greatest lord in the world;" and, with these words, gave him a blow on the shoulder, that he struck him beside his elephant; and Trineus coming to the knight that had Agricola behind him, set him soon beside his horse, with his neck broken in the fall, so that the princess, getting out of the throng, between joy and grief said, "All happy knight, the mirror of all such as follow arms, now may I be well assured of the love thou bearest me." I wonder why the kings do not raise an army of fourteen or fifteen hundred thousand men, as big as the army that the Prince of Portigo brought against Rosicler, and destroy these giants; they do much hurt to wandering damsels that go in quest of their knights.
Wife. Faith, husband, and Ralph says true, for they say the King of Portugal cannot sit at his meat but the giants and the ettins will come and snatch it from him.
Cit. Hold thy tongue; on, Ralph.
Ralph. And certainly those knights are much to be commended[Pg 26] who, neglecting their possessions, wander with a squire and a dwarf through the deserts to relieve poor ladies.
Wife. Ay, by my faith are they, Ralph, let 'em say what they will, they are indeed; our knights neglect their possessions well enough, but they do not the rest.
Ralph. There are no such courteous and fair well-spoken knights in this age; they will call one the son of a sea-cook that Palmerin of England would have called fair sir; and one that Rosicler would have called right beautiful damsel they will call old witch.
Wife. I'll be sworn will they, Ralph; they have called me so an hundred times about a scurvy pipe of tobacco.
Ralph. But what brave spirit could be content to sit in his shop, with a flapet of wood, and a blue apron before him, selling Methridatam and Dragons' Water to visited houses, that might pursue feats of arms, and through his noble achievements procure such a famous history to be written of his heroic prowess?
Cit. Well said, Ralph; some more of those words, Ralph.
Wife. They go finely, by my troth.
Ralph. Why should I not then pursue this course, both for the credit of myself and our company? for amongst all the worthy books of achievements, I do not call to mind that I yet read of a grocer errant: I will be the said knight. Have you heard of any that hath wandered unfurnished of his squire and dwarf? My elder prentice Tim shall be my trusty squire, and little George my dwarf. Hence, my blue apron! Yet, in remembrance of my former trade, upon my shield shall be portrayed a burning pestle, and I will be called the Knight of the Burning Pestle.
Wife. Nay, I dare swear thou wilt not forget thy old trade, thou wert ever meek. Ralph! Tim!
Tim. Anon.
Ralph. My beloved squire, and George my dwarf, I charge you that from henceforth you never call me by any other name but the Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle; and that you never call any female by the name of a woman or wench, but fair lady, if she have her desires; if not, distressed damsel; that you call all forests and heaths, deserts; and all horses, palfreys.
Wife. This is very fine: faith, do the gentlemen like Ralph, think you, husband?
Cit. Ay, I warrant thee, the players would give all the shoes in their shop for him.
Ralph. My beloved Squire Tim, stand out. Admit this were a desert, and over it a knight errant pricking, and I should bid you inquire of his intents, what would you say?
Tim. Sir, my master sent me to know whither you are riding?
Ralph. No, thus: Fair sir, the Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, commanded me to inquire upon what adventure you are bound, whether to relieve some distressed damsel or otherwise.
Cit. Dunder blockhead cannot remember.
Wife. I'faith, and Ralph told him on't before; all the gentlemen heard him; did he not, gentlemen, did not Ralph tell him on't?
George. Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, here is a distressed damsel to have a halfpenny-worth of pepper.
Wife. That's a good boy, see, the little boy can hit it; by my troth it's a fine child.
Ralph. Relieve her with all courteous language; now shut up shop: no more my prentice, but my trusty squire and dwarf, I must bespeak my shield, and arming pestle.
Cit. Go thy ways, Ralph, as I am a true man, thou art the best on 'em all.
Wife. Ralph! Ralph!
Ralph. What say you, mistress?
Wife. I prithee come again quickly, sweet Ralph.
Ralph. By-and-by. [Exit Ralph.
Enter Jasper and his mother Mistress Merry-thought.
Mist. Mer. Give thee my blessing? No, I'll never give thee my blessing, I'll see thee hang'd first; it shall ne'er be said I gave thee my blessing. Thou art thy father's own son, of the blood of the Merry-thoughts; I may curse the time that e'er I knew thy father, he hath spent all his own, and mine too, and when I tell him of it, he laughs and dances and sings, and cries "A merry heart lives long-a." And thou art a wast-thrift, and art run away from thy master, that lov'd thee well, and art come to me, and I have laid up a little for my younger son Michael, and thou thinkest to bezle that, but thou shalt never be able to do it. Come hither, Michael, come Michael, down on thy knees, thou shalt have my blessing.
Enter Michael.
Mich. I pray you, mother, pray to God to bless me.
Mist. Mer. God bless thee; but Jasper shall never have my blessing, he shall be hang'd first, shall he not, Michael? how sayest thou?
Mich. Yes forsooth, mother, and grace of God.
Mist. Mer. That's a good boy.
Wife. I'faith, it's a fine spoken child.
Wife. Ungracious child I warrant him, hark how he chops logic with his mother; thou hadst best tell her she lies, do, tell her she lies.
Cit. If he were my son, I would hang him up by the heels, and flea him, and salt him, humpty halter-sack.
Mist. Mer. I'faith I had sorrow enough for thee, God knows; but I'll hamper thee well enough: get thee in, thou vagabond, get thee in, and learn of thy brother Michael.
Mist. Mer. If you would consider your estate, you would have little list to sing, I wis.
Old Mer. It should never be considered, while it were an estate, if I thought it would spoil my singing.
Mist. Mer. But how wilt thou do, Charles? Thou art an old man, and thou canst not work, and thou hast not forty shillings left, and thou eatest good meat, and drinkest good drink, and laughest?
Old Mer. And will do.
Mist. Mer. But how wilt thou come by it, Charles?
Old Mer. How? Why how have I done hitherto these forty years? I never came into my dining-room, but at eleven and six o'clock I found excellent meat and drink o' th' table. My clothes were never worn out, but next morning a tailor brought me a new suit, and without question it will be so ever! Use makes perfectness; if all should fail, it is but a little straining myself extraordinary, and laugh myself to death.
Wife. It's a foolish old man this: is not he, George?
Cit. Yes, honey.
Wife. Give me a penny i' th' purse while I live, George.
Cit. Ay, by'r lady, honey hold thee there.
Mist. Mer. Well, Charles, you promised to provide for Jasper, and I have laid up for Michael. I pray you pay Jasper his portion, he's come home, and he shall not consume Michael's stock; he says his master turned him away, but I promise you truly, I think he ran away.
Wife. No indeed, Mistress Merry-thought, though he be a notable gallows, yet I'll assure you his master did turn him away, even in this place, 'twas i'faith within this half-hour, about his daughter; my husband was by.
Cit. Hang him, rogue, he served him well enough: love his master's daughter! By my troth, honey, if there were a thousand boys, thou wouldst spoil them all, with taking their parts; let his mother alone with him.
Wife. Ay, George, but yet truth is truth.
Old Mer. Where is Jasper? He's welcome, however, call him in, he shall have his portion; is he merry?
Mist. Mer. Ay, foul chive him, he is too merry. Jasper! Michael!
Enter Jasper and Michael.
Old Mer. Welcome, Jasper, though thou runn'st away, welcome! God bless thee! It is thy mother's mind thou should'st receive thy portion; thou hast been abroad, and I hope hast learnt experience enough to govern it. Thou art of sufficient years. Hold thy hand: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, there is ten shillings for thee; thrust thyself into the world with that, and take some settled course. If fortune cross thee, thou hast a retiring place; come home to me, I have twenty shillings left. Be a good husband, that is, wear ordinary clothes, eat the best meat, and drink the best drink; be merry, and give to the poor, and believe me, thou hast no end of thy goods.
Old Mer. No more words, Jasper, get thee gone, thou hast my blessing, thy father's spirit upon thee. Farewell, Jasper.
Mist. Mer. So, Michael, now get thee gone too.
Mich. Yes forsooth, mother, but I'll have my father's blessing first.
Mist. Mer. No, Michael, 'tis no matter for his blessing; thou hast my blessing. Begone; I'll fetch my money and jewels and follow thee: I'll stay no longer with him I warrant thee. Truly, Charles, I'll be gone too.
Old Mer. What? You will not.
Mist. Mer. Yes indeed will I.
Mist. Mer. You shall not think (when all your own is gone) to spend that I have been scraping up for Michael.
Old Mer. Farewell, good wife, I expect it not, all I have to do in this world is to be merry; which I shall, if the ground be not taken from me; and if it be,
Finis Actus Primi.
Wife. I'll be sworn he's a merry old gentleman for all that. Hark, hark, husband, hark, fiddles, fiddles; now surely they go finely. They say 'tis present death for these fiddlers to tune their rebecks before the great Turk's grace, is't not, George? But look, look, here's a youth dances; now, good youth, do a turn o' the toe. Sweetheart, i'faith I'll have Ralph come and do some of his gambols: he'll ride the wild mare, gentlemen, 'twould do your hearts good to see him: I thank you, kind youth, pray bid Ralph come.
Cit. Peace, conie. Sirrah, you scurvy boy, bid the players send Ralph, or an' they do not I'll tear some of their periwigs beside their heads; this is all riff-raff.
Enter Merchant and Humphrey.
Wife. George, dost thou think in thy conscience now 'twill be a match? tell me but what thou thinkest, sweet rogue, thou seest the poor gentleman (dear heart) how it labours and throbs I warrant you, to be at rest: I'll go move the father for't.
Cit. No, no, I prithee sit still, honeysuckle, thou'lt spoil all; if he deny him, I'll bring half a dozen good fellows myself, and in the shutting of an evening knock it up, and there's an end.
Wife. I'll buss thee for that i'faith, boy; well, George, well, you have been a wag in your days I warrant you; but God forgive you, and I do with all my heart.
Merch. How was it, son? you told me that to-morrow before daybreak, you must convey her hence.
Wife. God's blessing o' thy soul, old man, i'faith thou art loath to part true hearts: I see a has her, George, and I'm glad on't; well, go thy ways, Humphrey, for a fair-spoken man. I believe thou hast not a fellow within the walls of London; an' I should say the suburbs too, I should not lie. Why dost not thou rejoice with me, George?
Cit. If I could but see Ralph again, I were as merry as mine host i'faith.
Enter Mistress Merry-thought and her son Michael.
Mist. Mer. Come, Michael, art thou not weary, boy?
Mich. No, forsooth, mother, not I.
Mist. Mer. Where be we now, child?
Mich. Indeed forsooth, mother, I cannot tell, unless we be at Mile End. Is not all the world Mile End, mother?
Mist. Mer. No, Michael, not all the world, boy; but I can assure thee, Michael, Mile End is a goodly matter. There has been a pitched field, my child, between the naughty Spaniels and the Englishmen; and the Spaniels ran away, Michael, and the Englishmen followed. My neighbour Coxstone was there, boy, and killed them all with a birding-piece.
Mich. Mother, forsooth.
Mist. Mer. What says my white boy?
Mich. Shall not my father go with us too?
Mist. Mer. No, Michael, let thy father go snick-up, he shall never come between a pair of sheets with me again while he lives: let him stay at home and sing for his supper, boy. Come, child, sit down, and I'll show my boy fine knacks indeed; look here, Michael, here's a ring, and here's a brooch, and here's a bracelet, and here's two rings more, and here's money, and gold by th' eye, my boy.
Mich. Shall I have all this, mother?
Mist. Mer. Ay, Michael, thou shalt have all, Michael.
Cit. How lik'st thou this, wench?
Wife. I cannot tell, I would have Ralph, George; I'll see no more else indeed la: and I pray you let the youths understand so much by word of mouth, for I will tell you truly, I'm afraid o' my boy. Come, come, George, let's be merry and wise, the child's a fatherless child, and say they should put him into a strait pair of gaskins, 'twere worse than knot-grass, he would never grow after it.
Enter Ralph, Squire, and Dwarf.
Cit. Here's Ralph, here's Ralph.
Wife. How do you, Ralph? You are welcome, Ralph, as I may say, it's a good boy, hold up thy head, and be not afraid, we are thy friends, Ralph. The gentlemen will praise thee, Ralph, if thou play'st thy part with audacity; begin, Ralph a God's name.
Ralph. My trusty squire, unlace my helm, give me my hat; where are we, or what desert might this be?
Dwarf. Mirror of knighthood, this is, as I take it, the perilous Waltham down, in whose bottom stands the enchanted valley.
Mist. Mer. Oh, Michael, we are betrayed, we are betrayed, here be giants; fly, boy; fly, boy; fly!
[Exeunt Mother and Michael.
Wife. Ay marry, Ralph, this has some savour in it, I would see the proudest of them all offer to carry his books after him. But, George, I will not have him go away so soon, I shall be sick if he go away, that I shall; call Ralph again, George, call Ralph again: I prithee, sweetheart, let him come fight before me, and let's have some drums and trumpets, and let him kill all that comes near him, an' thou lov'st me, George.
Cit. Peace a little, bird, he shall kill them all, an' they were twenty more on 'em than there are.
Enter Jasper.
Wife. I do not like this unthrifty youth should embezzle away the money; the poor gentlewoman his mother will have a heavy heart for it, God knows.
Cit. And reason good, sweetheart.
Wife. But let him go, I'll tell Ralph a tale in's ear, shall fetch him again with a wanion, I warrant him, if he be above ground; and besides, George, here be a number of sufficient gentlemen can witness, and myself, and yourself, and the musicians, if we be called in question; but here comes Ralph, George; thou shalt hear him speak, as he were an Emperal.
Enter Ralph and Dwarf.
Ralph. Comes not Sir Squire again?
Mist. Mer. Out alas, I left a thousand pound, a thousand pound, e'en all the money I had laid up for this youth, upon the sight of your mastership. You looked so grim, and as I may say it, saving your presence, more like a giant than a mortal man.
Cit. Did not I tell you, Nell, what your man would do? by the faith of my body, wench, for clean action and good delivery, they may all cast their caps at him.
Wife. And so they may i'faith, for I dare speak it boldly, the twelve companies of London cannot match him, timber for timber. Well, George, an' he be not inveigled by some of these paltry players, I ha' much marvel; but, George, we ha' done our parts, if the boy have any grace to be thankful.
Cit. Yes, I warrant you, duckling.
Enter Humphrey and Luce.
Manet Humphrey.
Wife. This young Jasper will prove me another things, a my conscience, and he may be suffered; George, dost not see, George, how a swaggers, and flies at the very heads a folks as he were a dragon; well, if I do not do his lesson for wronging the poor gentleman, I am no true woman; his friends that brought him up might have been better occupied, I wis, than have taught him these fegaries: he's e'en in the highway to the gallows, God bless him.
Cit. You're too bitter, cony, the young man may do well enough for all this.
Wife. Come hither, Master Humphrey, has he hurt you? Now beshrew his fingers for't; here, sweetheart, here's some green ginger for thee, now beshrew my heart, but a has peppernel in's head, as big as a pullet's egg; alas, sweet lamb, how thy temples beat; take the peace on him, sweetheart, take the peace on him.
Enter a Boy.
Cit. No, no, you talk like a foolish woman; I'll ha' Ralph fight with him, and swinge him up well-favour'dly. Sirrah boy, come hither, let Ralph come in and fight with Jasper.
Wife. Ay, and beat him well, he's an unhappy boy.
Boy. Sir, you must pardon us, the plot of our play lies contrary, and 'twill hazard the spoiling of our play.
Cit. Plot me no plots, I'll ha' Ralph come out; I'll make your house too hot for you else.
Boy. Why, sir, he shall; but if anything fall out of order, the gentlemen must pardon us.
Cit. Go your ways, goodman boy, I'll hold him a penny he shall have his belly full of fighting now. Ho, here comes Ralph; no more.
Enter Ralph, Mistress Merry-thought, Michael, Squire, and Dwarf.
Wife. Ay, Ralph, he beat him unmercifully, Ralph, an' thou spar'st him, Ralph, I would thou wert hang'd.
Cit. No more, wife, no more.
Wife. Sure the devil, God bless us, is in this springald; why, George, didst ever see such a fire-drake? I am afraid my boy's miscarried; if he be, though he were Master Merry-thought's son a thousand times, if there be any law in England, I'll make some of them smart for't.
Cit. No, no, I have found out the matter, sweetheart. Jasper is enchanted as sure as we are here, he is enchanted; he could no more have stood in Ralph's hands than I can stand in my Lord Mayor's; I'll have a ring to discover all enchantments, and Ralph shall beat him yet. Be no more vexed, for it shall be so.
Enter Ralph, Squire, Dwarf, Mistress Merry-thought, and Michael.
Wife. Oh, husband, here's Ralph again; stay, Ralph, let me speak with thee; how dost thou, Ralph? Art thou not shrewdly hurt? The foul great lunges laid unmercifully on thee! There's some sugar-candy for thee; proceed, thou shalt have another bout with him.
Cit. If Ralph had him at the fencing-school, if he did not make a puppy of him, and drive him up and down the school, he should ne'er come in my shop more.
Mist. Mer. Truly, Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, I am weary.
Mich. Indeed la mother, and I'm very hungry.
Wife. Well said, Ralph: George, Ralph was ever comfortable, was he not?
Cit. Yes, duck.
Wife. I shall ne'er forget him. When we had lost our child, you know it was strayed almost alone to Puddle Wharf, and the criers were abroad for it, and there it had drowned itself but for a sculler, Ralph was the most comfortablest to me: "Peace mistress," says he, "let it go, I'll get you another as good." Did he not, George? Did he not say so?
Cit. Yes indeed did he, mouse.
Dwarf. I would we had a mess of pottage and a pot of drink, squire, and were going to bed.
Squire. Why, we are at Waltham town's end, and that's the Bell Inn.
Wife. That same dwarf's a pretty boy, but the squire's a grout-nold.
Ralph. Knock at the gates, my squire, with stately lance.
Enter Tapster.
Tap. Who's there, you're welcome, gentlemen; will you see a room?
Dwarf. Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, this is the squire Tapstero.
Wife. George, I would have something done, and I cannot tell what it is.
Cit. What is it, Nell?
Wife. Why, George, shall Ralph beat nobody again? Prithee, sweetheart, let him.
Cit. So he shall, Nell, and if I join with him, we'll knock them all.
Enter Humphrey and Merchant.
Wife. O George, here's Master Humphrey again now, that lost Mistress Luce, and Mistress Luce's father. Master Humphrey will do somebody's errand I warrant him.
Wife. George, what wilt thou lay with me now, that Master Humphrey has not Mistress Luce yet; speak, George, what wilt thou lay with me?
Cit. No, Nell, I warrant thee, Jasper is at Puckeridge with her by this.
Wife. Nay, George, you must consider Mistress Luce's feet are tender, and besides, 'tis dark, and I promise you truly, I do not see how he should get out of Waltham Forest with her yet.
Cit. Nay, honey, what wilt thou lay with me that Ralph has her not yet?
Wife. I will not lay against Ralph, honny, because I have not spoken with him: but look, George, peace, here comes the merry old gentleman again.
Enter Old Merry-thought.
I have money, and meat, and drink beforehand, till to-morrow at noon, why should I be sad? Methinks I have half a dozen jovial spirits within me, "I am three merry men, and three merry men." To what end should any man be sad in this world? Give me a man that when he goes to hanging cries "Troul the black bowl to me;" and a woman that will sing a catch in her travail. I have seen a man come by my door with a serious face, in a black cloak, without a hatband, carrying his head as if he look'd for pins in the street. I have look'd out of my window half a year after, and have spied that man's head upon London Bridge. 'Tis vile! Never trust a tailor that does not sing at his work, his mind is of nothing but filching.
Wife. Mark this, George, 'tis worth noting: Godfrey, my tailor, you know, never sings, and he had fourteen yards to make this gown: and I'll be sworn, Mistress Penistone, the draper's wife, had one made with twelve.
Wife. Look, George. How say'st thou by this, George? Is't not a fine old man? Now God's blessing a thy sweet lips. When wilt thou be so merry, George? Faith, thou art the frowningst little thing, when thou art angry, in a country.
Enter Merchant.
Cit. Peace, coney; thou shalt see him took down too, I warrant thee. Here's Luce's father come now.
Wife. How dost thou like this, George?
Cit. Why this is well, dovey; but if Ralph were hot once, thou shouldst see more.
Wife. The fiddlers go again, husband.
Cit. Ay, Nell, but this is scurvy music; I gave the young gallows money, and I think he has not got me the waits of Southwark. If I hear 'em not anon, I'll twing him by the ears. You musicians, play Baloo.
Wife. No, good George, let's have Lachrymæ.
Cit. Why this is it, bird.
Wife. Is't? All the better, George; now, sweet lamb, what story is that painted upon the cloth? the Confutation of Saint Paul?
Cit. No, lamb, that's Ralph and Lucrece.
Wife. Ralph and Lucrece? Which Ralph? our Ralph?
Cit. No, mouse, that was a Tartarian.
Wife. A Tartarian? well, I would the fiddlers had done, that we might see our Ralph again.
Enter Jasper and Luce.
Wife. Away, George, away, raise the watch at Ludgate, and bring a mittimus from the justice for this desperate villain. Now, I charge you, gentlemen, see the King's peace kept. O my heart, what a varlet's this, to offer manslaughter upon the harmless gentlewoman?
Cit. I warrant thee, sweetheart, we'll have him hampered.
Wife. Marry, and let him go, sweetheart, by the faith a my body, a has put me into such a fright, that I tremble (as they say) as 'twere an aspin leaf. Look a my little finger, George, how it shakes: now, in truth, every member of my body is the worse for't.
Cit. Come, hug in mine arms, sweet mouse, he shall not fright thee any more; alas, mine own dear heart, how it quivers.
Enter Mistress Merry-thought, Ralph, Michael, Squire, Dwarf, Host, and a Tapster.
Wife. O Ralph, how dost thou, Ralph? How hast thou slept to-night? Has the knight used thee well?
Cit. Peace, Nell, let Ralph alone.
Tap. Master, the reckoning is not paid.
Host. Thou valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, give ear to me: there is twelve shillings to pay, and as I am a true knight, I will not bate a penny.
Wife. George, I prithee tell me, must Ralph pay twelve shillings now?
Cit. No, Nell, no, nothing; but the old knight is merry with Ralph.
Wife. O, is't nothing else? Ralph will be as merry as he.
Host. Fair knight, I thank you for your noble offer; therefore, gentle knight, twelve shillings you must pay, or I must cap you.
Wife. Look, George, did not I tell thee as much? The knight of the Bell is in earnest. Ralph shall not be beholding to him; give him his money, George, and let him go snick-up.
Cit. Cap Ralph? No; hold your hand, Sir Knight of the Bell, there's your money. Have you anything to say to Ralph now? Cap Ralph?
Wife. I would you should know it, Ralph has friends that will not suffer him to be capt for ten times so much, and ten times to the end of that. Now take thy course, Ralph.
Mist. Mer. Come, Michael, thou and I will go home to thy father, he hath enough left to keep us a day or two, and we'll set fellows abroad to cry our purse and casket. Shall we, Michael?
Mich. Ay, I pray mother, in truth my feet are full of chilblains with travelling.
Wife. Faith and those chilblains are a foul trouble. Mistress Merry-thought, when your youth comes home let him rub all the soles of his feet and his heels and his ankles with a mouse-skin; or if none of you can catch a mouse, when he goes to bed let him roll his feet in the warm embers, and I warrant you he shall be well, and you may make him put his fingers between his toes and smell to them, it's very sovereign for his head if he be costive.
Mist. Mer. Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, my son Michael and I bid you farewell; I thank your worship heartily for your kindness.
Wife. George, dost think Ralph will confound the giant?
Cit. I hold my cap to a farthing he does. Why, Nell, I saw him wrestle with the great Dutchman, and hurl him.
Wife. Faith and that Dutchman was a goodly man, if all things were answerable to his bigness. And yet they say there was a Scottishman higher than he, and that they two on a night met, and saw one another for nothing.
Cit. Nay, by your leave, Nell, Ninivie was better.
Wife. Ninivie, O that was the story of Joan and the Wall, was it not, George?
Cit. Yes, lamb.
Enter Mistress Merry-thought.
Wife. Look, George, here comes Mistress Merry-thought again, and I would have Ralph come and fight with the giant. I tell you true, I long to see't.
Cit. Good Mistress Merry-thought, be gone, I pray you for my sake; I pray you forbear a little, you shall have audience presently: I have a little business.
Wife. Mistress Merry-thought, if it please you to refrain your passion a little, till Ralph have dispatched the giant out of the way, we shall think ourselves much bound to thank you. I thank you, good Mistress Merry-thought. [Exit Mistress Merry-thought.
Enter a Boy.
Cit. Boy, come hither, send away Ralph and this master giant quickly.
Boy. In good faith, sir, we cannot; you'll utterly spoil our play, and make it to be hissed, and it cost money; you will not suffer us to go on with our plots. I pray, gentlemen, rule him.
Cit. Let him come now and dispatch this, and I'll trouble you no more.
Boy. Will you give me your hand of that?
Wife. Give him thy hand, George, do, and I'll kiss him; I warrant thee the youth means plainly.
Boy. I'll send him to you presently. [Exit Boy.
Wife. I thank you, little youth; faith the child hath a sweet breath. George, but I think it be troubled with the worms; Carduus Benedictus and mare's milk were the only thing in the world for it. Oh, Ralph's here, George! God send thee good luck, Ralph!
Enter Ralph, Host, Squire and Dwarf.
Bar. Gargantua for me!
Wife. To him, Ralph, to him: hold up the giant, set out thy leg before, Ralph!
Cit. Falsify a blow, Ralph, falsify a blow; the giant lies open on the left side.
Wife. Bear't off, bear't off still; there, boy. Oh, Ralph's almost down, Ralph's almost down!
Ralph. Susan, inspire me, now have up again.
Wife. Up, up, up, up, up, so, Ralph; down with him, down with him, Ralph!
Cit. Fetch him over the hip, boy.
Wife. There, boy; kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, Ralph!
Cit. No, Ralph, get all out of him first.
Wife. Good Ralph, relieve Sir Partle, and send him away, for in truth his breath stinks.
Ralph. Convey him straight after the other knight. Sir Partle, fare you well.
3rd Knight. Kind sir, good night. [Exit.
[Cries within.
Man. Deliver us!
Wom. Deliver us!
Wife. Hark, George, what a woful cry there is. I think some one is ill there.
Man. Deliver us!
Wom. Deliver us!
Wife. But will not Ralph kill this giant? Surely I am afraid if he let him go he will do as much hurt as ever he did.
Cit. Not so, mouse, neither, if he could convert him.
Wife. Ay, George, if he could convert him; but a giant is not so soon converted as one of us ordinary people. There's a pretty tale of a witch, that had the devil's mark about her, God bless us, that had a giant to her son, that was call'd Lob-lie-by-the-fire. Didst never hear it, George?
Enter Squire leading a man with a glass of lotion in his hand, and the Dwarf leading a woman, with diet bread and drink.
Cit. Peace, Nell, here come the prisoners.
Cit. Mouse, I can tell thee, the gentlemen like Ralph.
Wife. Ay, George, I see it well enough. Gentlemen, I thank you all heartily for gracing my man Ralph, and I promise you, you shall see him oftener.
Cit. Now Ralph is in this humour, I know he would ha' beaten all the boys in the house, if they had been set on him.
Wife. Ay, George, but it is well as it is. I warrant you the gentlemen do consider what it is to overthrow a giant. But look, George, here comes Mistress Merry-thought, and her son Michael. Now you are welcome, Mistress Merry-thought; now Ralph has done, you may go on.
Enter Mistress Merry-thought and Michael.
Mist. Mer. Mick, my boy.
Mick. Ay forsooth, mother.
Mist. Mer. Be merry, Mick, we are at home now, where I warrant you, you shall find the house flung out of the windows. Hark! hey dogs, hey, this is the old world i'faith with my husband. I'll get in among them, I'll play them such lesson, that they shall have little list to come scraping hither again. Why, Master Merry-thought, husband, Charles Merry-thought!
Mist. Mer. Why, Charles, do you not know your own natural wife? I say, open the door, and turn me out those mangy companions; 'tis more than time that they were fellow like with you. You are a gentleman, Charles, and an old man, and father of two children; and I myself, though I say it, by my mother's side, niece to a worshipful gentleman, and a conductor; he has been three times in his Majesty's service at Chester, and is now the fourth time, God bless him, and his charge upon his journey.
Hark you, Mistress Merry-thought, you that walk upon adventures, and forsake your husband because he sings with never a penny in his purse; what, shall I think myself the worse? Faith no, I'll be merry. You come not here, here's none but lads of mettle, lives of a hundred years and upwards; care never drunk their bloods, nor want made them warble,
Mist. Mer. Why, Master Merry-thought, what am I that you should laugh me to scorn thus abruptly? Am I not your fellow-feeler, as we may say, in all our miseries? your comforter in health and sickness? Have I not brought you children? Are they not like you, Charles? Look upon thine own image, hard-hearted man; and yet for all this——
Be merry, boys, some light music, and more wine.
Wife. He's not in earnest, I hope, George, is he?
Cit. What if he be, sweetheart?
Wife. Marry if he be, George, I'll make bold to tell him he's an ingrant old man to use his wife so scurvily.
Cit. What, how does he use her, honey?
Wife. Marry come up, Sir Sauce-box; I think you'll take his part, will you not? Lord, how hot are you grown; you are a fine man, an' you had a fine dog, it becomes you sweetly.
Cit. Nay, prithee Nell, chide not; for as I am an honest man, and a true Christian grocer, I do not like his doings.
Wife. I cry you mercy then, George; you know we are all frail, and full of infirmities. D'ye hear, Master Merry-thought, may I crave a word with you?
Old Mer. [within.] Strike up lively, lads.
Wife. I had not thought in truth, Master Merry-thought, that a man of your age and discretion, as I may say, being a gentleman, and therefore known by your gentle conditions, could have used so little respect to the weakness of his wife; for your wife is your own flesh, the staff of your age, your yoke-fellow, with whose help you draw through the mire of this transitory world. Nay, she is your own rib. And again——
Wife. Marry with a vengeance! I am heartily sorry for the[Pg 56] poor gentlewoman; but if I were thy wife, i'faith, gray beard, i'faith——
Cit. I prithee, sweet honeysuckle, be content.
Wife. Give me such words that am a gentlewoman born, hang him, hoary rascal! Get me some drink, George, I am almost molten with fretting. Now beshrew his knave's heart for it.
Old Mer. Play me a light lavalto. Come, be frolic, fill the good fellows wine.
Mist. Mer. Why, Master Merry-thought, are you disposed to make me wait here. You'll open, I hope; I'll fetch them that shall open else.
Old Mer. Good woman, if you will sing, I'll give you something, if not——
Mist. Mer. Now a churl's fist in your teeth, sir. Come, Mick, we'll not trouble him, a shall not ding us i' th' teeth with his bread and his broth, that he shall not. Come, boy, I'll provide for thee, I warrant thee. We'll go to Master Venterwels the merchant; I'll get his letter to mine host of the Bell in Waltham, there I'll place thee with the tapster; will not that do well for thee, Mick? And let me alone for that old rascally knave, your father; I'll use him in his kind, I warrant ye.
Wife. Come, George, where's the beer?
Cit. Here, love.
Wife. This old fumigating fellow will not out of my mind yet. Gentlemen, I'll begin to you all, I desire more of your acquaintance, with all my heart. Fill the gentlemen some beer, George.
Boy danceth.
Wife. Look, George, the little boy's come again; methinks he looks something like the Prince of Orange, in his long stocking, if he had a little harness about his neck. George, I will have him dance Fading; Fading is a fine jig, I'll assure you, gentlemen. Begin, brother; now a capers, sweetheart; now a turn a th' toe, and then tumble. Cannot you tumble, youth?
Boy. No, indeed, forsooth.
Wife. Nor eat fire?
Boy. Neither.
Wife. Why, then I thank you heartily; there's two pence to buy you points withal.
Enter Jasper and Boy.
Wife. Go thy ways, thou art as crooked a sprig as ever grew in London. I warrant him he'll come to some naughty end or other; for his looks say no less. Besides, his father (you know, George) is none of the best; you heard him take me up like a gill flirt, and sing bad songs upon me. But i'faith, if I live, George——
Cit. Let me alone, sweetheart, I have a trick in my head shall lodge him in the Arches for one year, and make him sing Peccavi, ere I leave him, and yet he shall never know who hurt him neither.
Wife. Do, my good George, do.
Cit. What shall we have Ralph do now, boy?
Boy. You shall have what you will, sir.
Cit. Why so, sir, go and fetch me him then, and let the Sophy of Persia come and christen him a child.
Boy. Believe me, sir, that will not do so well; 'tis stale, it has been had before at the Red Bull.
Wife. George, let Ralph travel over great hills, and let him be weary, and come to the King of Cracovia's house, covered with black velvet, and there let the king's daughter stand in her window all in beaten gold, combing her golden locks with a comb of ivory, and let her spy Ralph, and fall in love with him,[Pg 58] and come down to him, and carry him into her father's house, and then let Ralph talk with her.
Cit. Well said, Nell, it shall be so. Boy, let's ha't done quickly.
Boy. Sir, if you will imagine all this to be done already, you shall hear them talk together. But we cannot present a house covered with black velvet, and a lady in beaten gold.
Cit. Sir Boy, let's ha't as you can then.
Boy. Besides, it will show ill-favouredly to have a grocer's prentice to court a king's daughter.
Cit. Will it so, sir? You are well read in histories: I pray you what was Sir Dagonet? Was not he prentice to a grocer in London? Read the play of the "Four Prentices of London," where they toss their pikes so. I pray you fetch him in, sir; fetch him in.
Boy. It shall be done, it is not our fault, gentlemen. [Exit.
Wife. Now we shall see fine doings, I warrant thee, George. Oh, here they come; how prettily the King of Cracovia's daughter is drest.
Enter Ralph and the Lady, Squire and Dwarf.
Cit. Ay, Nell, it is the fashion of that country, I warrant thee.
Cit. Hark thee, Ralph, there's money for thee; give something in the King of Cracovia's house; be not beholding to him.
Wife. I commend Ralph yet, that he will not stoop to a Cracovian; there's properer women in London than any are there, I wis. But here comes Master Humphrey and his love again; now, George.
Cit. Ay, bird, peace.
Enter Merchant, Humphrey, Luce, and Boy.
Enter Servant.
Serv. Sir, there's a gentlewoman without would speak with your worship.
Merch. What is she?
Serv. Sir, I asked her not.
Merch. Bid her come in.
Enter Mistress Merry-thought and Michael.
Mist. Mer. Peace be to your worship, I come as a poor suitor to you, sir, in the behalf of this child.
Merch. Are you not wife to Merry-thought?
Mist. Mer. Yes truly, would I had ne'er seen his eyes, he has undone me and himself, and his children, and there he lives at home and sings and hoits, and revels among his drunken companions;[Pg 61] but I warrant you, where to get a penny to put bread in his mouth, he knows not. And therefore if it like your worship, I would entreat your letter to the honest host of the Bell in Waltham, that I may place my child under the protection of his tapster, in some settled course of life.
Mist. Mer. Will you so, sir, how say you by that? Come, Mick, let him keep his wind to cool his pottage; we'll go to thy nurse's, Mick, she knits silk stockings, boy; and we'll knit too, boy, and be beholding to none of them all.
[Exeunt Michael and Mother.
Enter a Boy with a letter.
Boy. Sir, I take it you are the master of this house.
Merch. How then, boy?
Boy. Then to yourself, sir, comes this letter.
Merch. From whom, my pretty boy?
Letter.
Merch. Sir, that I have wronged your love I must confess, in which I have purchas'd to myself, besides mine own undoing, the ill opinion of my friends; let not your anger, good sir, outlive me, but suffer me to rest in peace with your forgiveness; let my body (if a dying man may so much prevail with you) be brought to your daughter, that she may know my hot flames are now buried, and withal receive a testimony of the zeal I bore her virtue. Farewell for ever, and be ever happy.—Jasper.
Enter Merchant.
Merch. Boy, boy!
Boy. Your servant, sir.
Merch. Do me this kindness, boy; hold, here's a crown: before thou bury the body of this fellow, carry it to his old merry father, and salute him from me, and bid him sing: he hath cause.
Boy. I will, sir.
Not a denier left, and yet my heart leaps; I do wonder yet, as old as I am, that any man will follow a trade, or serve, that may sing and laugh, and walk the streets. My wife and both my sons are I know not where; I have nothing left, nor know I how to come by meat to supper, yet am I merry still; for I know I shall find it upon the table at six o'clock; therefore, hang thought.
This is it that keeps life and soul together, mirth. This is the philosopher's stone that they write so much on, that keeps a man ever young.
Enter a Boy.
Boy. Sir, they say they know all your money is gone, and they will trust you for no more drink.
Old Mer. Will they not? Let 'em choose. The best is, I have mirth at home, and need not send abroad for that. Let them keep their drink to themselves.
Wife. Let him go, George, a shall not have any countenance[Pg 66] from us, not a good word from any i' th' company, if I may strike stroke in't.
Cit. No more a sha'not, love; but, Nell, I will have Ralph do a very notable matter now, to the eternal honour and glory of all grocers. Sirrah, you there, boy, can none of you hear?
Boy. Sir, your pleasure.
Cit. Let Ralph come out on May-day in the morning, and speak upon a conduit with all his scarfs about him, and his feathers, and his rings, and his knacks.
Boy. Why, sir, you do not think of our plot, what will become of that, then?
Cit. Why, sir, I care not what become on't. I'll have him come out, or I'll fetch him out myself, I'll have something done in honour of the city; besides, he hath been long enough upon adventures. Bring him out quickly, for I come amongst you——
Boy. Well, sir, he shall come out; but if our play miscarry, sir, you are like to pay for't.
[Exit.
Cit. Bring him away, then.
Wife. This will be brave, i'faith. George, shall not he dance the morrice, too, for the credit of the Strand?
Cit. No, sweetheart, it will be too much for the boy. Oh, there he is, Nell; he's reasonable well in reparel, but he has not rings enough.
Enter Ralph.
Enter Merchant, solus.
Merch. I will have no great store of company at the wedding: a couple of neighbours and their wives; and we will have a capon in stewed broth, with marrow, and a good piece of beef, stuck with rosemary.
Enter Jasper, with his face mealed.
Jasp. Forbear thy pains, fond man, it is too late.
Merch. Heav'n bless me! Jasper!
Wife. George, call Ralph hither; if you love me, call Ralph hither. I have the bravest thing for him to do, George; prithee call him quickly.
Cit. Ralph, why Ralph, boy!
Enter Ralph.
Ralph. Here, sir.
Cit. Come hither, Ralph, come to thy mistress, boy.
Wife. Ralph, I would have thee call all the youths together in battle-ray, with drums, and guns, and flags, and march to Mile End in pompous fashion, and there exhort your soldiers to be merry and wise, and to keep their beards from burning, Ralph; and then skirmish, and let your flags fly, and cry, Kill, kill, kill! My husband shall lend you his jerkin, Ralph, and there's a scarf; for the rest, the house shall furnish you, and we'll pay for't: do it bravely, Ralph, and think before whom you perform, and what person you represent.
Ralph. I warrant you, mistress, if I do it not, for the honour of the city, and the credit of my master, let me never hope for freedom.
Wife. 'Tis well spoken i'faith; go thy ways, thou art a spark indeed.
Cit. Ralph, double your files bravely, Ralph.
Ralph. I warrant you, sir. [Exit Ralph.
Cit. Let him look narrowly to his service, I shall take him else; I was there myself a pike-man once, in the hottest of the day, wench; had my feather shot sheer away, the fringe of my pike burnt off with powder, my pate broken with a scouring-stick, and yet I thank God I am here. [Drum within.
Wife. Hark, George, the drums!
Cit. Ran, tan, tan, tan, ran tan. Oh, wench, an' thou hadst but seen little Ned of Aldgate, drum Ned, how he made it roar again, and laid on like a tyrant, and then struck softly till the Ward came up, and then thundered again, and together we go: "Sa, sa, sa," bounce quoth the guns; "Courage, my hearts," quoth the captains; "Saint George," quoth the pike-men; and withal here they lay, and there they lay; and yet for all this I am here, wench.
Wife. Be thankful for it, George, for indeed 'tis wonderful.
Enter Ralph and his Company, with drums and colours.
Ralph. March fair, my hearts; lieutenant, beat the rear up; ancient, let your colours fly; but have a great care of the butchers' hooks at Whitechapel, they have been the death of many a fair ancient. Open your files, that I may take a view both of your persons and munition. Sergeant, call a muster.
Serg. A stand. William Hamerton, pewterer.
Ham. Here, Captain.
Ralph. A croslet and a Spanish pike; 'tis well, can you shake it with a terror?
Ham. I hope so, captain.
Ralph. Charge upon me—'tis with the weakest. Put more strength, William Hamerton, more strength. As you were again; proceed, sergeant.
Serg. George Green-goose, poulterer.
Green. Here.
Ralph. Let me see your piece, neighbour Green-goose. When was she shot in?
Green. An' like you, master captain, I made a shot even now, partly to scour her, and partly for audacity.
Ralph. It should seem so, certainly, for her breath is yet inflamed; besides, there is a main fault in the touch-hole, it stinketh. And I tell you, moreover, and believe it, ten such touch-holes would poison the army; get you a feather, neighbour, get you a feather, sweet oil and paper, and your piece may do well enough yet. Where's your powder?
Green. Here.
Ralph. What, in a paper? As I am a soldier and a gentleman, it craves a martial court: you ought to die for't. Where's your horn? Answer me to that.
Green. An't like you, sir, I was oblivious.
Ralph. It likes me not it should be so; 'tis a shame for you, and a scandal to all our neighbours, being a man of worth and estimation, to leave your horn behind you: I am afraid 'twill breed example. But let me tell you no more on't; stand till I view you all. What's become o' th' nose of your flask?
1st Sold. Indeed, la' captain, 'twas blown away with powder.
Ralph. Put on a new one at the city's charge. Where's the flint of this piece?
2nd Sold. The drummer took it out to light tobacco.
Ralph. 'Tis a fault, my friend; put it in again. You want a nose, and you a flint; sergeant, take a note on't, for I mean to stop it in their pay. Remove and march; soft and fair, gentlemen, soft and fair: double your files; as you were; faces about. Now you with the sodden face, keep in there: look to your match, sirrah, it will be in your fellow's flask anon. So make a crescent now, advance your pikes, stand and give ear. Gentlemen, countrymen, friends, and my fellow-soldiers, I have brought you this day from the shop of security and the counters of content, to measure out in these furious fields honour by the ell and prowess by the pound. Let it not, O let it not, I say, be told hereafter, the noble issue of this city fainted; but bear yourselves in this fair action like men, valiant men, and free men. Fear not the face of the enemy, nor the noise of the guns; for believe me, brethren, the rude rumbling of a brewer's car is more terrible, of which you have a daily experience: neither let the stink of powder offend you, since a more valiant stink is always with you. To a resolved mind his home is everywhere. I speak not this to take away the hope of your return; for you shall see (I do not doubt it), and that very shortly, your loving wives again, and your sweet children, whose care doth bear you company in baskets. Remember, then, whose cause you have in hand, and like a sort of true-born scavengers, scour me this famous realm of enemies. I have no more to say but this:[Pg 71] Stand to your tacklings, lads, and show to the world you can as well brandish a sword as shake an apron. Saint George, and on, my hearts!
Omnes. Saint George, Saint George! [Exeunt.
Wife. 'Twas well done, Ralph; I'll send thee a cold capon a field, and a bottle of March beer; and, it may be, come myself to see thee.
Cit. Nell, the boy hath deceived me much; I did not think it had been in him. He has perform'd such a matter, wench, that, if I live, next year I'll have him Captain of the Gallifoist, or I'll want my will.
Enter Old Merry-thought.
Old Mer. Yet, I thank God, I break not a wrinkle more than I had; not a stoop, boys. Care, live with cats, I defy thee! My heart is as sound as an oak; and tho' I want drink to wet my whistle, I can sing,
Jasp. Nay, good sir, be persuaded, she is my mother. If her offences have been great against you, let your own love remember she is yours, and so forgive her.
Luce. Good Master Merry-thought, let me entreat you, I will not be denied.
Mist. Mer. Why, Master Merry-thought, will you be a vext thing still?
Old Mer. Woman, I take you to my love again, but you shall sing before you enter; therefore despatch your song, and so come in.
Mist. Mer. Well, you must have your will when all's done. Michael, what song canst thou sing, boy?
Mich. I can sing none forsooth but "A Lady's Daughter of Paris," properly.
Merch. [within.] Are you within, Sir Master Merry-thought?
Jasp. It is my master's voice, good sir; go hold him in talk whilst we convey ourselves into some inward room.
Old Mer. What are you? Are you merry? You must be very merry if you enter.
Merch. I am, sir.
Old Mer. Sing, then.
Merch. Nay, good sir, open to me.
Old Mer. Sing, I say, or by the merry heart you come not in.
Enter Luce and Jasper.
Sir, if you will forgive 'em, clap their hands together, there's no more to be said i' th' matter.
Merch. I do, I do!
Cit. I do not like this. Peace, boys, hear me one of you, everybody's part is come to an end but Ralph's, and he's left out.
Boy. 'Tis long of yourself, sir, we have nothing to do with his part.
Cit. Ralph, come away, make on him as you have done of the rest, boys, come.
Wife. Now, good husband, let him come out and die.
Cit. He shall, Nell; Ralph, come away quickly and die, boy.
Boy. 'Twill be very unfit he should die, sir, upon no occasion, and in a comedy too.
Cit. Take you no care for that, Sir Boy; is not his part at an end, think you, when he's dead? Come away, Ralph.
Enter Ralph with a forked arrow through his head.
Wife. Well said, Ralph, do your obeisance to the gentlemen, and go your ways. Well said, Ralph. [Exit Ralph.
Old Mer. Methinks all we, thus kindly and unexpectedly reconciled, should not part without a song.
Merch. A good motion.
Old Mer. Strike up, then.
Song.
EPILOGUS.
Cit. Come, Nell, shall we go? The play's done.
Wife. Nay, by my faith, George, I have more manners than so, I'll speak to these gentlemen first. I thank you all, gentlemen, for your patience and countenance to Ralph, a poor fatherless child, and if I may see you at my house, it should go hard but I would have a pottle of wine, and a pipe of tobacco for you, for truly I hope you like the youth, but I would be glad to know the truth. I refer it to your own discretions, whether you will applaud him or no, for I will wink, and whilst, you shall do what you will.—I thank you with all my heart: God give you good night. Come, George.
——♦——
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
SCENE.—Brentford.
Johnson and Smith.
Johns. Honest Frank! I am glad to see thee with all my heart: how long hast thou been in town?
Smith. Faith, not above an hour: and, if I had not met you here, I had gone to look you out; for I long to talk with you freely of all the strange new things we have heard in the country.
Johns. And, by my troth, I have long'd as much to laugh with you at all the impertinent, dull, fantastical things, we are tired out with here.
Smith. Dull and fantastical! that's an excellent composition. Pray, what are our men of business doing?
Johns. I ne'er inquire after 'em. Thou knowest my humour lies another way. I love to please myself as much, and to trouble others as little as I can; and therefore do naturally avoid the company of those solemn fops, who, being incapable of reason, and insensible of wit and pleasure, are always looking grave, and troubling one another, in hopes to be thought men of business.
Smith. Indeed, I have ever observed, that your grave lookers are the dullest of men.
Johns. Ay, and of birds and beasts too: your gravest bird is an owl, and your gravest beast is an ass.
Smith. Well: but how dost thou pass thy time?
Johns. Why, as I used to do; eat, drink as well as I can, have a friend to chat with in the afternoon, and sometimes see a play; where there are such things, Frank, such hideous, monstrous things, that it has almost made me forswear the stage, and resolve to apply myself to the solid nonsense of your men of business, as the more ingenious pastime.
Smith. I have heard, indeed, you have had lately many new plays; and our country wits commend 'em.
Johns. Ay, so do some of our city wits too; but they are of the new kind of wits.
Smith. New kind! what kind is that?
Johns. Why, your virtuousi; your civil persons, your drolls; fellows that scorn to imitate nature; but are given altogether to elevate and surprise.
Smith. Elevate and surprise! prithee, make me understand the meaning of that.
Johns. Nay, by my troth, that's a hard matter: I don't understand that myself. 'Tis a phrase they have got among them, to express their no-meaning by. I'll tell you, as near as I can, what it is. Let me see; 'tis fighting, loving, sleeping, rhyming, dying, dancing, singing, crying; and everything, but thinking and sense.
Mr. Bayes passes over the stage.
Bayes. Your most obsequious, and most observant, very servant, sir.
Johns. Odso, this is an author. I'll go fetch him to you.
Smith. No, prithee let him alone.
Bayes. Sir, it is not within my small capacity to do favours, but receive 'em; especially from a person that does wear the honourable title you are pleased to impose, sir, upon this—sweet sir, your servant.
Smith. Your humble servant, sir.
Johns. But wilt thou do me a favour, now?
Bayes. Ay, sir, what is't?
Johns. Why, to tell him the meaning of thy last play.
Bayes. How, sir, the meaning? Do you mean the plot?
Johns. Ay, ay; anything.
Bayes. Faith, sir, the intrigo's now quite out of my head; but I have a new one in my pocket that I may say is a virgin; it has never yet been blown upon. I must tell you one thing: 'tis all new wit, and, though I say it, a better than my last; and you know well enough how that took. In fine, it shall read, and write, and act, and plot, and show, ay, and pit, box, and gallery, egad, with any play in Europe.[1] This morning is its last rehearsal, in their habits, and all that, as it is to be acted; and if you and your friend will do it but the honour to see it in its virgin attire; though, perhaps, it may blush, I shall not be[Pg 80] ashamed to discover its nakedness unto you. I think it is in this pocket. [Puts his hand in his pocket.
Johns. Sir, I confess I am not able to answer you in this new way; but if you please to lead, I shall be glad to follow you, and I hope my friend will do so too.
Smith. Sir, I have no business so considerable as should keep me from your company.
Bayes. Yes, here it is. No, cry you mercy: this is my book of Drama Commonplaces, the mother of many other plays.
Johns. Drama Commonplaces! pray what's that?
Bayes. Why, sir, some certain helps that we men of art have found it convenient to make use of.
Smith. How, sir, helps for wit?
Bayes. Ay, sir, that's my position. And I do here aver that no man yet the sun e'er shone upon has parts sufficient to furnish out a stage, except it were by the help of these my rules.[2]
Johns. What are those rules, I pray?
Bayes. Why, sir, my first rule is the rule of transversion, or Regula Duplex; changing verse into prose, or prose into verse, alternativè as you please.
Smith. Well; but how is this done by a rule, sir?
Bayes. Why thus, sir; nothing so easy when understood. I take a book in my hand, either at home or elsewhere, for that's all one; if there be any wit in't, as there is no book but has some, I transverse it; that is, if it be prose, put it into verse (but that takes up some time), and if it be verse, put it into prose.
Johns. Methinks, Mr. Bayes, that putting verse into prose should be called transprosing.
Bayes. By my troth, sir, 'tis a very good notion; and hereafter it shall be so.
Smith. Well, sir, and what d'ye do with it then?
Bayes. Make it my own. 'Tis so changed that no man can know it. My next rule is the rule of record, by way of table-book. Pray observe.
Johns. We hear you, sir; go on.
Bayes. As thus. I come into a coffee-house, or some other place where witty men resort, I make as if I minded nothing; do you mark? but as soon as any one speaks, pop I slap it down, and make that too my own.
Johns. But, Mr. Bayes, are you not sometimes in danger of their making you restore, by force, what you have gotten thus by art?
Bayes. No, sir; the world's unmindful: they never take notice of these things.
Smith. But pray, Mr. Bayes, among all your other rules, have you no one rule for invention?
Bayes. Yes, sir, that's my third rule that I have here in my pocket.
Smith. What rule can that be, I wonder?
Bayes. Why, sir, when I have anything to invent, I never trouble my head about it, as other men do; but presently turn over this book, and there I have, at one view, all that Persius, Montaigne, Seneca's Tragedies, Horace, Juvenal, Claudian, Pliny, Plutarch's Lives, and the rest, have ever thought upon this subject: and so, in a trice, by leaving out a few words, or putting in others of my own, the business is done.
Johns. Indeed, Mr. Bayes, this is as sure and compendious a way of wit as ever I heard of.
Bayes. Sir, if you make the least scruples of the efficacy of these my rules, do but come to the playhouse, and you shall judge of 'em by the effects.
Smith. We'll follow you, sir. [Exeunt.
Enter three Players on the stage.
1st Play. Have you your part perfect?
2nd Play. Yes, I have it without book; but I don't understand how it is to be spoken.
3rd Play. And mine is such a one, as I can't guess for my life what humour I'm to be in; whether angry, melancholy, merry, or in love. I don't know what to make on't.
1st Play. Phoo! the author will be here presently, and he'll tell us all. You must know, this is the new way of writing, and these hard things please forty times better than the old plain way. For, look you, sir, the grand design upon the stage is to keep the auditors in suspense; for to guess presently at the plot, and the sense, tires them before the end of the first act: now here, every line surprises you, and brings in new matter. And then, for scenes, clothes, and dances, we put quite down all that ever went before us; and those are the things, you know, that are essential to a play.
2nd Play. Well, I am not of thy mind; but, so it gets us money, 'tis no great matter.
Enter Bayes, Johnson, and Smith.
Bayes. Come, come in, gentlemen. You're very welcome, Mr.—a—. Ha' you your part ready?
1st Play. Yes, sir.
Bayes. But do you understand the true humour of it?
1st Play. Ay, sir, pretty well.
Bayes. And Amaryllis, how does she do? does not her armour become her?
3rd Play. Oh, admirably!
Bayes. I'll tell you now a pretty conceit. What do you think I'll make 'em call her anon, in this play?
Smith. What, I pray?
Bayes. Why, I make 'em call her Armaryllis, because of her armour: ha, ha, ha!
Johns. That will be very well indeed.
Bayes. Ay, 'tis a pretty little rogue; but—a—come, let's sit down. Look you, sirs, the chief hinge of this play, upon which the whole plot moves and turns, and that causes the variety of all the several accidents, which, you know, are the things in nature that make up the grand refinement of a play, is, that I suppose two kings of the same place; as for example, at Brentford, for I love to write familiarly. Now the people having the same relations to 'em both, the same affections, the same duty, the same obedience, and all that, are divided among themselves in point of devoir and interest, how to behave themselves equally between 'em: these kings differing sometimes in particular; though, in the main, they agree. (I know not whether I make myself well understood.)
Johns. I did not observe you, sir: pray say that again.
Bayes. Why, look you, sir (nay, I beseech you be a little curious in taking notice of this, or else you'll never understand my notion of the thing), the people being embarrass'd by their equal ties to both, and the sovereigns concern'd in a reciprocal regard, as well to their own interest, as the good of the people, make a certain kind of a—you understand me—upon which, there do arise several disputes, turmoils, heart-burnings, and all that—in fine, you'll apprehend it better when you see it.
[Exit, to call the Players.
Smith. I find the author will be very much obliged to the players, if they can make any sense out of this.
Enter Bayes.
Bayes. Now, gentlemen, I would fain ask your opinion of one thing. I have made a prologue and an epilogue, which may both serve for either; that is, the prologue for the epilogue, or the epilogue for the prologue;[3] (do you mark?) nay, they may both serve too, egad, for any other play as well as this.
Smith. Very well; that's indeed artificial.
Bayes. And I would fain ask your judgments, now, which of them would do best for the prologue? for, you must know there is, in nature, but two ways of making very good prologues: the one is by civility, by insinuation, good language, and all that, to—a—in a manner, steal your plaudit from the courtesy of the auditors: the other, by making use of some certain personal things, which may keep a hank upon such censuring persons, as cannot otherways, egad, in nature, be hindered from being too free with their tongues. To which end, my first prologue is, that I come out in a long black veil, and a great huge hangman behind me, with a furr'd cap, and his sword drawn; and there tell 'em plainly, that if out of good-nature, they will not like my play, egad, I'll e'en kneel down, and he shall cut my head off. Whereupon they all clapping—a—
Smith. Ay, but suppose they don't.
Bayes. Suppose! sir, you may suppose what you please; I have nothing to do with your suppose, sir; nor am at all mortified at it; not at all, sir; egad, not one jot, sir. Suppose, quoth-a!—ha, ha, ha! [Walks away.
Johns. Phoo! prithee, Bayes, don't mind what he says; he is a fellow newly come out of the country, he knows nothing of what's the relish, here, of the town.
Bayes. If I writ, sir, to please the country, I should have follow'd the old plain way; but I write for some persons of quality, and peculiar friends of mine, that understand what flame and power in writing is; and they do me the right, sir, to approve of what I do.
Johns. Ay, ay, they will clap, I warrant you; never fear it.
Bayes. I'm sure the design's good; that cannot be denied. And then, for language, egad, I defy 'em all, in nature, to mend it. Besides, sir, I have printed above a hundred sheets of paper to insinuate the plot into the boxes;[4] and, withal, have appointed two or three dozen of my friends to be ready in the pit, who, I'm sure, will clap, and so the rest, you know, must follow; and then, pray, sir, what becomes of your suppose? Ha, ha, ha!
Johns. Nay, if the business be so well laid, it cannot miss.
Bayes. I think so, sir; and therefore would choose this to be the prologue. For, if I could engage 'em to clap, before they see the play, you know it would be so much the better; because then they were engag'd; for let a man write ever so well, there are, now-a-days, a sort of persons they call critics, that, egad, have no more wit in them than so many hobby-horses; but they'll laugh at you, sir, and find fault, and censure things that,[Pg 84] egad, I'm sure, they are not able to do themselves. A sort of envious persons that emulate the glories of persons of parts, and think to build their fame by calumniating of persons[5] that, egad, to my knowledge, of all persons in the world, are, in nature, the persons that do as much despise all that as—a— In fine, I'll say no more of 'em.
Johns. Nay, you have said enough of 'em, in all conscience; I'm sure more than they'll e'er be able to answer.
Bayes. Why, I'll tell you, sir, sincerely and bonâ fide, were it not for the sake of some ingenious persons and choice female spirits, that have a value for me, I would see 'em all hang'd, egad, before I would e'er more set pen to paper, but let 'em live in ignorance like ingrates.
Johns. Ay, marry! that were a way to be reveng'd of 'em indeed; and, if I were in your place, now, I would do so.
Bayes. No, sir; there are certain ties upon me that I cannot be disengag'd from;[6] otherwise, I would. But pray, sir, how do you like my hangman?
Smith. By my troth, sir, I should like him very well.
Bayes. By how do you like it, sir? (for, I see, you can judge) would you have it for a prologue, or the epilogue?
Johns. Faith, sir, 'tis so good, let it e'en serve for both.
Bayes. No, no; that won't do. Besides, I have made another.
Johns. What other, sir?
Bayes. Why, sir, my other is Thunder and Lightning.
Johns. That's greater; I'd rather stick to that.
Bayes. Do you think so? I'll tell you then; tho' there have been many witty prologues written of late, yet, I think, you'll say this is a non pareillo: I'm sure nobody has hit upon it yet. For here, sir, I make my prologue to be a dialogue; and as, in my first, you see, I strive to oblige the auditors by civility, by good nature, good language, and all that; so, in this, by the other way, in terrorem, I choose for the persons Thunder and Lightning. Do you apprehend the conceit?
Johns. Phoo, phoo! then you have it cock-sure. They'll be hang'd before they'll dare affront an author that has 'em at that lock.
Bayes. I have made, too, one of the most delicate dainty similes in the whole world, egad, if I knew but how to apply it.
Smith. Let's hear it, I pray you.
How do you like it now, ha?
Johns. Faith, 'tis extraordinary fine; and very applicable to Thunder and Lightning, methinks, because it speaks of a storm.
Bayes. Egad, and so it does, now I think on't: Mr. Johnson, I thank you; and I'll put it in profecto. Come out, Thunder and Lightning.
Enter Thunder and Lightning.
Thun. I am the bold Thunder.
Bayes. Mr. Cartwright, prithee speak that a little louder, and with a hoarse voice. I am the bold Thunder: pshaw! speak it me in a voice that thunders it out indeed: I am the bold Thunder.
Bayes. There's no more. 'Tis but a flash of a prologue: a droll.
Smith. Yes, 'tis short indeed; but very terrible.
Bayes. Ay, when the simile's in, it will do to a miracle, egad.
Come, come, begin the play.
Enter First Player.
1st Play. Sir, Mr. Ivory is not come yet; but he'll be here presently, he's but two doors off.[10]
Bayes. Come then, gentlemen, let's go out and take a pipe of tobacco. [Exeunt.
Bayes, Johnson, and Smith.
Bayes. Now, sir, because I'll do nothing here that ever was done before, instead of beginning with a scene that discovers something of the plot, I begin this play with a whisper.[11]
Smith. Umph! very new indeed.
Bayes. Come, take your seats. Begin, sirs.
Enter Gentleman-Usher and Physician.
Phys. Sir, by your habit, I should guess you to be the Gentleman-usher of this sumptuous place.
Ush. And by your gait and fashion, I should almost suspect [Pg 87]you rule the healths of both our noble kings, under the notion of Physician.
Phys. You hit my function right.
Ush. And you mine.
Phys. Then let's embrace.
Ush. Come.
Phys. Come.
Johns. Pray, sir, who are those so very civil persons?
Bayes. Why, sir, the gentleman-usher and physician of the two kings of Brentford.
Johns. But, pray then, how comes it to pass, that they know one another no better?
Bayes. Phoo! that's for the better carrying on of the plot.
Johns. Very well.
Phys. Sir, to conclude.
Smith. What, before he begins?
Bayes. No, sir, you must know they had been talking of this a pretty while without.
Smith. Where? in the tyring-room?
Bayes. Why, ay, sir. He's so dull! come, speak again.
Phys. Sir, to conclude, the place you fill has more than amply exacted the talents of a wary pilot; and all these threat'ning storms, which, like impregnate clouds, hover o'er our heads, will (when they once are grasped but by the eye of reason) melt into fruitful showers of blessings on the people.
Bayes. Pray mark that allegory. Is not that good?
Johns. Yes, that grasping of a storm with the eye is admirable.
Phys. But yet some rumours great are stirring; and if Lorenzo should prove false (which none but the great gods can tell), you then perhaps would find that——
[Whispers.
Bayes. Now he whispers.
Ush. Alone do you say?
Phys. No, attended with the noble—— [Whispers.
Bayes. Again.
Ush. Who, he in grey?
Phys. Yes, and at the head of—— [Whispers.
Bayes. Pray mark.
Bayes. Now the other whispers.
Ush. Secondly, they—— [Whispers.
Bayes. At it still.
Ush. Thirdly, and lastly, both he and they—— [Whispers.
Bayes. Now they both whisper. [Exeunt whispering.
Now, gentlemen, pray tell me true, and without flattery, is not this a very odd beginning of a play?
Johns. In troth, I think it is, sir. But why two kings of the same place?
Bayes. Why, because it's new, and that's it I aim at. I despise your Jonson and Beaumont, that borrowed all they writ from nature: I am for fetching it purely out of my own fancy, I.
Smith. But what think you of Sir John Suckling?
Bayes. By gad, I am a better poet than he.
Smith. Well, sir, but pray why all this whispering?
Bayes. Why, sir (besides that it is new, as I told you before), because they are supposed to be politicians, and matters of state ought not to be divulg'd.
Smith. But then, sir, why——
Bayes. Sir, if you'll but respite your curiosity till the end of the fifth act, you'll find it a piece of patience not ill recompensed. [Goes to the door.
Johns. How dost thou like this, Frank? Is it not just as I told thee?
Smith. Why, I never did before this see anything in nature, and all that (as Mr. Bayes says) so foolish, but I could give some guess at what moved the fop to do it; but this, I confess, does go beyond my reach.
Johns. It is all alike; Mr. Wintershull[12] has informed me of this play already. And I'll tell thee, Frank, thou shalt not see one scene here worth one farthing, or like anything thou canst imagine has ever been the practice of the world. And then, when he comes to what he calls good language, it is, as I told thee, very fantastical, most abominably dull, and not one word to the purpose.
Smith. It does surprise me, I'm sure, very much.
Johns. Ay, but it won't do so long: by that time thou hast seen a play or two, that I'll show thee, thou wilt be pretty well acquainted with this new kind of foppery.
Smith. Plague on't, but there's no pleasure in him: he's too gross a fool to be laugh'd at.
Enter Bayes.
Johns. I'll swear, Mr. Bayes, you have done this scene most admirably; tho' I must tell you, sir, it is a very difficult matter to pen a whisper well.
Bayes. Ay, gentlemen, when you come to write yourselves, on my word, you'll find it so.
Johns. Have a care of what you say, Mr. Bayes; for Mr. Smith there, I assure you, has written a great many fine things already.
Bayes. Has he, i'fackins? why then pray, sir, how do you do when you write?
Smith. Faith, sir, for the most part, I am in pretty good health.
Bayes. Ay, but I mean, what do you do when you write?
Smith. I take pen, ink, and paper, and sit down.
Bayes. Now I write standing; that's one thing; and then another thing is, with what do you prepare yourself?
Smith. Prepare myself! what the devil does the fool mean?
Bayes. Why, I'll tell you, now, what I do. If I am to write familiar things, as sonnets to Armida, and the like, I make use of stew'd prunes only: but, when I have a grand design in hand, I ever take physic, and let blood; for, when you would have pure swiftness of thought, and fiery flights of fancy, you must have a care of the pensive part. In fine, you must purge the stomach.
Smith. By my troth, sir, this is a most admirable receipt for writing.
Bayes. Ay, 'tis my secret; and, in good earnest, I think one of the best I have.
Smith. In good faith, sir, and that may very well be.
Bayes. May be, sir? Egad, I'm sure on't: Experto crede Roberto. But I must give you this caution by the way, be sure you never take snuff,[13] when you write.
Smith. Why so, sir?
Bayes. Why, it spoil'd me once, egad, one of the sparkishest plays in all England. But a friend of mine, at Gresham College, has promised to help me to some spirit of brains, and, egad, that shall do my business.
Scene II.
Enter the two Kings, hand in hand.
Bayes. Oh, these are now the two kings of Brentford; take notice of their style, 'twas never yet upon the stage: but if you like it, I could make a shift perhaps to show you a whole play, writ all just so.
1st King. Did you observe their whispers, brother king?
Johns. This is a majestic scene indeed.
Bayes. Ay, 'tis a crust, a lasting crust for your rogue-critics, egad: I would fain see the proudest of 'em all but dare to nibble at this; egad, if they do, this shall rub their gums for 'em, I promise you. It was I, you must know, that have written a whole play just in this very same style; it was never acted yet.
Johns. How so?
Bayes. Egad, I can hardly tell you for laughing: ha, ha, ha! it is so pleasant a story: ha, ha, ha!
Smith. What is't?
Bayes. Egad, the players refuse to act it. Ha, ha, ha!
Smith. That's impossible!
Bayes. Egad, they did it, sir; point-blank refus'd it, egad, ha, ha, ha!
Johns. Fie, that was rude.
Bayes. Rude! ay, egad, they are the rudest, uncivillest persons, and all that, in the whole world, egad. Egad, there's no living with 'em. I have written, Mr. Johnson, I do verily believe, a whole cartload of things, every whit as good as this; and yet, I vow to gad, these insolent rascals have turn'd 'em all back upon my hands again.
Johns. Strange fellows indeed!
Smith. But pray, Mr. Bayes, how came these two kings to know of this whisper? for, as I remember, they were not present at it.
Bayes. No, but that's the actors' fault, and not mine; for the two kings should (a plague take 'em) have popp'd both their heads in at the door, just as the other went off.
Smith. That indeed would have done it.
Bayes. Done it! ay, egad, these fellows are able to spoil the best things in Christendom. I'll tell you, Mr. Johnson, I vow to gad, I have been so highly disoblig'd by the peremptoriness of these fellows, that I'm resolved hereafter to bend my thoughts wholly for the service of the nursery, and mump your proud players, egad. So, now Prince Prettyman comes in, and falls asleep, making love to his mistress; which you know was a grand intrigue in a late play, written by a very honest gentleman, a knight.[14]
Scene III.
Enter Prince Prettyman.
Bayes. Does not that, now, surprise you, to fall asleep in the nick? his spirits exhale with the heat of his passion, and all that, and swop he falls asleep, as you see. Now here she must make a simile.
Smith. Where's the necessity of that, Mr. Bayes?
Bayes. Because she's surpris'd. That's a general rule; you must ever make a simile when you are surpris'd; 'tis the new way of writing.
Johns. Mr. Bayes, methinks this simile wants a little application too.
Bayes. No, faith; for it alludes to passion, to consuming, to dying, and all that; which, you know, are the natural effects of an amour. But I'm afraid this scene has made you sad; for, I must confess, when I writ it, I wept myself.
Smith. No truly, sir, my spirits are almost exhal'd too, and I am likelier to fall asleep.
Prince Prettyman starts up, and says—
Pret. It is resolved! [Exit.
Bayes. That's all.
Smith. Mr. Bayes, may one be so bold as to ask you one question, now, and you not be angry?
Bayes. O Lord, sir, you may ask me anything; what you please; I vow to gad, you do me a great deal of honour: you do not know me, if you say that, sir.
Smith. Then pray, sir, what is it that this prince here has resolved in his sleep?
Bayes. Why, I must confess, that question is well enough asked, for one that is not acquainted with this new way of writing. But you must know, sir, that to outdo all my fellow-writers, whereas they keep their intrigo secret, till the very last scene before the dance; I now, sir (do you mark me?)—a—
Smith. Begin the play, and end it, without ever opening the plot at all?
Bayes. I do so, that's the very plain truth on't: ha, ha, ha! I do, egad. If they cannot find it out themselves, e'en let 'em alone for Bayes, I warrant you. But here, now, is a scene of business: pray observe it; for I dare say you'll think it no unwise discourse this, nor ill argued. To tell you true, 'tis a discourse I overheard once betwixt two grand, sober, governing persons.
Scene IV.
Enter Gentleman-Usher and Physician.
Ush. Come, sir; let's state the matter of fact, and lay our heads together.
Phys. Right; lay our heads together. I love to be merry sometimes; but when a knotty point comes, I lay my head close to it, with a snuff-box in my hand; and then I fegue it away, i'faith.
Bayes. I do just so, egad, always.
Ush. The grand question is, whether they heard us whisper? which I divide thus.
Phys. Yes, it must be divided so indeed.
Smith. That's very complaisant, I swear, Mr. Bayes, to be of another man's opinion, before he knows what it is.
Bayes. Nay, I bring in none here but well-bred persons, I assure you.
Ush. I divide the question into when they heard, what they heard, and whether they heard or no.
Johns. Most admirably divided, I swear!
Ush. As to the when; you say, just now: so that is answer'd. Then, as for what; why, that answers itself; for what could they hear, but what we talk'd of? so that, naturally, and of necessity, we come to the last question, videlicet, whether they heard or no.
Smith. This is a very wise scene, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. Ay, you have it right; they are both politicians.
Ush. Pray, then, to proceed in method, let me ask you that question.
Phys. No, you'll answer better; pray let me ask it you.
Ush. Your will must be a law.
Phys. Come, then, what is't I must ask?
Smith. This politician, I perceive, Mr. Bayes, has somewhat a short memory.
Bayes. Why, sir, you must know, that t'other is the main politician, and this is but his pupil.
Ush. You must ask me whether they heard us whisper.
Phys. Well, I do so.
Ush. Say it then.
Smith. Heyday! here's the bravest work that ever I saw.
Johns. This is mighty methodical.
Bayes. Ay, sir; that's the way; 'tis the way of art; there is no other way, egad, in business.
Phys. Did they hear us whisper?
Ush. Why, truly, I can't tell; there's much to be said upon the word whisper: to whisper in Latin is susurrare, which is as much as to say, to speak softly; now, if they heard us speak softly, they heard us whisper; but then comes in the quomodo, the how; how did they hear us whisper? why as to that, there are two ways: the one, by chance or accident; the other, on purpose; that is, with design to hear us whisper.
Phys. Nay, if they heard us that way, I'll never give them physic more.
Ush. Nor I e'er more will walk abroad before 'em.
Bayes. Pray mark this, for a great deal depends upon it, towards the latter end of the play.
Smith. I suppose that's the reason why you brought in this scene, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. Partly, it was, sir; but I confess I was not unwilling, besides, to show the world a pattern, here, how men should talk of business.
Johns. You have done it exceeding well indeed.
Bayes. Yes, I think this will do.
Phys. Well, if they heard us whisper, they will turn us out, and nobody else will take us.
Bayes. There's now an odd surprise; the whole state's turned quite topsy-turvy, without any pother or stir in the whole world, egad.[17]
Johns. A very silent change of government, truly, as ever I heard of.
Bayes. It is so. And yet you shall see me bring 'em in again, by-and-by, in as odd a way every jot.
Johns. Mr. Bayes, in my opinion, now, that gentleman might have said a little more upon this occasion.
Bayes. No, sir, not at all; for I underwrit his part on purpose to set off the rest.
Johns. Cry you mercy, sir.
Smith. But pray, sir, how came they to depose the kings so easily?
Bayes. Why, sir, you must know, they long had a design to do it before; but never could put it in practice till now: and to tell you true, that's one reason why I made 'em whisper so at first.
Smith. Oh, very well; now I'm fully satisfied.
Bayes. And then to show you, sir, it was not done so very easily neither, in the next scene you shall see some fighting.
Smith. Oh, oh; so then you make the struggle to be after the business is done?
Bayes. Ay.
Smith. Oh, I conceive you: that, I swear, is very natural.
Scene V.
Enter four Men at one door, and four at another, with their swords drawn.
1st Sold. Stand. Who goes there?
2nd Sold. A friend.
1st Sold. What friend?
2nd Sold. A friend to the house.
1st Sold. Why, sir, 'tis impossible to do anything in time, to this tune.
Bayes. O Lord, O Lord! impossible! Why, gentlemen, if there be any faith in a person that's a Christian, I sat up two whole nights in composing this air, and apting it for the business; for, if you observe, there are two several designs in[Pg 96] this tune: it begins swift, and ends slow. You talk of time, and time; you shall see me do it. Look you, now: here I am dead.
[Lies down flat upon his face.
Johns. By my troth, Mr. Bayes, this is a very unfortunate note of yours, in effaut.
Bayes. A plague on this old stage, with your nails, and your tenter-hooks, that a gentleman can't come to teach you to act, but he must break his nose, and his face, and the devil and all. Pray, sir, can you help me to a wet piece of brown paper?
Smith. No, indeed, sir, I don't usually carry any about me.
2nd Sold. Sir, I'll go get you some within presently.
Bayes. Go, go, then; I follow you. Pray dance out the dance, and I'll be with you in a moment. Remember you dance like horse-men. [Exit Bayes.
Smith. Like horse-men! what a plague can that be?
They dance the dance, but can make nothing of it.
1st Sold. A devil! let's try this no longer. Play my dance
that Mr. Bayes found fault with so. [Dance, and Exeunt.
Smith. What can this fool be doing all this while about his
nose?
Johns. Prithee let's go see. [Exeunt.
Bayes with a paper on his nose, and the two Gentlemen.
Bayes. Now, sirs, this I do, because my fancy, in this play, is, to end every act with a dance.
Smith. Faith, that fancy is very good; but I should hardly have broke my nose for it, tho'.
Johns. That fancy I suppose is new too.
Bayes. Sir, all my fancies are so. I tread upon no man's
heels; but make my flight upon my own wings, I assure you.
Now, here comes in a scene of sheer wit, without any mixture
in the whole world, egad! between Prince Prettyman and his
tailor: it might properly enough be call'd a prize of wit; for
you shall see them come in one upon another snip-snap, hit for
hit, as fast as can be. First, one speaks, then presently t'other's
upon him, slap, with a repartee; then he at him again, dash
with a new conceit; and so eternally, eternally, egad, till they go
quite off the stage.
[Goes to call the Players.
Smith. What a plague does this fop mean, by his snip snap,
hit for hit, and dash!
Johns. Mean! why, he never meant anything in's life; what dost talk of meaning for?
Enter Bayes.
Bayes. Why don't you come in?
Enter Prince Prettyman and Tom Thimble.[19]
This scene will make you die with laughing, if it be well acted, for 'tis as full of drollery as ever it can hold. 'Tis like an orange stuff'd with cloves, as for conceit.
Pret. But prithee, Tom Thimble, why wilt thou needs marry? if nine tailors make but one man, what work art thou cutting out here for thyself, trow?
Bayes. Good.
Thim. Why, an't please your highness, if I can't make up all the work I cut out, I shan't want journeymen enow to help me, I warrant you.
Bayes. Good again.
Pret. I am afraid thy journeymen, tho', Tom, won't work by the day.
Bayes. Good still.
Thim. However, if my wife sits but as I do, there will be no great danger: not half so much as when I trusted you, sir, for your coronation-suit.
Bayes. Very good, i'faith.
Pret. Why the times then liv'd upon trust; it was the fashion. You would not be out of time, at such a time as that, sure: a tailor, you know, must never be out of fashion.
Bayes. Right.
Thim. I'm sure, sir, I made your clothes in the court-fashion, for you never paid me yet.
Bayes. There's a bob for the court.[20]
Pret. Why, Tom, thou art a sharp rogue when thou art angry, I see: thou pay'st me now, methinks.
Bayes. There's pay upon pay! as good as ever was written, egad!
Thim. Ay, sir, in your own coin; you give me nothing but words.[21]
Bayes. Admirable!
Pret. Well, Tom, I hope shortly I shall have another coin for thee; for now the wars are coming on, I shall grow to be a man of metal.
Bayes. Oh, you did not do that half enough.
Johns. Methinks he does it admirably.
Bayes. Ay, pretty well; but he does not hit me in't: he does not top his part.[22]
Thim. That's the way to be stamp'd yourself, sir. I shall see you come home, like an angel for the king's evil, with a hole bor'd thro' you. [Exeunt.
Bayes. Ha, there he has hit it up to the hilts, egad! How do you like it now, gentlemen? is not this pure wit?
Smith. 'Tis snip-snap, sir, as you say; but methinks not pleasant, nor to the purpose; for the play does not go on.
Bayes. Play does not go on! I don't know what you mean: why, is not this part of the play?
Smith. Yes; but the plot stands still.
Bayes. Plot stand still! why, what a devil is the plot good for, but to bring in fine things?
Smith. Oh, I did not know that before.
Bayes. No, I think you did not, nor many things more, that I am master of. Now, sir, egad, this is the bane of all us writers; let us soar but never so little above the common pitch, egad, all's spoil'd, for the vulgar never understand it; they can never conceive you, sir, the excellency of these things.
Johns. 'Tis a sad fate, I must confess; but you write on still for all that!
Bayes. Write on? Ay, egad, I warrant you. 'Tis not their talk shall stop me; if they catch me at that lock, I'll give them leave to hang me. As long as I know my things are good, what care I what they say? What, are they gone without singing my last new song? 'sbud would it were in their bellies. I'll tell you, Mr. Johnson, if I have any skill in these matters, I vow to gad this song is peremptorily the very best that ever yet was written: you must know it was made by Tom Thimble's first wife after she was dead.
Smith. How, sir, after she was dead?
Bayes. Ay, sir, after she was dead. Why, what have you to say to that?
Johns. Say? why nothing. He were a devil that had anything to say to that.
Bayes. Right.
Smith. How did she come to die, pray, sir?
Bayes. Phoo! that's no matter; by a fall: but here's the conceit, that upon his knowing she was kill'd by an accident, he supposes, with a sigh, that she died for love of him.
Johns. Ay, ay, that's well enough; let's hear it, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. 'Tis to the tune of "Farewell, fair Armida;" on seas, and in battles, in bullets, and all that.
Song.[23]
Ha, rogues! when I am merry, I write these things as fast as hops, egad; for, you must know, I am as pleasant a cavalier as ever you saw; I am, i'faith.
Smith. But, Mr. Bayes, how comes this song in here? for methinks there is no great occasion for it.
Bayes. Alack, sir, you know nothing; you must ever interlard your plays with songs, ghosts, and dances, if you mean to—a—
Johns. Pit, box, and gallery,[24] Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. Egad, and you have nick'd it. Hark you, Mr. Johnson, you know I don't flatter; egad, you have a great deal of wit.
Johns. O Lord, sir, you do me too much honour.
Bayes. Nay, nay, come, come, Mr. Johnson, i'faith this must not be said amongst us that have it. I know you have wit, by the judgment you make of this play; for that's the measure we go by: my play is my touchstone. When a man tells me such a one is a person of parts: is he so? say I; what do I do, but bring him presently to see this play: if he likes it, I know what to think of him; if not, your most humble servant, sir; I'll no more of him, upon my word, I thank you. I am Clara voyant, egad. Now here we go on to our business.
Scene II.
Bayes. Is not that majestical?
Smith. Yes, but who the devil is that Volscius?
Bayes. Why, that's a prince I make in love with Parthenope.
Smith. I thank you, sir.
Enter Cordelio.
Cor. My lieges, news from Volscius the prince.
Ush. His news is welcome, whatsoe'er it be.[26]
Smith. How, sir, do you mean whether it be good or bad?
Bayes. Nay, pray, sir, have a little patience: gadzookers, you'll spoil all my play. Why, sir, 'tis impossible to answer every impertinent question you ask.
Smith. Cry you mercy, sir.
Bayes. There's a smart expression of a passion: O ye gods! that's one of my bold strokes, egad.
Smith. Yes; but who's the fair person that's dead?
Bayes. That you shall know anon, sir.
Smith. Nay, if we know at all, 'tis well enough.
Bayes. Perhaps you may find, too, by-and-by, for all this, that she's not dead neither.
Smith. Marry, that's good news indeed. I am glad of that with all my heart.
Bayes. Now here's the man brought in that is supposed to have kill'd her. [A great shout within.
Scene III.
Enter Amaryllis, with a book in her hand, and attendants.
Ama. What shout triumphant's that?
Enter a Soldier.
Sold. Shy maid, upon the river brink, near Twic'nam town, the false assassinate is ta'en.
Ama. Thanks to the powers above for this deliverance. I hope,
Bayes. Pish! there you are out; to all future end! no, no; to all future END! You must lay the accent upon "end," or else you lose the conceit.
Smith. I see you are very perfect in these matters.
Bayes. Ay, sir, I have been long enough at it, one would think, to know something.
Enter Soldiers, dragging in an old Fisherman.
Tell me who set thee on.
Fish. Prince Prettyman.
Ama. To kill whom?
Fish. Prince Prettyman.
Ama. What! did Prince Prettyman hire you to kill Prince Prettyman?
Fish. No; Prince Volscius.
Ama. To kill whom?
Fish. Prince Volscius.
Ama. What! did Prince Volscius hire you to kill Prince Volscius?
Fish. No, Prince Prettyman.
Bayes. Mark how I make the horror of his guilt confound his intellects; for he's out at one and t'other: and that's the design of this scene.
Smith. I see, sir, you have a several design for every scene.
Bayes. Ay, that's my way of writing; and so, sir, I can dispatch you a whole play, before another man, egad, can make an end of his plot.
Scene IV.
So now enter Prince Prettyman in a rage. Where the devil is he? why, Prettyman? why, where I say? O fie, fie, fie, fie! all's marr'd, I vow to gad, quite marr'd.
Enter Prettyman.
Phoo, phoo! you are come too late, sir; now you may go out again, if you please. I vow to gad, Mr.—a—I would not give a button for my play, now you have done this.
Pret. What, sir?
Bayes. What, sir! why, sir, you should have come out in choler, rouse upon the stage, just as the other went off. Must a man be eternally telling you of these things?
Johns. Sure this must be some very notable matter that he's so angry at.
Smith. I am not of your opinion.
Bayes. Pish! come let's hear your part, sir.
Smith. Well, Ned, what think you now?
Johns. A devil, this is worst of all: Mr. Bayes, pray what's the meaning of this scene?
Bayes. O cry you mercy, sir: I protest I had forgot to tell you. Why, sir, you must know, that long before the beginning of this play, this prince was taken by a fisherman.
Smith. How, sir, taken prisoner?
Bayes. Taken prisoner! O Lord, what a question's there![Pg 103] did ever any man ask such a questions? Plague on him, he has put the plot quite out of my head with this—this—question! what was I going to say?
Johns. Nay, Heaven knows: I cannot imagine.
Bayes. Stay, let me see: taken! O 'tis true. Why, sir, as I was going to say, his highness here, the prince, was taken in a cradle by a fisherman, and brought up as his child!
Smith. Indeed!
Bayes. Nay, prithee, hold thy peace. And so, sir, this murder being committed by the river-side, the fisherman, upon suspicion, was seiz'd, and thereupon the prince grew angry.
Smith. So, so; now 'tis very plain.
Johns. But, Mr. Bayes, is not this some disparagement to a prince, to pass for a fisherman's son? Have a care of that, I pray.
Bayes. No, no, not at all; for 'tis but for a while: I shall fetch him off again presently, you shall see.
Enter Prettyman and Thimble.
Smith. Yes, sir; but why is he so mightily troubled to find he is not a fisherman's son?
Bayes. Phoo! that is not because he has a mind to be his son, but for fear he should be thought to be nobody's son at all.
Smith. Nay, that would trouble a man, indeed.
Bayes. So, let me see.
Scene V.
Enter Prince Volscius, going out of town.
Smith. I thought he had been gone to Piccadilly.
Bayes. Yes, he gave it out so; but that was only to cover his design.
Johns. What design?
Bayes. Why, to head the army that lies conceal'd for him at Knightsbridge.
Johns. I see here's a great deal of plot, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. Yes, now it begins to break: but we shall have a world of more business anon.
Enter Prince Volscius, Cloris, Amaryllis, and Harry, with a riding-cloak and boots.
Bayes. Held the honour of your company; prettily express'd: held the honour of your company! gadzookers, these fellows will never take notice of anything.
Johns. I assure you, sir, I admire it extremely; I don't know what he does.
Bayes. Ay, ay, he's a little envious; but 'tis no great matter. Come.
Vols. My blades encamp'd, and quit this urban throng.[28]
Smith. But pray, Mr. Bayes, is not this a little difficult, that you were saying e'en now, to keep an army thus conceal'd in Knightsbridge?
Bayes. In Knightsbridge? stay.
Johns. No, not if the inn-keepers be his friends.
Bayes. His friends! ay, sir, his intimate acquaintance; or else indeed I grant it could not be.
Smith. Yes, faith, so it might be very easy.
Bayes. Nay, if I do not make all things easy, egad, I'll give you leave to hang me. Now you would think that he's going out of town: but you shall see how prettily I have contriv'd to stop him presently.
Smith. By my troth, sir, you have so amaz'd me, that I know not what to think.
Enter Parthenope.
Smith. Sure, Mr. Bayes, we have lost some jest here, that they laugh at so.
Bayes. Why, did you not observe? he first resolves to go out of town, and then as he's pulling on his boots, falls in love with her; ha, ha, ha!
Smith. Well, and where lies the jest of that?
Bayes. Ha? [Turns to Johns.
Johns. Why, in the boots: where should the jest lie?
Bayes. Egad, you are in the right: it does lie in the boots—— [Turns to Smith. Your friend and I know where a good jest lies, though you don't, sir.
Smith. Much good do't you, sir.
Bayes. Here now, Mr. Johnson, you shall see a combat betwixt love and honour. An ancient author has made a whole play on't;[32] but I have dispatch'd it all in this scene.
Volscius sits down to pull on his boots: Bayes stands by, and over-acts the part as he speaks it.
[Goes out hopping, with one boot on, and t'other off.
Johns. By my troth, sir, this is as difficult a combat as ever I saw, and as equal; for 'tis determin'd on neither side.
Bayes. Ay, is't not now egad, ha? for to go off hip-hop, hip-hop, upon this occasion, is a thousand times better than any conclusion in the world, egad.
Johns. Indeed, Mr. Bayes, that hip-hop, in this place, as you say, does a very great deal.
Bayes. Oh, all in all, sir! they are these little things that mar, or set you off a play; as I remember once in a play of mine, I set off a scene, egad, beyond expectation, only with a petticoat, and the gripes.[34]
Smith. Pray how was that, sir?
Bayes. Why, sir, I contriv'd a petticoat to be brought in upon a chair (nobody knew how) into a prince's chamber, whose father was not to see it, that came in by chance.
Johns. By-my-life, that was a notable contrivance indeed.
Smith. Ay, but Mr. Bayes, how could you contrive the stomach-ache?
Bayes. The easiest i' th' world, egad: I'll tell you how. I made the prince sit down upon the petticoat, no more than so, and pretended to his father that he had just then got the gripes: whereupon his father went out to call a physician, and his man ran away with the petticoat.
Smith. Well, and what follow'd upon that?
Bayes. Nothing, no earthly thing, I vow to gad.
Johns. On my word, Mr. Bayes, there you hit it.
Bayes. Yes, it gave a world of content. And then I paid 'em away besides; for it made them all talk beastly: ha, ha, ha, beastly! downright beastly upon the stage, egad, ha, ha, ha! but with an infinite deal of wit, that I must say.
Johns. That, ay, that, we know well enough, can never fail you.
Bayes. No, egad, can't it. Come, bring in the dance. [Exit to call the Players.
Smith. Now, the plague take thee for a silly, confident, unnatural, fulsome rogue.
Enter Bayes and Players.
Bayes. Pray dance well before these gentlemen; you are commonly so lazy, but you should be light and easy, tah, tah, tah.
[All the while they dance, Bayes puts them out with teaching them.
Well, gentlemen, you'll see this dance, if I am not deceiv'd, take very well upon the stage, when they are perfect in their motions, and all that.
Smith. I don't know how 'twill take, sir; but I am sure you sweat hard for't.
Bayes. Ay, sir, it costs me more pains and trouble to do these things than almost the things are worth.
Smith. By my troth, I think so, sir.
Bayes. Not for the things themselves; for I could write you, sir, forty of 'em in a day: but, egad, these players are such dull persons, that if a man be not by 'em upon every point, and at every turn, egad, they'll mistake you, sir, and spoil all.
Enter a Player.
What, is the funeral ready?
Play. Yes, sir.
Bayes. And is the lance fill'd with wine?
Play. Sir, 'tis just now a-doing.
Bayes. Stay, then, I'll do it myself.
Smith. Come, let's go with him.
Bayes. A match. But, Mr. Johnson, egad, I am not like other persons; they care not what becomes of their things, so they can but get money for 'em: now, egad, when I write, if it be not just as it should be in every circumstance, to every particular, egad, I am no more able to endure it, I am not myself, I'm out of my wits, and all that; I'm the strangest person in the whole world: for what care I for money? I write for reputation. [Exeunt.
Bayes, and the two Gentlemen.
Bayes. Gentlemen, because I would not have any two things alike in this play, the last act beginning with a witty scene of mirth, I make this to begin with a funeral.
Smith. And is that all your reason for it, Mr. Bayes?
Bayes. No, sir, I have a precedent for it besides. A person of honour, and a scholar, brought in his funeral just so;[35] and he was one, let me tell you, that knew as well what belong'd to a funeral as any man in England, egad.
Johns. Nay, if that be so, you are safe.
Bayes. Egad, but I have another device, a frolic, which I think yet better than all this; not for the plot or characters (for, in my heroic plays, I make no difference as to those matters), but for another contrivance.
Smith. What is that, I pray?
Bayes. Why, I have design'd a conquest that cannot possibly, egad, be acted in less than a whole week; and I'll speak a bold word, it shall drum, trumpet, shout, and battle, egad, with any the most warlike tragedy we have, either ancient or modern.[36]
Johns. Ay, marry, sir, there you say something.
Smith. And pray, sir, how have you order'd this same frolic of yours?
Bayes. Faith, sir, by the rule of romance; for example, they divide their things into three, four, five, six, seven, eight, or as many tomes as they please. Now I would very fain know what should hinder me from doing the same with my things, if I please?
Johns. Nay, if you should not be master of your own works, 'tis very hard.
Bayes. That is my sense. And then, sir, this contrivance of mine has something of the reason of a play in it too; for as every one makes you five acts to one play, what do I, but make five plays to one plot: by which means the auditors have every day a new thing.
Johns. Most admirably good, i'faith! and must certainly take, because it is not tedious.
Bayes. Ay, sir, I know that; there's the main point. And then upon Saturday to make a close of all (for I ever begin upon a Monday), I make you, sir, a sixth play that sums up the whole matter to 'em, and all that, for fear they should have forgot it.
Johns. That consideration, Mr. Bayes, indeed I think will be very necessary.
Smith. And when comes in your share, pray, sir?
Bayes. The third week.
Johns. I vow you'll get a world of money.
Bayes. Why, faith, a man must live; and if you don't thus pitch upon some new device, egad, you'll never do't; for this age (take it o' my word) is somewhat hard to please. But there is one pretty odd passage in the last of these plays, which may be executed two several ways, wherein I'd have your opinion, gentlemen.
Johns. What is't, sir.
Bayes. Why, sir, I make a male person to be in love with a female.
Smith. Do you mean that, Mr. Bayes, for a new thing?
Bayes. Yes, sir, as I have order'd it. You shall hear: he having passionately lov'd her through my five whole plays, finding at last that she consents to his love, just after that his mother had appear'd to him like a ghost, he kills himself: that's one way. The other is, that she coming at last to love him, with as violent a passion as he lov'd her, she kills herself. Now my question is, which of these two persons should suffer upon this occasion?
Johns. By my troth, it is a very hard case to decide.
Bayes. The hardest in the world, egad, and has puzzled this pate very much. What say you, Mr. Smith?
Smith. Why truly, Mr. Bayes, if it might stand with your justice now, I would spare 'em both.
Bayes. Egad, and I think—ha—why then, I'll make him hinder her from killing herself. Ay, it shall be so. Come, come, bring in the funeral.
Enter a Funeral, with the two Usurpers and Attendants.
Lay it down there; no, no, here, sir. So now speak.
Bayes. Is not this good language now? is not that elevate?[Pg 110] 'tis my non ultra, egad; you must know they were both in love with her.
Smith. With her! with whom?
Bayes. Why, this is Lardella's funeral.
Smith. Lardella! ay, who is she?
Bayes. Why, sir, the sister of Drawcansir; a lady that was drown'd at sea, and had a wave for her winding-sheet.[37]
Bayes. Look you now, you see I told you true.
Smith. Ay, sir, and I thank you for it very kindly.
Bayes. Ay, egad, but you will not have patience; honest Mr.—a—you will not have patience.
Johns. Pray, Mr. Bayes, who is that Drawcansir?
Bayes. Why, sir, a fierce hero, that frights his mistress, snubs up kings, baffles armies, and does what he will, without regard to numbers, good manners, or justice.[38]
Johns. A very pretty character!
Smith. But, Mr. Bayes, I thought your heroes had ever been men of great humanity and justice.
Bayes. Yes, they have been so; but for my part, I prefer that one quality of singly beating of whole armies, above all your moral virtues put together, egad. You shall see him come in presently. Zookers, why don't you read the paper? [To the Players.
K. Phys. O, cry you mercy. [Goes to take the paper.
Bayes. Pish! nay you are such a fumbler. Come, I'll read it
myself.
[Takes the paper from off the coffin.
Stay, it's an ill hand, I must use my spectacles. This now is
a copy of verses, which I make Lardella compose just as she is
dying, with design to have it pinn'd upon her coffin, and so read
by one of the usurpers, who is her cousin.
Smith. A very shrewd design that, upon my word, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. And what do you think now, I fancy her to make love like, here, in this paper?
Smith. Like a woman: what should she make love like?
Bayes. O' my word you are out tho', sir; egad you are.
Smith. What then, like a man?
Bayes. No, sir; like a humble-bee.
Smith. I confess, that I should not have fancy'd.
Bayes. It may be so, sir; but it is tho', in order to the opinion of some of our ancient philosophers, who held the transmigration of the soul.
Smith. Very fine.
Bayes. I'll read the title: "To my dear Couz, King Physician."
Smith. That's a little too familiar with a king, tho', sir, by your favour, for a humble-bee.
Bayes. Mr. Smith, in other things, I grant your knowledge may be above me; but as for poetry, give me leave to say I understand that better: it has been longer my practice; it has indeed, sir.
Smith. Your servant, sir.
Johns. Oh, rare! this is the most natural, refined fancy that ever I heard, I'll swear.
Bayes. Yes, I think, for a dead person, it is a good way enough of making love; for, being divested of her terrestrial part, and all that, she is only capable of these little, pretty, amorous designs that are innocent, and yet passionate. Come, draw your swords.
Bayes. So, take away the coffin. Now 'tis out. This is the very funeral of the fair person which Volscius sent word was dead; and Pallas, you see, has turned it into a banquet.
Smith. Well, but where is this banquet?
Bayes. Nay, look you, sir; we must first have a dance, for joy that Lardella is not dead. Pray, sir, give me leave to bring in my things properly at least.
Smith. That, indeed, I had forgot; I ask your pardon.
Bayes. Oh, d'ye so, sir? I am glad you will confess yourself once in an error, Mr. Smith.
Bayes. That's the banquet. Are you satisfied now, sir?
Johns. By my troth now, that is new, and more than I expected.
Bayes. Yes, I knew this would please you; for the chief art in poetry is to elevate your expectation, and then bring you off some extraordinary way.
Enter Drawcansir.
K. Phys. What man is this that dares disturb our feast?
Johns. That is, Mr. Bayes, as much as to say, that though he would rather die than not drink, yet he would fain drink for all that too.
Bayes. Right; that's the conceit on't.
Johns. 'Tis a marvellous good one, I swear.
Bayes. Now, there are some critics that have advis'd me to put out the second dare, and print must in the place on't;[42] but, egad, I think 'tis better thus a great deal.
Johns. Whoo! a thousand times.
Bayes. Go on then.
Smith. I suppose, Mr. Bayes, this is the fierce hero you spoke of?
Bayes. Yes; but this is nothing. You shall see him in the last act win above a dozen battles, one after another, egad, as fast as they can possibly come upon the stage.
Johns. That will be a fight worth the seeing, indeed.
Smith. But pray, Mr. Bayes, why do you make the kings let him use them so scurvily?
Bayes. Phoo! that's to raise the character of Drawcansir.
Johns. O' my word, that was well thought on.
Bayes. Now, sirs, I'll show you a scene indeed; or rather, indeed, the scene of scenes. 'Tis an heroic scene.
Smith. And pray, what's your design in this scene?
Bayes. Why, sir, my design is gilded truncheons, forc'd conceit, smooth verse and a rant; in fine, if this scene don't take, egad, I'll write no more. Come, come in, Mr.—a—nay, come in as many as you can. Gentlemen, I must desire you to remove a little, for I must fill the stage.
Smith. Why fill the stage?
Bayes. Oh, sir, because your heroic verse never sounds well but when the stage is full.
Enter Prince Prettyman and Prince Volscius.
Nay, hold, hold; pray by your leave a little. Look you, sir, the drift of this scene is somewhat more than ordinary; for I make 'em both fall out because they are not in love with the same woman.
Smith. Not in love? You mean, I suppose, because they are in love, Mr. Bayes?
Bayes. No, sir; I say not in love; there's a new conceit for you. Now speak.
Bayes. There's a bold flight for you now! 'sdeath, I have lost my peruke. Well, gentlemen, this is what I never yet saw any one could write, but myself. Here's true spirit and flame all through, egad. So, so, pray clear the stage. [He puts 'em off the stage.
Johns. I wonder how the coxcomb has got the knack of writing smooth verse thus.
Smith. Why, there's no need of brain for this: 'tis but scanning the labours on the finger; but where's the sense of it?
Johns. Oh! for that he desires to be excus'd: he is too proud a man to creep servilely after sense, I assure you.[48] But pray, Mr. Bayes, why is this scene all in verse? Bayes. Oh, sir, the subject is too great for prose.
Smith. Well said, i'faith; I'll give thee a pot of ale for that answer; 'tis well worth it.
Bayes, and the two Gentlemen.
Bayes. Now, gentlemen, I will be bold to say, I'll show you the greatest scene that ever England saw: I mean not for words, for those I don't value; but for state, show and magnificence. In fine, I'll justify it to be as grand to the eye every whit, egad, as that great scene in "Harry the Eighth," and grander too, egad; for instead of two bishops, I bring in here four cardinals.
[The curtain is drawn up, the two usurping Kings appear in state with the four Cardinals, Prince Prettyman, Prince Volscius, Amaryllis, Cloris, Parthenope. &c., before them, Heralds and Sergeants-at-arms, with maces.
Smith. Mr. Bayes, pray what is the reason that two of the cardinals are in hats, and the other in caps?
Bayes. Why, sir, because—— By gad I won't tell you. Your country friend, sir, grows so troublesome—
K. Ush. Now, sir, to the business of the day.
K. Phys. Speak, Volscius.
Vols. Dread sovereign lords, my zeal to you must not invade my duty to your son; let me entreat that great Prince Prettyman first to speak; whose high pre-eminence in all things, that do bear the name of good, may justly claim that privilege.
Bayes. Here it begins to unfold; you may perceive, now, that he is his son.
Johns. Yes, sir, and we are very much beholden to you for that discovery.
Bayes. Look you now, did not I tell you, that this would be as easy a change as the other?
Smith. Yes, faith, you did so; tho' I confess I could not believe you: but you have brought it about, I see.
[The two right kings of Brentford descend in the clouds, singing, in white garments; and three fiddlers sitting before them, in green.
Bayes. "He's here with a whoop, and gone with a holla." This, sir, you must know, I thought once to have brought in with a conjuror.[51]
Johns. Ay, that would have been better.
Bayes. No, faith, not when you consider it; for thus it is more compendious, and does the thing every whit as well.
Smith. Thing! what thing?
Bayes. Why, bring 'em down again into the throne, sir. What thing would you have?
Smith. Well, but methinks the sense of this song is not very plain!
Bayes. Plain! why, did you ever hear any people in clouds speak plain? They must be all for flight of fancy at its full range, without the least check or control upon it. When once you tie up spirits and people in clouds, to speak plain, you spoil all.
Smith. Bless me, what a monster's this!
[The two Kings light out of the clouds, and step into the throne.
1st King. Come, now to serious counsel we'll advance.
2nd King. I do agree; but first, let's have a dance.
Bayes. Right. You did that very well, Mr. Cartwright. But first, let's have a dance. Pray remember that; be sure you do it always just so: for it must be done as if it were the effect of thought and premeditation. But first, let's have a dance; pray remember that.
Smith. Well, I can hold no longer, I must gag this rogue, there's no enduring of him.
Johns. No, prithee make use of thy patience a little longer,
let's see the end of him now. [Dance a grand dance.
Bayes. This, now, is an ancient dance, of right belonging to the Kings of Brentford; but since derived, with a little alteration, to the Inns of Court.
An Alarm. Enter two Heralds.
Smith. How, Mr. Bayes, the army in disguise!
Bayes. Ay, sir, for fear the usurpers might discover them, that went out but just now.
Smith. Why, what if they had discover'd them?
Bayes. Why, then they had broke the design.
1st King. Here take five guineas for those warlike men.
2nd King. And here's five more, that makes the sum just ten.
1st Her. We have not seen so much, the Lord knows when. [Exeunt Heralds.
1st King. Speak on, brave Amaryllis.
Ama. Invincible sovereigns, blame not my modesty, if at this
grand conjuncture—— [Drum beats behind the stage.
1st King. What dreadful noise is this that comes and goes?
Enter a Soldier with his sword drawn.
Johns. But, Mr. Bayes, did not you promise us just now, to make Amaryllis speak very well?
Bayes. Ay, and so she would have done, but that they hinder'd her.
Smith. How, sir, whether you would or no?
Bayes. Ay, sir, the plot lay so, that I vow to gad, it was not to be avoided.
Smith. Marry, that was hard.
Johns. But, pray, who hinder'd her?
Bayes. Why, the battle, sir, that's just coming in at the door: and I'll tell you now a strange thing; tho' I don't pretend to do more than other men, egad, I'll give you both a whole week to guess how I'll represent this battle.
Smith. I had rather be bound to fight your battle, I assure you, sir.
Bayes. Whoo! there's it now: fight a battle! there's the common error. I knew presently where I should have you. Why, pray, sir, do but tell me this one thing: can you think it a decent thing, in a battle before ladies, to have men run their swords thro' one another, and all that?
Johns. No, faith, 'tis not civil.
Bayes. Right; on the other side, to have a long relation of squadrons here, and squadrons there: what is it, but dull prolixity?
Johns. Excellently reason'd, by my troth!
Bayes. Wherefore, sir, to avoid both those indecorums, I sum up the whole battle in the representation of two persons only, no more: and yet so lively, that, I vow to gad, you would swear ten thousand men were at it really engag'd. Do you mark me?
Smith. Yes, sir: but I think I should hardly swear tho', for all that.
Bayes. By my troth, sir, but you would tho', when you see it: for I make 'em both come out in armour cap-a-pie, with their swords drawn, and hung with a scarlet ribbon at their wrist; which, you know, represents fighting enough.
Johns. Ay, ay; so much, that if I were in your place, I would make 'em go out again, without ever speaking one word.
Bayes. No, there you are out; for I make each of 'em hold a lute in his hand.
Smith. How, sir, instead of a buckler?
Bayes. O Lord, O Lord! instead of a buckler? pray, sir, do you ask no more questions. I make 'em, sirs, play the battle in recitativo. And here's the conceit just at the very same instant that one sings, the other, sir, recovers you his sword, and puts himself into a warlike posture: so that you have at once your ear entertain'd with music and good language, and your eye satisfied with the garb and accoutrements of war.
Smith. I confess, sir, you stupefy me.
Bayes. You shall see.
Johns. But, Mr. Bayes, might not we have a little fighting? for I love those plays where they cut and slash one another upon the stage for a whole hour together.
Bayes. Why, then, to tell you true, I have contriv'd it both ways: but you shall have my recitativo first.
Johns. Ay, now you are right: there is nothing that can be objected against it.
Bayes. True: and so, egad, I'll make it too a tragedy in a trice.[53]
Enter at several doors the General and Lieutenant-General, arm'd cap-a-pie, with each of them a lute in his hand, and a sword drawn, and hung with a scarlet ribbon at his wrist.[54]
Bayes. This now is not improper, I think; because the spectators know all these towns, and may easily conceive them to be within the dominions of the two Kings of Brentford.
Johns. Most exceeding well design'd!
Bayes. How do you think I have contriv'd to give a stop to this battle?
Smith. How?
Bayes. By an eclipse; which, let me tell you, is a kind of fancy that was yet never so much as thought of, but by myself, and one person more, that shall be nameless.
Enter Lieutenant-General.
Johns. This is an admirable representation of a battle as ever I saw.
Bayes. Ay, sir; but how would you fancy now to represent an eclipse?
Smith. Why, that's to be suppos'd.
Bayes. Suppos'd! ay, you are ever at your suppose: ha, ha, ha! why, you may as well suppose the whole play. No, it must come in upon the stage, that's certain; but in some odd way, that may delight, amuse, and all that. I have a conceit for't, that I am sure is new, and I believe to the purpose.
Johns. How's that?
Bayes. Why, the truth is, I took the first hint of this out of a dialogue between Phœbus and Aurora, in the "Slighted Maid," which, by my troth, was very pretty; but I think you'd confess this is a little better.
Johns. No doubt on't, Mr. Bayes, a great deal better.
[Bayes hugs Johnson, then turns to Smith.
Bayes. Ah, dear rogue! But—a—sir, you have heard, I suppose, that your eclipse of the moon is nothing else but an interposition of the earth between the sun and moon; as likewise your eclipse of the sun is caus'd by an interlocation of the moon betwixt the earth and the sun.
Smith. I have heard some such thing indeed.
Bayes. Well, sir, then what do I but make the earth, sun, and moon come out upon the stage, and dance the hey. Hum! and of necessity, by the very nature of this dance, the earth must be sometimes between the sun and the moon, and the moon between the earth and sun: and there you have both eclipses by demonstration.
Johns. That must needs be very fine, truly.
Bayes. Yes, it has fancy in't. And then, sir, that there may be something in't, too, of a joke, I bring 'em in all singing; and make the moon sell the earth a bargain. Come, come out, eclipse, to the tune of "Tom Tyler."
Enter Luna.
Bayes. Now the earth's before the moon: now the moon's before the sun: there's the eclipse again.
Smith. He's mightily taken with this, I see.
Johns. Ay, 'tis so extraordinary, how can he choose?
Bayes. So, now, vanish eclipse, and enter t'other battle, and fight. Here now, if I am not mistaken, you will see fighting enough.
[A battle is fought between foot and great hobby-horses. At last, Drawcansir comes in and kills them all on both sides. All the while the battle is fighting, Bayes is telling them when to shout, and shouts with 'em.
Bayes. There's a brave fellow for you now, sirs. You may talk of your Hectors, and Achilles's, and I know not who; but I defy all your histories, and your romances too, to show me one such conqueror, as this Drawcansir.
Johns. I swear, I think you may.
Smith. But, Mr. Bayes, how shall all these dead men go off? for I see none alive to help 'em.
Bayes. Go off! why, as they came on, upon their legs: how
should they go off? Why, do you think the people here don't
know they are not dead? he is mighty ignorant, poor man: your[Pg 127]
friend here is very silly, Mr. Johnson; egad, he is. Ha, ha, ha!
Come, sir, I'll show you how they shall go off. Rise, rise, sirs,
and go about your business.[62] There's go off for you now; ha,
ha, ha! Mr. Ivory, a word. Gentlemen, I'll be with you
presently. [Exit.
Johns. Will you so? Then we'll be gone.
Smith. Ay, prithee let's go, that we may preserve our hearing.
One battle more will take mine quite away. [Exeunt.
Enter Bayes and Players.
Bayes. Where are the gentlemen?
1st Play. They are gone, sir.
Bayes. Gone! 'sdeath, this act is best of all. I'll go fetch 'em again. [Exit.
1st Play. What shall we do, now he is gone away?
2nd Play. Why, so much the better; then let's go to dinner.
3rd Play. Stay, here's a foul piece of paper. Let's see what 'tis.
3rd or 4th Play. Ay, ay, come, let's hear it. [Reads. The argument of the fifth act.
3rd Play. "Cloris, at length, being sensible of Prince Prettyman's passion, consents to marry him; but just as they are going to church, Prince Prettyman meeting, by chance, with old Joan, the chandler's widow, and remembering it was she that first brought him acquainted with Cloris; out of a high point of honour, breaks off his match with Cloris, and marries old Joan. Upon which, Cloris, in despair, drowns herself; and Prince Prettyman, discontentedly, walks by the river-side."——This will never do: 'tis just like the rest. Come, let's be gone.
Most of the Players. Ay, plague on't, let's go away.
[Exeunt.
Enter Bayes.
Bayes. A plague on 'em both for me! they have made me sweat, to run after 'em. A couple of senseless rascals, that had rather go to dinner, than see this play out, with a plague to 'em. What comfort has a man to write for such dull rogues! Come, Mr.—a—where are you, sir? Come away, quick, quick.
Enter Stage-keeper.
Stage-keep. Sir: they are gone to dinner.
Bayes. Yes, I know the gentlemen are gone; but I ask for the players.
Stage-keep. Why, an't please your worship, sir, the players are gone to dinner too.
Bayes. How! are the players gone to dinner? 'tis impossible: the players gone to dinner! egad, if they are, I'll make 'em know what it is to injure a person that does them the honour to write for 'em, and all that. A company of proud, conceited, humorous, cross-grain'd persons, and all that. Egad, I'll make 'em the most contemptible, despicable, inconsiderable persons, and all that, in the whole world, for this trick. Egad, I'll be revenged on 'em; I'll sell this play to the other house.
Stage-keep. Nay, good sir, don't take away the book; you'll disappoint the company that comes to see it acted here this afternoon.
Bayes. That's all one, I must reserve this comfort to myself, my play and I shall go together; we will not part, indeed, sir.
Stage-keep. But what will the town say, sir?
Bayes. The town! why, what care I for the town? Egad, the
town has us'd me as scurvily as the players have done: but I'll
be reveng'd on them too; for I'll lampoon 'em all. And since
they will not admit of my plays, they shall know what a satirist
I am. And so farewell to this stage, egad, for ever. [Exit Bayes.
Enter Players.
1st Play. Come, then, let's set up bills for another play.
2nd Play. Ay, ay; we shall lose nothing by this, I warrant you.
1st Play. I am of your opinion. But before we go, let's see Haynes and Shirley practise the last dance; for that may serve us another time.
2nd Play. I'll call 'em in: I think they are but in the tyring-room. [The dance done.]
1st Play. Come, come; let's go away to dinner. [Exeunt omnes.
——♦——
By AMBROSE PHILIPS, Esq.,
From among those which suggested the next following Burlesque.
——♦——
OR, A PANEGYRIC ON THE NEW VERSIFICATION ADDRESSED TO A—— P——, ESQ.
From "A Learned Dissertation upon Dumpling,"
to which the preceding Poem was appended.
What is a tart, a pie, or a pasty, but meat or fruit enclos'd in a wall or covering of pudding? What is a cake, but a bak'd pudding; or a Christmas pie, but a minc'd-meat pudding? As for cheese-cakes, custards, tansies, &c., they are manifest puddings, and all of Sir John's own contrivance; custard being as old, if not older, than Magna Charta. In short, pudding is of the greatest dignity and antiquity; bread itself, which is the very staff of life, being, properly speaking, a bak'd wheat pudding.
To the satchel, which is the pudding-bag of ingenuity, we are indebted for the greatest men in church and state. All arts and sciences owe their original to pudding or dumpling. What is a bagpipe, the mother of all music, but a pudding of harmony?[Pg 139] Or what is music itself, but a palatable cookery of sounds? To little puddings or bladders of colours we owe all the choice originals of the greatest painters. And indeed, what is painting, but a well-spread pudding, or cookery of colours?
The head of man is like a pudding. And whence have all rhymes, poems, plots, and inventions sprang, but from that same pudding? What is poetry, but a pudding of words? The physicians, tho' they cry out so much against cooks and cookery, yet are but cooks themselves; with this difference only, the cooks' pudding lengthens life, the physicians' shortens it. So that we live and die by pudding. For what is a clyster, but a bag-pudding? a pill, but a dumpling? or a bolus, but a tansy, tho' not altogether so toothsome? In a word: physic is only a puddingizing or cookery of drugs. The law is but a cookery of quibbles and contentions,[64] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * is but a pudding of * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Some swallow everything whole and unmix'd; so that it may rather be call'd a heap than a pudding. Others are so squeamish, the greatest mastership in cookery is requir'd to make the pudding palatable. The suet which others gape and swallow by gobs, must for these puny stomachs be minced to atoms; the plums must be pick'd with the utmost care, and every ingredient proportion'd to the greatest nicety, or it will never go down.
The universe itself is but a pudding of elements. Empires, kingdoms, states and republics, are but puddings of people differently made up. The celestial and terrestrial orbs are decipher'd to us by a pair of globes or mathematical puddings.
The success of war and fate of monarchies are entirely dependent on puddings and dumplings. For what else are cannonballs but military puddings? or bullets, but dumplings; with this difference only, they do not sit so well on the stomach as a good marrow pudding or bread pudding.
In short, there is nothing valuable in art or nature, but what, more or less, has an allusion to pudding or dumpling. Why, then, should they be held in disesteem? Why should dumpling-eating be ridiculed, or dumpling-eaters derided? Is it not pleasant and profitable? Is it not ancient and honourable? Kings, princes, and potentates have in all ages been lovers of pudding. Is it not, therefore, of royal authority? Popes, cardinals, bishops, priests and deacons, have, time out of mind, been great pudding-eaters. Is it not, therefore, a holy and religious institution? Philosophers, poets, and learned men in[Pg 140] all faculties, judges, privy councillors, and members of both houses, have, by their great regard to pudding, given a sanction to it that nothing can efface. Is it not, therefore, ancient, honourable, and commendable?
Quare itaque fremuerunt Auctores?
Why do, therefore, the enemies of good eating, the starveling authors of Grub Street, employ their impotent pens against pudding and pudding-headed, alias honest men? Why do they inveigh against dumpling-eating, which is the life and soul of good-fellowship; and dumpling-eaters, who are the ornaments of civil society?
But, alas! their malice is their own punishment. The hireling author of a late scandalous libel, intituled, "The Dumpling-Eaters Downfall," may, if he has any eyes, now see his error, in attacking so numerous, so august, a body of people. His books remain unsold, unread, unregarded; while this treatise of mine shall be bought by all who love pudding or dumpling; to my bookseller's great joy, and my no small consolation. How shall I triumph, and how will that mercenary scribbler be mortified, when I have sold more editions of my books than he has copies of his? I, therefore, exhort all people, gentle and simple, men, women, and children, to buy, to read, to extol these labours of mine, for the honour of dumpling-eating. Let them not fear to defend every article; for I will bear them harmless. I have arguments good store, and can easily confute, either logically, theologically, or metaphysically, all those who dare oppose me.
Let not Englishmen, therefore, be ashamed of the name of Pudding-eaters; but, on the contrary, let it be their glory. For let foreigners cry out ne'er so much against good eating, they come easily into it when they have been a little while in our land of Canaan; and there are very few foreigners among us who have not learn'd to make as great a hole in a good pudding, or sirloin of beef, as the best Englishman of us all.
Why should we then be laughed out of pudding and dumpling? or why ridicul'd out of good living? Plots and politics may hurt us, but pudding cannot. Let us, therefore, adhere to pudding, and keep ourselves out of harm's way; according to the golden rule laid down by a celebrated dumpling-eater now defunct:
WITH THE ANNOTATIONS OF H. SCRIBLERUS SECUNDUS.
FIRST ACTED IN 1730, AND ALTERED IN 1731.
——♦——
H. SCRIBLERUS SECUNDUS, HIS PREFACE.
The town hath seldom been more divided in its opinion than concerning the merit of the following scenes. Whilst some publicly affirm that no author could produce so fine a piece but Mr. P——, others have with as much vehemence insisted that no one could write anything so bad but Mr. F——.
Nor can we wonder at this dissension about its merit, when the learned world have not unanimously decided even the very nature of this tragedy. For though most of the universities in Europe have honoured it with the name of "Egregium et maximi pretii opus, tragœdiis tam antiquis quàm novis longè anteponendum;" nay, Dr. B—— hath pronounced, "Citiùs Mævii Æneadem quàm Scribleri istius tragœdiam hanc crediderim, cujus autorem Senecam ipsum tradidisse haud dubitârim:" and the great Professor Burman hath styled Tom Thumb "Heroum omnium tragicorum facilè principem;" nay, though it hath, among other languages, been translated into Dutch, and celebrated with great applause at Amsterdam (where burlesque never came) by the title of Mynheer Vander Thumb, the burgomasters received it with that reverent and silent attention which becometh an audience at a deep tragedy. Notwithstanding all this, there have not been wanting some who have represented these scenes in a ludicrous light; and Mr. D—— hath been heard to say, with some concern, that he wondered a tragical and Christian nation would permit a representation on its theatre so visibly designed to ridicule and extirpate everything that is great and solemn among us.
This learned critic and his followers were led into so great an error by that surreptitious and piratical copy which stole last year into the world; with what injustice and prejudice to our author will be acknowledged, I hope, by every one who shall happily peruse this genuine and original copy. Nor can I help remarking, to the great praise of our author, that, however imperfect the former was, even that faint resemblance of the true Tom Thumb contained sufficient beauties to give it a run of upwards of forty nights to the politest audiences. But, notwithstanding that applause which it received from all the best judges, it was as severely censured by some few bad ones, and, I believe rather maliciously than ignorantly, reported to have been intended a burlesque on the loftiest parts of tragedy, and designed to banish what we generally call fine things from the stage.
Now, if I can set my country right in an affair of this importance, I shall lightly esteem any labour which it may cost. And this I the rather undertake, first, as it is indeed in some measure incumbent on me to vindicate myself from that surreptitious copy before mentioned, published by some ill-meaning people under my name; secondly, as knowing myself more capable of doing justice to our author than any other man, as I have given myself more pains to arrive at a thorough understanding of this little piece, having for ten years together read nothing else; in which time, I think, I may modestly presume, with the help of my English dictionary, to comprehend all the meanings of every word in it.
But should any error of my pen awaken Clariss. Bentleium to enlighten the world with his annotations on our author, I shall not think that the least reward or happiness arising to me from these my endeavours.
I shall waive at present what hath caused such feuds in the learned world, whether this piece was originally written by Shakespeare, though certainly that, were it true, must add a considerable share to its merit, especially with such who are so generous as to buy and commend what they never read, from an implicit faith in the author only: a faith which our age abounds in as much as it can be called deficient in any other.
Let it suffice, that "The Tragedy of Tragedies; or, The Life and Death of Tom Thumb," was written in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Nor can the objection made by Mr. D——, that the tragedy must then have been antecedent to the history, have any weight, when we consider that, though "The History of Tom Thumb" printed by and for Edward M—r, at the Looking-glass on London Bridge, be of a later date, still must we suppose this history to have been transcribed from some other, unless we suppose the writer thereof to be inspired: a gift very faintly contended for by the writers of our age. As to this[Pg 143] history's not bearing the stamp of second, third, or fourth edition, I see but little in that objection; editions being very uncertain lights to judge of books by: and perhaps Mr. M—r may have joined twenty editions in one, as Mr. C—l hath ere now divided one into twenty.
Nor doth the other argument, drawn from the little care our author hath taken to keep up to the letter of this history, carry any greater force. Are there not instances of plays wherein the history is so perverted, that we can know the heroes whom they celebrate by no other marks than their names? nay, do we not find the same character placed by different poets in such different lights, that we can discover not the least sameness, or even likeness, in the features? The Sophonisba of Mairet and of Lee is a tender, passionate, amorous mistress of Massinissa: Corneille and Mr. Thomson give her no other passion but the love of her country, and make her as cool in her affection to Massinissa as to Syphax. In the two latter she resembles the character of Queen Elizabeth; in the two former she is the picture of Mary Queen of Scotland. In short, the one Sophonisba is as different from the other as the Brutus of Voltaire is from the Marius, jun., of Otway, or as the Minerva is from the Venus of the ancients.
Let us now proceed to a regular examination of the tragedy before us, in which I shall treat separately of the Fable, the Moral, the Characters, the Sentiments, and the Diction. And first of the Fable; which I take to be the most simple imaginable; and, to use the words of an eminent author, "one, regular, and uniform, not charged with a multiplicity of incidents, and yet affording several revolutions of fortune, by which the passions may be excited, varied, and driven to their full tumult of emotion." Nor is the action of this tragedy less great than uniform. The spring of all is the love of Tom Thumb for Huncamunca; which caused the quarrel between their majesties in the first act; the passion of Lord Grizzle in the second; the rebellion, fall of Lord Grizzle and Glumdalca, devouring of Tom Thumb by the cow, and that bloody catastrophe, in the third.
Nor is the Moral of this excellent tragedy less noble than the Fable; it teaches these two instructive lessons, viz., that human happiness is exceeding transient, and that death is the certain end of all men: the former whereof is inculcated by the fatal end of Tom Thumb; the latter, by that of all the other personages.
The Characters are, I think, sufficiently described in the dramatis personæ; and I believe we shall find few plays where greater care is taken to maintain them throughout, and to preserve in every speech that characteristical mark which distinguishes them from each other. "But," says Mr. D——, "how well doth the character of Tom Thumb (whom we must[Pg 144] call the hero of this tragedy, if it hath any hero) agree with the precepts of Aristotle, who defineth, 'tragedy to be the imitation of a short but perfect action, containing a just greatness in itself?' &c. What greatness can be in a fellow whom history related to have been no higher than a span?" This gentleman seemeth to think, with Serjeant Kite, that the greatness of a man's soul is in proportion to that of his body, the contrary of which is affirmed by our English physiognominical writers. Besides, if I understand Aristotle right, he speaketh only of the greatness of the action, and not of the person.
As for the Sentiments and the Diction, which now only remain to be spoken to, I thought I could afford them no stronger justification than by producing parallel passages out of the best of our English writers. Whether this sameness of thought and expression which I have quoted from them proceeded from an agreement in their way of thinking, or whether they have borrowed from our author, I leave the reader to determine. I shall adventure to affirm this of the Sentiments of our author, that they are generally the most familiar which I have ever met with, and at the same time delivered with the highest dignity of phrase; which brings me to speak of his diction. Here I shall only beg one postulatum, viz., that the greatest perfection of the language of a tragedy is, that it is not to be understood; which granted (as I think it must be), it will necessarily follow that the only way to avoid this is by being too high or too low for the understanding, which will comprehend everything within its reach. Those two extremities of style Mr. Dryden illustrates by the familiar image of two inns, which I shall term the aërial and the subterrestrial.
Horace goes further, and showeth when it is proper to call at one of these inns, and when at the other:—
That he approveth of the sesquipedalia verba is plain; for, had not Telephus and Peleus used this sort of diction in prosperity, they could not have dropped it in adversity. The aërial inn, therefore (says Horace), is proper only to be frequented by princes and other great men in the highest affluence of fortune; the subterrestrial is appointed for the entertainment of the poorer sort of people only, whom Horace advises,
—dolere sermone pedestri.
The true meaning of both which citations is, that bombast is the proper language for joy, and doggrel for grief; the latter of which is literally implied in the sermo pedestris, as the former is in the sesquipedalia verba.
Cicero recommendeth the former of these: "Quid est tam furiosum vel tragicum quàm verborum sonitus inanis, nullâ subjectâ sententiâ neque scientiâ." What can be so proper for tragedy as a set of big sounding words, so contrived together as to convey no meaning? which I shall one day or other prove to be the sublime of Longinus. Ovid declareth absolutely for the latter inn:
Omne genus scripti gravitate tragœdia vincit.
Tragedy hath, of all writings, the greatest share in the bathos; which is the profound of Scriblerus.
I shall not presume to determine which of these two styles be properer for tragedy. It sufficeth that our author excelleth in both. He is very rarely within sight through the whole play, either rising higher than the eye of your understanding can soar, or sinking lower than it careth to stoop. But here it may perhaps be observed that I have given more frequent instances of authors who have imitated him in the sublime than in the contrary. To which I answer, first, bombast being properly a redundancy of genius, instances of this nature occur in poets whose names do more honour to our author than the writers in the doggrel, which proceeds from a cool, calm, weighty way of thinking. Instances whereof are most frequently to be found in authors of a lower class. Secondly, that the works of such authors are difficultly found at all. Thirdly, that it is a very hard task to read them, in order to extract these flowers from them. And lastly, it is very difficult to transplant them at all; they being like some flowers of a very nice nature, which will flourish in no soil but their own: for it is easy to transcribe a thought, but not the want of one. The "Earl of Essex," for instance, is a little garden of choice rarities, whence you can scarce transplant one line so as to preserve its original beauty. This must account to the reader for his missing the names of several of his acquaintance, which he had certainly found here, had I ever read their works; for which, if I have not a just esteem, I can at least say with Cicero, "Quæ non contemno, quippè quæ nunquam legerim." However, that the reader may meet with due satisfaction in this point, I have a young commentator from the university, who is reading over all the modern tragedies, at five shillings a dozen, and collecting all that they have stole from our author, which shall be shortly added as an appendix to this work.
King Arthur, a passionate sort of king, husband to Queen Dollallolla, of whom he stands a little in fear: father to Huncamunca, whom he is very fond of and in love with Glumdalca.
Tom Thumb the Great, a little hero with a great soul, something violent in his temper, which is a little abated by his love for Huncamunca.
Ghost of Gaffer Thumb, a whimsical sort of ghost.
Lord Grizzle, extremely zealous for the liberty of the subject, very choleric in his temper, and in love with Huncamunca.
Merlin, a conjuror, and in some sort father to Tom Thumb.
Noodle, Doodle, courtiers in place, and consequently of that party that is uppermost.
Foodle, a courtier that is out of place, and consequently of that party that is undermost.
Bailiff, and Follower, of the party of the plaintiff.
Parson, of the side of the church.
Queen Dollallolla, wife to King Arthur, and mother to Huncamunca, a woman entirely faultless, saving that she is a little given to drink, a little too much a virago towards her husband, and in love with Tom Thumb.
The Princess Huncamunca, daughter to their Majesties King Arthur and Queen Dollallolla, of a very sweet, gentle, and amorous disposition, equally in love with Lord Grizzle and Tom Thumb, and desirous to be married to them both.
Glumdalca, of the giants, a captive queen, beloved by the king, but in love with Tom Thumb.
Cleora, Mustacha, maids of honour in love with Noodle and Doodle.
Courtiers, Guards, Rebels, Drums, Trumpets, Thunder and Lightning.
SCENE.—The Court of King Arthur, and a Plain Thereabouts.
Scene I.—The Palace.
Scene II.
Scene III.
Scene IV.
Scene V.
Scene VI.
Scene I.—The street.
Scene II.
Scene III.—The Princess Huncamunca's Apartment.
Must. I am surprised that your highness can give yourself a moment's uneasiness about that little insignificant fellow, Tom Thumb the Great[120]—one properer for a plaything than a husband. Were he my husband his horns should be as long as his body. If you had fallen in love with a grenadier, I should not have wondered at it. If you had fallen in love with something; but to fall in love with nothing!
Must. The dove is every bit as proper for a husband.—Alas! madam, there's not a beau about the court looks so little like a man. He is a perfect butterfly, a thing without substance, and almost without shadow too.
Scene IV.
Scene V.
Scene VI.
Scene VII.
Scene VIII.
Scene IX.
Scene X.
Scene I.—King Arthur's Palace.
Scene II.
Scene III.
Scene IV.
Scene V.
Scene VI.
Scene VII.—Plain.
Scene VIII.—Thunder and Lightning.
Scene IX.
Scene X.
THE MOST TRAGICAL TRAGEDY, THAT EVER WAS TRAGEDIZ'D BY ANY COMPANY OF TRAGEDIANS.
——♦——
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Scene.—An Anti-Chamber in the Palace.
Scene.—A magnificent Apartment.
Scene.—An Anti-Chamber.
Enter Rigdum-Funnidos and Aldiborontiphoscophornio.
Rig. Egad, we're in the wrong box! Who the devil would have thought that Chrononhotonthologos should beat that mortal sight of Tippodeans? Why, there's not a mother's child of them to be seen, egad, they footed it away as fast as their hands could carry 'em; but they have left their king behind 'em. We have him safe, that's one comfort.
Rig. Now, my dear little Phoscophorny, for a swinging lie to
bring the queen off, and I'll run with it to her this minute, that
we may be all in a story. Say she has got the thorough-go-nimble. [Whispers, and steals off.
Scene.—A Garden.
Tat. Why, what a fool was I, not to perceive her passion for the topsy-turvy king—the gentleman that carries his head where his heels should be! But I must tack about, I see.
To the Queen.
Scene.—A Bedchamber.
Scene.—A Prison.
Scene.—Bombardinion's Tent.
——♦——
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Prior of the Abbey of Quedlinburgh, very corpulent and cruel.
Rogero, a Prisoner in the Abbey, in love with Matilda Pottingen.
Casimere, a Polish Emigrant, in Dembrowsky's Legion, married to Cecilia, but having several children by Matilda.
Puddingfield and Beefington, English Noblemen exiled by the Tyranny of King John, previous to the signature of Magna Charta.
Roderic, Count of Saxe Weimar, a bloody Tyrant, with red hair, and an amorous complexion.
Gaspar, the Minister of the Count; Author of Rogero's confinement.
Young Pottingen, brother to Matilda.
Matilda Pottingen, in love with Rogero, and mother to Casimere's children.
Cecilia Mückenfeld, wife to Casimere.
Landlady, Waiter, Grenadiers, Troubadours, &c.
Pantalowsky, and Britchinda, children of Matilda, by Casimere.
Joachim, Jabel, and Amarantha, children of Matilda, by Rogero.
Children of Casimere and Cecilia, with their respective Nurses.
Several Children; Fathers and Mothers unknown.
The Scene lies in the Town of Weimar, and the Neighbourhood of the Abbey of Quedlinburgh.
Time, from the Twelfth to the present Century.
(In character.)
[Flash of lightning.—The ghost of Prologue's Grandmother, by the father's side, appears to soft music, in a white tiffany riding-hood. Prologue kneels to receive her blessing, which she gives in a solemn and affecting manner, the audience clapping and crying all the while.—Flash of lightning.—Prologue and his Grandmother sink through the trap-door.
Represents a room at an Inn, at Weimar—On one side of the stage the bar-room, with jellies, lemons in nets, syllabubs, and part of a cold roast fowl. &c.—On the opposite side a window looking into the street, through which persons (inhabitants of Weimar) are seen passing to and fro in apparent agitation.—Matilda appears in a great-coat and riding habit, seated at the corner of the dinner-table, which is covered with a clean huckaback cloth.—Plates and napkins, with buck's-horn-handled knives and forks, are laid as if for four persons.
Matilda.
Mat. Is it impossible for me to have dinner sooner?
Land. Madam, the Brunswick post-waggon is not yet come in, and the ordinary is never before two o'clock.
Mat. [with a look expressive of disappointment, but immediately recomposing herself.] Well, then, I must have patience. [Exit Landlady.] Oh Casimere! How often have the thoughts of thee served to amuse these moments of expectation! What a difference, alas! Dinner—it is taken away as soon as over, and we regret it not! It returns again with the return of appetite. The beef of to-morrow will succeed to the mutton of to-day, as the mutton of to-day succeeded to the veal of yesterday. But when once the heart has been occupied by a beloved object, in vain would we attempt to supply the chasm by another. How easily are our desires transferred from dish to dish! Love only, dear, delusive, delightful love, restrains our wandering appetites, and confines them to a particular gratification!...
Post-horn blows.—Re-enter Landlady.
Land. Madam, the post-waggon is come in with only a single gentlewoman.
Mat. Then show her up—and let us have dinner instantly; [Landlady going] and remember—[after a moment's recollection, and with great eagerness]—remember the toasted cheese.
[Exit Landlady.
Cecilia enters, in a brown cloth riding-dress, as if just alighted from the post-waggon.
Mat. Madam, you seem to have had an unpleasant journey, if I may judge from the dust on your riding-habit.
Cec. The way was dusty, madam, but the weather was delightful. It recall'd to me those blissful moments when the rays of desire first vibrated through my soul.
Mat. [aside.] Thank Heaven! I have at last found a heart which is in unison with my own [to Cecilia.] Yes, I understand you—the first pulsation of sentiment—the silver tones upon the yet unsounded harp....
Cec. The dawn of life—when this blossom [putting her hand upon her heart] first expanded its petals to the penetrating dart of love!
Mat. Yes—the time—the golden time, when the first beams of the morning meet and embrace one another! The blooming blue upon the yet unplucked plum!...
Cec. Your countenance grows animated, my dear madam.
Mat. And yours too is glowing with illumination.
Cec. I had long been looking out for a congenial spirit! My heart was withered, but the beams of yours have rekindled it.
Mat. A sudden thought strikes me: let us swear an eternal friendship.
Cec. Let us agree to live together!
Mat. Willingly. [With rapidity and earnestness.
Cec. Let us embrace. [They embrace.
Mat. Yes; I too have loved!—you, too, like me, have been forsaken! [Doubtingly and as if with a desire to be informed.
Cec. Too true!
Both. Ah, these men! these men!
Landlady enters, and places a leg of mut'on on the table, with sour krout and prune sauce—then a small dish of black puddings. Cecilia and Matilda appear to take no notice of her.
Mat. Oh, Casimere!
Cec. [aside.] Casimere! that name! Oh, my heart, how it is distracted with anxiety.
Mat. Heavens! Madam, you turn pale.
Cec. Nothing—a slight megrim—with your leave, I will retire.
Mat. I will attend you.
[Exeunt Matilda and Cecilia. Manent Landlady
and Waiter with the dinner on the table.
Land. Have you carried the dinner to the prisoner in the vaults of the abbey!
Waiter. Yes. Pease-soup, as usual—with the scrag-end of a neck of mutton—the emissary of the Count was here again this morning, and offered me a large sum of money if I would consent to poison him.
Land. Which you refused? [With hesitation and anxiety.
Waiter. Can you doubt it? [With indignation.
Land. [recovering herself, and drawing up with an expression of dignity.] The conscience of a poor man is as valuable to him as that of a prince.
Waiter. It ought to be still more so, in proportion as it is generally more pure.
Land. Thou say'st truly, Job.
Waiter [with enthusiasm.] He who can spurn at wealth when proffer'd as the price of crime, is greater than a prince.
Post-horn blows. Enter Casimere, in a travelling dress—a light blue great-coat with large metal buttons—his hair in a long queue, but twisted at the end; a large Kevenhuller hat; a cane in his hand.
Cas. Here, waiter, pull of my boots, and bring me a pair of slippers [Exit Waiter.] And heark'ye, my lad, a bason of water [rubbing his hands] and a bit of soap—I have not washed since I began my journey.
Waiter [answering from behind the door.] Yes, sir.
Cas. Well, landlady, what company are we to have?
Land. Only two gentlewomen, sir. They are just stepp'd into the next room—they will be back again in a minute.
Cas. Where do they come from?
[All this while the Waiter re-enters with the bason and water, Casimere pulls off his boots, takes a napkin from the table, and washes his face and hands.
Land. There is one of them, I think, comes from Nuremburgh.
Cas. [aside.] From Nuremburgh; [with eagerness] her name?
Land. Matilda.
Cas. [aside.] How does this idiot woman torment me! What else?
Land. I can't recollect.
Cas. Oh agony! [In a paroxysm of agitation.
Waiter. See here, her name upon the travelling trunk—Matilda Pottingen.
Cas. Ecstasy! ecstasy! [Embracing the Waiter.
Land. You seem to be acquainted with the lady—shall I call her?
Cas. Instantly—instantly—tell her, her loved, her, long lost—tell her——
Land. Shall I tell her dinner is ready?
Cas. Do so—and in the meanwhile I will look after my portmanteau. [Exeunt severally.
Scene changes to a subterraneous vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburgh, with coffins, 'scutcheous, Death's heads and cross-bones.—Toads, and other loathsome reptiles are seen traversing the obscurer parts of the Stage.—Rogero appears in chains, in a suit of rusty armour, with his beard grown, and a cap of a grotesque form upon his head.—Beside him a crock, or pitcher, supposed to contain his daily allowance of sustenance.—A long silence, during which the wind is heard to whistle through the caverns.—Rogero rises, and comes slowly forward, with his arms folded.
Rog. Eleven years! it is now eleven years since I was first immured in this living sepulchre—the cruelty of a minister—the perfidy of a monk—yes, Matilda! for thy sake—alive amidst the dead—chained—coffined—confined—cut off from the converse of my fellow-men. Soft! what have we here? [stumbles over a bundle of sticks.] This cavern is so dark, that I can scarcely distinguish the objects under my feet. Oh! the register of my captivity. Let me see, how stands the account? [takes up the sticks and turns them over with a melancholy air; then stands silent for a few moments, as if absorbed in calculation.] Eleven years and fifteen days! Hah! the twenty-eighth of August! How does the recollection of it vibrate on my heart! It was on this day that I took my last leave of my Matilda. It was a summer evening—her melting hand seemed to dissolve in mine, as I press'd it to my bosom. Some demon whispered me that I should never see her more. I stood gazing on the hated vehicle which was conveying her away for ever. The tears were petrified under my eyelids. My heart was crystallized with agony. Anon, I looked along the road. The diligence seemed to diminish every instant. I felt my heart beat against its prison, as if anxious to leap out and overtake it. My soul whirled round as I watched the rotation of the hinder wheels. A long trail of glory followed after her, and mingled with the dust—it was the emanation of Divinity, luminous with love and beauty, like the splendour of the setting sun; but it told me that the sun of my joys was sunk for ever. Yes, here in the depths of an eternal dungeon—in the nursing cradle of hell—the suburbs of perdition[Pg 203] —in a nest of demons, where despair, in vain, sits brooding over the putrid eggs of hope; where agony woos the embrace of death; where patience, beside the bottomless pool of despondency, sits angling for impossibilities. Yet even here, to behold her, to embrace her—yes, Matilda, whether in this dark abode, amidst toads and spiders, or in a royal palace, amidst the more loathsome reptiles of a Court, would be indifferent to me. Angels would shower down their hymns of gratulation upon our heads—while fiends would envy the eternity of suffering love.... Soft, what air was that? it seemed a sound of more than human warblings. Again [listens attentively for some minutes]—only the wind. It is well, however; it reminds me of that melancholy air which has so often solaced the hours of my captivity. Let me see whether the damps of this dungeon have not yet injured my guitar. [Takes his guitar, tunes it, and begins the following air, with a full accompaniment of violins from the orchestra.]
[Air, Lanterna Magica.]
I.
[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—
II.
[At the repetition of this line, Rogero clanks his chains in cadence.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
[During the last stanza, Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops—the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.
We have received, in the course of the last week, several long, and to say the truth, dull letters, from unknown hands, reflecting, in very severe terms, on Mr. Higgins, for having, as it is affirmed, attempted to pass upon the world, as a faithful sample of the productions of the German Theatre, a performance no way resembling any of those pieces, which have of late excited, and which bid fair to engross the admiration of the British public.
As we cannot but consider ourselves as the guardians of Mr. Higgins's literary reputation, in respect to every work of his which is conveyed to the world through the medium of our paper (though, what we think of the danger of his principles, we have already sufficiently explained for ourselves, and have, we trust, succeeded in putting our readers upon their guard against them)—we hold ourselves bound not only to justify the fidelity of the imitation, but (contrary to our original intention) to give a further specimen of it in our present number, in order to bring the question more fairly to issue between our author and his calumniators.
In the first place, we are to observe that Mr. Higgins professes[Pg 205] to have taken his notion of German plays wholly from the translations which have appeared in our language. If they are totally dissimilar from the originals, Mr. H. may undoubtedly have been led into error; but the fault is in the translators, not in him. That he does not differ widely from the models which he proposed to himself, we have it in our power to prove satisfactorily; and might have done so in our last number, by subjoining to each particular passage of his play, the scene in some one or other of the German plays, which he had in view when he wrote it. These parallel passages were faithfully pointed out to us by Mr. H. with that candour which marks his character; and if they were suppressed by us (as in truth they were), on our heads be the blame, whatever it may be. Little, indeed, did we think of the imputation which the omission would bring upon Mr. H., as, in fact, our principal reason for it was the apprehension that, from the extreme closeness of the imitation in most instances, he would lose in praise for invention more than he would gain in credit for fidelity.
The meeting between Matilda and Cecilia, for example, in the first act of the "Rovers," and their sudden intimacy, has been censured as unnatural. Be it so. It is taken almost word for word from "Stella," a German (or professedly a German) piece now much in vogue; from which also the catastrophe of Mr. Higgins's play is in part borrowed, so far as relates to the agreement to which the ladies come, as the reader will see by-and-by, to share Casimere between them.
The dinner scene is copied partly from the published translation of the "Stranger," and partly from the first scene of "Stella." The song of Rogero, with which the first act concludes, is admitted on all hands to be in the very first taste; and if no German original is to be found for it, so much the worse for the credit of German literature.
An objection has been made by one anonymous letter-writer, to the names of Puddingfield and Beefington, as little likely to have been assigned to English characters by any author of taste or discernment. In answer to this objection, we have, in the first place, to admit that a small, and we hope not an unwarrantable alteration has been made by us since the MS. has been in our hands. These names stood originally Puddincrantz and Beefinstern, which sounded to our ears as being liable, especially the latter, to a ridiculous inflection—a difficulty that could only be removed by furnishing them with English terminations. With regard to the more substantial syllables of the names, our author proceeded in all probability on the authority of Goldoni, who, though not a German, is an Italian writer of considerable reputation; and who, having heard that the English were distinguished for their love of liberty and beef, has judiciously compounded the two words Runnymede and beef, and thereby[Pg 206] produced an English nobleman, whom he styles Lord Runnybeef.
To dwell no longer on particular passages—the best way perhaps of explaining the whole scope and view of Mr. H.'s imitation, will be to transcribe the short sketch of the plot, which that gentleman transmitted to us, together with his drama; and which it is perhaps the more necessary to give at length, as the limits of our paper not allowing of the publication of the whole piece, some general knowledge of its main design may be acceptable to our readers, in order to enable them to judge of the several extracts which we lay before them.
Rogero, son of the late Minister of the Count of Saxe Weimar, having, while he was at college, fallen desperately in love with Matilda Pottingen, daughter of his tutor, Doctor Engelbertus Pottingen, Professor of Civil Law; and Matilda evidently returning his passion, the doctor, to prevent ill consequences, sends his daughter on a visit to her aunt in Wetteravia, where she becomes acquainted with Casimere, a Polish officer, who happens to be quartered near her aunt's, and has several children by him.
Roderic, Count of Saxe Weimar, a prince of tyrannical and licentious disposition, has for his Prime Minister and favourite, Gaspar, a crafty villain, who had risen to his post by first ruining, and then putting to death, Rogero's father. Gaspar, apprehensive of the power and popularity which the young Rogero may enjoy at his return to Court, seizes the occasion of his intrigue with Matilda (of which he is apprised officially by Doctor Pottingen) to procure from his master an order for the recall of Rogero from college, and for committing him to the care of the prior of the Abbey of Quedlinburgh, a priest, rapacious, savage, and sensual, and devoted to Gaspar's interests—sending at the same time private orders to the prior to confine him in a dungeon.
Here Rogero languishes many years. His daily sustenance is administered to him through a grated opening at the top of a cavern, by the landlady of the Golden Eagle at Weimar, with whom Gaspar contracts, in the Prince's name, for his support; intending, and more than once endeavouring, to corrupt the waiter to mingle poison with the food, in order that he may get rid of Rogero for ever.
In the meantime Casimere, having been called away from the neighbourhood of Matilda's residence to other quarters, becomes enamoured of, and marries Cecilia, by whom he has a family; and whom he likewise deserts after a few years' cohabitation, on pretence of business which calls him to Kamtschatka.
Doctor Pottingen, now grown old and infirm, and feeling the want of his daughter's society, sends young Pottingen in search of her, with strict injunctions not to return without her; and to bring with her either her present lover Casimere, or, should that not be possible, Rogero himself, if he can find him; the doctor having set his heart upon seeing his children comfortably settled before his death. Matilda, about the same period, quits her aunt's in search of Casimere; and Cecilia having been advertised (by an anonymous letter) of the falsehood of his Kamtschatka journey, sets out in the post-waggon on a similar pursuit.
It is at this point of time the play opens—with the accidental meeting of Cecilia and Matilda at the inn at Weimar. Casimere arrives there soon after, and falls in first with Matilda, and then with Cecilia. Successive éclaircissements take place, and an arrangement is finally made, by which the two ladies are to live jointly with Casimere.
Young Pottingen, wearied with a few weeks' search, during which he has not been able to find either of the objects of it, resolves to stop at Weimar, and wait events there. It so happens, that he takes up his lodging in the same house with Puddincrantz and Beefinstern, two English noblemen, whom the tyranny of King John has obliged to fly from their country; and who, after wandering about the Continent for some time, have fixed their residence at Weimar.
The news of the signature of Magna Charta arriving, determines Puddincrantz and Beefinstern to return to England. Young Pottingen opens his case to them, and entreats them to stay to assist him in the object of his search. This they refuse; but coming to the inn where they are to set off for Hamburgh, they meet Casimere, from whom they have both received many civilities in Poland.
Casimere, by this time tired of his "Double Arrangement," and having learned from the waiter that Rogero is confined in the vaults of the neighbouring Abbey for love, resolves to attempt his rescue, and to make over Matilda to him as the price of his deliverance. He communicates his scheme to Puddingfield and Beefington, who agree to assist him; as also does young Pottingen. The waiter of the inn proving to be a Knight Templar in disguise, is appointed leader of the expedition. A band of troubadours, who happen to be returning from the Crusades, and a company of Austrian and Prussian Grenadiers returning from the Seven Years' War, are engaged as troops.
The attack on the Abbey is made with success. The Count of Weimar and Gaspar, who are feasting with the prior, are seized and beheaded in the refectory. The prior is thrown into the dungeon, from which Rogero is rescued. Matilda and Cecilia rush in. The former recognizes Rogero, and agrees to[Pg 208] live with him. The children are produced on all sides; and young Pottingen is commissioned to write to his father, the doctor, to detail the joyful events which have taken place, and to invite him to Weimar, to partake of the general felicity.
Scene.—A Room in an ordinary Lodging-house at Weimar.—Puddingfield and Beefington discovered, sitting at a small deal table, and playing at All-fours.—Young Pottingen, at another table in the corner of the room, with a pipe in his mouth, and a Saxon mug of a singular shape beside him, which he repeatedly applies to his lips, turning back his head, and casting his eyes towards the firmament. At the last trial he holds the mug for some moments in a directly inverted position; then replaces it on the table, with an air of dejection, and gradually sinks into a profound slumber. The pipe falls from his hand, and is broken.
Beef. I beg.
Pudd. [deals three cards to Beefington.] Are you satisfied?
Beef. Enough. What have you?
Pudd. High—low—and the game.
Beef. Ah! 'tis my deal [deals—turns up a knave.] One
for his heels! [Triumphantly.
Pudd. Is king highest?
Beef. No [sternly.] The game is mine. The knave gives it me.
Pudd. Are knaves so prosperous? Ay, marry are they in this world. They have the game in their hands. Your kings are but noddies[208] to them.
Pudd. Ha! ha! ha!—still the same proud spirit, Beefington, which procured thee thine exile from England.
Beef. England! my native land!—when shall I revisit thee?
[During this time Puddingfield deals, and begins to arrange his hand.
Beef. [continues.] Phoo—hang all-fours; what are they to a mind ill at ease? Can they cure the heart-ache? Can they sooth banishment? Can they lighten ignominy? Can all-fours do this? Oh! my Puddingfield, thy limber and lightsome spirit[Pg 209] bounds up against affliction—with the elasticity of a well-bent bow; but mine—O! mine—
[Falls into an agony, and sinks back in his chair. Young Pottingen awakened by the noise, rises, and advances with a grave demeanour towards Beefington and Puddingfield. The former begins to recover.
Y. Pot. What is the matter, comrades?[209]—you seem agitated. Have you lost or won?
Beef. Lost. I have lost my country.
Y. Pot. And I my sister. I came hither in search of her.
Beef. O England!
Y. Pot. O Matilda!
Beef. Exiled by the tyranny of an usurper, I seek the means of revenge, and of restoration to my country.
Y. Pot. Oppressed by the tyranny of an abbot, persecuted by the jealousy of a count, the betrothed husband of my sister languishes in a loathsome captivity. Her lover is fled no one knows whither—and I, her brother, am torn from my paternal roof, and from my studies in chirurgery, to seek him and her, I know not where—to rescue Rogero, I know not how. Comrades, your counsel—my search fruitless—my money gone—my baggage stolen! What am I to do? In yonder abbey—in these dark, dank vaults, there, my friends—there lies Rogero—there Matilda's heart——
Scene II.
Enter Waiter.
Waiter. Sir, here is a person who desires to speak with you.
Beef. [goes to the door, and returns with a letter, which he opens—on perusing it his countenance becomes illuminated, and expands prodigiously.] Hah, my friend, what joy!
[Turning to Puddingfield.
Pudd. What? tell me—let your Puddingfield partake it.
Beef. See here— [Produces a printed paper.
Pudd. What? [With impatience.
Beef. [in a significant tone.] A newspaper!
Pudd. Hah, what sayst thou! A newspaper!
Beef. Yes, Puddingfield, and see here [shows it partially], from England.
Pudd. [with extreme earnestness.] Its name!
Beef. The "Daily Advertiser"—
Pudd. Oh, ecstasy!
Beef. [with a dignified severity.] Puddingfield, calm yourself—repress those transports—remember that you are a man.
Pudd. [after a pause with suppressed emotion.] Well, I will be—I am calm—yet tell me, Beefington, does it contain any news?
Beef. Glorious news, my dear Puddingfield—the Barons are victorious—King John has been defeated—Magna Charta, that venerable, immemorial inheritance of Britons, was signed last Friday was three weeks, the third of July Old Style.
Pudd. I can scarce believe my ears—but let me satisfy my eyes—show me the paragraph.
Beef. Here it is, just above the advertisements.
Pudd. [reads.] "The great demand for Packwood's razor straps."——
Beef. 'Pshaw! what, ever blundering—you drive me from my patience—see here, at the head of the column.
Beef. Yet here again—there are some further particulars [turns to another part of the paper], "Extract of a letter from Egham—My dear friend, we are all here in high spirits—the interesting event which took place this morning at Runnymede, in the neighbourhood of this town"——
Pudd. Hah! Runnymede, enough—no more—my doubts are vanished—then are we free indeed!
Beef. I have, besides, a letter in my pocket from our friend, the immortal Bacon, who has been appointed Chancellor. Our outlawry is reversed! What says my friend—shall we return by the next packet?
Pudd. Instantly, instantly!
Both. Liberty! Adelaide!—Revenge!
[Exeunt. Young Pottingen following, and waving his hat, but obviously without much consciousness of the meaning of what has passed.
Scene changes to the outside of the Abbey. A summer's evening—moonlight. Companies of Austrian and Prussian Grenadiers march across the stage, confusedly, as if returning from the Seven Years' War. Shouts, and martial music. The Abbey gates are opened. The monks are seen passing in procession, with the Prior at their head. The choir is heard chanting vespers. After which a pause. Then a bell is heard, as if ringing for supper. Soon after, a noise of singing and jollity.
Enter from the Abbey, pushed out of the gates by the Porter, a Troubadour, with a bundle under his cloak, and a Lady under his arm. Troubadour seems much in liquor, but caresses the female minstrel.
Fem. Min. Trust me, Gieronymo, thou seemest melancholy. What hast thou got under thy cloak?
Trou. 'Pshaw, women will be inquiring. Melancholy! not I. I will sing thee a song, and the subject of it shall be thy question—"What have I got under my cloak?" It is a riddle, Margaret—I learnt it of an almanac-maker at Gotha—if thou guessest it after the first stanza, thou shalt have never a drop for thy pains. Hear me—and, d'ye mark! twirl thy thingumbob while I sing.
Fem. Min. [interrupting him.] I'll be hang'd if you don't mean the bottle of cherry-brandy that you stole out of the vaults in the Abbey cellar.
Trou. I mean!—Peace, wench, thou disturbest the current of my feelings.
[Fem. Min. attempts to lay hold of the bottle. Troubadour pushes her aside, and continues singing without interruption.
[Exeunt struggling for the bottle, but without anger or animosity, the Fem. Min. appearing, by degrees, to obtain a superiority in the contest.
Act the Third contains the eclaircissements and final arrangement between Casimere, Matilda, and Cecilia: which so nearly resemble the concluding act of "Stella," that we forbear to lay it before our readers.
Scene—The Inn door—Diligence drawn up. Casimere appears superintending the package of his portmanteaus, and giving directions to the Porters.
Enter Beefington and Puddingfield.
Pudd. Well, Coachey, have you got two inside places?
Coach. Yes, your honour.
Pudd. [seems to be struck with Casimere's appearance. He surveys him earnestly, without paying any attention to the coachman, then doubtingly pronounces] Casimere!
Cas. [turning round rapidly, recognises Puddingfield, and embraces him.] My Puddingfield!
Pudd. My Casimere!
Cas. What, Beefington too! [discovering him.] Then is my joy complete.
Beef. Our fellow-traveller, as it seems.
Cas. Yes, Beefington—but wherefore to Hamburgh?
Beef. Oh, Casimere[211]—to fly—to fly—to return—England—our country—Magna Charta—it is liberated—a new era—House of Commons—Crown and Anchor—Opposition——
Cas. What a contrast! you are flying to liberty and your home—I, driven from my home by tyranny—am exposed to domestic slavery in a foreign country.
Beef. How domestic slavery?
Cas. Too true—two wives [slowly, and with a dejected air—then after a pause]—you knew my Cecilia?
Pudd. Yes, five years ago.
Cas. Soon after that period I went upon a visit to a lady in Wetteravia—my Matilda was under her protection—alighting at a peasant's cabin, I saw her on a charitable visit, spreading bread-and-butter for the children, in a light-blue riding habit. The simplicity of her appearance—the fineness of the weather—all conspired to interest me—my heart moved to hers—as if by[Pg 213] a magnetic sympathy—we wept, embraced, and went home together—she became the mother of my Pantalowsky. But five years of enjoyment have not stifled the reproaches of my conscience—her Rogero is languishing in captivity—if I could restore her to him!
Beef. Let us rescue him.
Cas. Will without power[212] is like children playing at soldiers.
Beef. Courage without power[213] is like a consumptive running footman.
Cas. Courage without power is a contradiction.[214] Ten brave men might set all Quedlinburgh at defiance.
Beef. Ten brave men—but where are they to be found?
Cas. I will tell you—marked you the waiter?
Beef. The waiter? [Doubtingly.
Cas. [in a confidential tone.] No waiter, but a Knight Templar. Returning from the crusade, he found his Order dissolved, and his person proscribed. He dissembled his rank, and embraced the profession of a waiter. I have made sure of him already. There are, besides, an Austrian and a Prussian grenadier. I have made them abjure their national enmity, and they have sworn to fight henceforth in the cause of freedom. These, with Young Pottingen, the waiter, and ourselves, make seven—the troubadour, with his two attendant minstrels, will complete the ten.
Beef. Now then for the execution. [With enthusiasm.
Pudd. Yes, my boys—for the execution. [Clapping them on the back.
Waiter. But hist! we are observed.
Trou. Let us by a song conceal our purposes.
RECITATIVE ACCOMPANIED.[215]
GENERAL CHORUS—Con spirito.
Scene.—The Abbey gate, with ditches, drawbridges, and spikes. Time—about an hour before sunrise. The conspirators appear as if in ambuscade, whispering, and consulting together, in expectation of the signal for attack. The Waiter is habited as a Knight Templar, in the dress of his Order, with the cross on his breast, and the scallop on his shoulder; Puddingfield and Beefington armed with blunderbusses and pocket pistols; the Grenadiers in their proper uniforms. The Troubadour, with his attendant Minstrels, bring up the rear—martial music—the conspirators come forward, and present themselves before the gate of the Abbey.—Alarum—firing of pistols—the Convent appear in arms upon the walls—the drawbridge is let down—a body of choristers and lay-brothers attempt a sally, but are beaten back, and the verger killed. The besieged attempt to raise the drawbridge—Puddingfield and Beefington press forward with alacrity, throw themselves upon the drawbridge, and by the exertion of their weight, preserve it in a state of depression—the other besiegers join them, and attempt to force the entrance, but without effect. Puddingfield makes the signal for the battering ram. Enter Quintus Curtius and Marcus Curius Dentatus, in their proper military habits, preceded by the Roman Eagle—the rest of their legion are employed in bringing forward a battering ram, which plays for a few minutes to slow time, till the entrance is forced. After a short resistance, the besiegers rush in with shouts of victory.
Scene changes to the interior of the Abbey. The inhabitants of the Convent are seen flying in all directions.
The Count of Weimar and Prior, who had been feasting in the refectory, are brought in manacled. The Count appears transported with rage, and gnaws his chains. The Prior remains insensible, as if stupefied with grief. Beefington takes the keys of the dungeon, which are hanging at the Prior's girdle, and makes a sign for them both to be led away into confinement.—Exeunt Prior and Count properly guarded. The rest of the conspirators disperse in search of the dungeon where Rogero is confined.
FIRST PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL HAYMARKET, AUGUST 7, 1810.
——♦——
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Scene I.—Interior of the Palace.
Scene II.—An Avenue of Trees.
Scene III.—Inside of a Cottage.
——♦——
PREFACE.
On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in most of the daily papers:
"Rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre.
"The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair competition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of the Theatre, which will take place, on the 10th of October next. They have therefore thought fit to announce to the public, that they will be glad to receive any such compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the Treasury Office, in Drury Lane, on or before the 10th of September, sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a separate sealed paper containing the name of the author, which will not be opened, unless containing the name of the successful candidate."
Upon the propriety of this plan, men's minds were, as they usually are upon matters of moment, much divided. Some thought it a fair promise of the future intention of the Committee to abolish that phalanx of authors who usurp the stage, to the exclusion of a large assortment of dramatic talent blushing unseen in the background; while others contended, that the scheme would prevent men of real eminence from descending into an amphitheatre in which all Grub Street (that is to say, all London and Westminster) would be arrayed against them. The event has proved both parties to be in a degree right, and in a degree wrong. One hundred and twelve Addresses have been sent in, each sealed and signed, and mottoed, "as per order," some written by men of great, some by men of little, and some by men of no talent.
Many of the public prints have censured the taste of the Committee, in thus contracting for Addresses as they would for nails—by the gross; but it is surprising that none should have censured their temerity. One hundred and eleven of the Addresses must, of course, be unsuccessful: to each of the[Pg 228] authors, thus infallibly classed with the genus irritabile, it would be very hard to deny six staunch friends, who consider his the best of all possible Addresses, and whose tongues will be as ready to laud him as to hiss his adversary. These, with the potent aid of the bard himself, make seven foes per Address, and thus will be created seven hundred and seventy-seven implacable auditors, prepared to condemn the strains of Apollo himself; a band of adversaries which no prudent manager would think of exasperating.
But leaving the Committee to encounter the responsibility they have incurred, the public have at least to thank them for ascertaining and establishing one point, which might otherwise have admitted of controversy. When it is considered that many amateur writers have been discouraged from becoming competitors, and that few, if any, of the professional authors can afford to write for nothing, and of course have not been candidates for the honorary prize at Drury Lane, we may confidently pronounce, that, as far as regards number, the present is undoubtedly the Augustan age of English poetry. Whether or not this distinction will be extended to the quality of its productions, must be decided at the tribunal of posterity, though the natural anxiety of our authors on this score ought to be considerably diminished, when they reflect how few will, in all probability, be had up for judgment.
It is not necessary for the Editor to mention the manner in which he became possessed of this "fair sample of the present state of poetry in Great Britain." It was his first intention to publish the whole; but a little reflection convinced him that, by so doing, he might depress the good, without elevating the bad. He has therefore culled what had the appearance of flowers, from what possessed the reality of weeds, and is extremely sorry that, in so doing, he has diminished his collection to twenty-one. Those which he has rejected may possibly make their appearance in a separate volume, or they may be admitted as volunteers in the files of some of the newspapers; or, at all events, they are sure of being received among the awkward squad of the Magazines. In general, they bear a close resemblance to each other: thirty of them contain extravagant compliments to the immortal Wellington, and the indefatigable Whitbread; and, as the last-mentioned gentleman is said to dislike praise in the exact proportion in which he deserves it, these laudatory writers have probably been only building a wall, against which they might run their own heads.
The Editor here begs leave to advance a few words in behalf of that useful and much-abused bird, the Phœnix, and in so doing he is biassed by no partiality, as he assures the reader he not only never saw one, but (mirabile dictu!) never caged one in a simile in the whole course of his life. Not less than sixty-nine[Pg 229] of the competitors have invoked the aid of this native of Arabia; but as from their manner of using him, after they had caught him, he does not by any means appear to have been a native of Arabia Felix, the Editor has left the proprietors to treat with Mr. Polito, and refused to receive this rara avis, or black swan, into the present collection. One exception occurs, in which the admirable treatment of this feathered incombustible entitles the author to great praise. That Address has been preserved, and in the ensuing pages takes the lead, to which its dignity entitles it.
Perhaps the reason why several of the subjoined productions of the Musæ Londinenses have failed of selection, may be discovered in their being penned in a metre unusual upon occasions of this sort, and in their not being written with that attention to stage effect, the want of which, like want of manners in the concerns of life, is more prejudicial than a deficiency of talent. There is an art in writing for the Theatre, technically called touch and go, which is indispensable when we consider the small quantum of patience which so motley an assemblage as a London audience can be expected to afford. All the contributors have been very exact in sending their initials and mottoes. Those belonging to the present collection have been carefully preserved, and each has been affixed to its respective poem. The letters that accompanied the Addresses having been honourably destroyed unopened, it is impossible to state the real authors with any certainty, but the ingenious reader, after comparing the initials with the motto, and both with the poem, may form his own conclusions.
The Editor does not anticipate any disapprobation from thus giving publicity to a small portion of the Rejected Addresses; for, unless he is widely mistaken in assigning the respective authors, the fame of each individual is established on much too firm a basis to be shaken by so trifling and evanescent a publication as the present:
Of the numerous pieces already sent to the Committee for performance, he has only availed himself of three vocal Travesties, which he has selected, not for their merit, but simply for their brevity. Above one hundred spectacles, melodramas, operas, and pantomimes have been transmitted, besides the two first acts of one legitimate comedy. Some of these evince considerable smartness of manual dialogue, and several brilliant repartees of chairs, tables, and other inanimate wits; but the authors seem to have forgotten that in the new Drury Lane the audience can hear as well as see. Of late our theatres have been so constructed that John Bull has been compelled to have very[Pg 230] long ears, or none at all; to keep them dangling about his skull like discarded servants, while his eyes were gazing at piebalds and elephants, or else to stretch them out to an asinine length to catch the congenial sound of braying trumpets. An auricular revolution is, we trust, about to take place; and, as many people have been much puzzled to define the meaning of the new era, of which we have heard so much, we venture to pronounce, that as far as regards Drury Lane Theatre, the new era means the reign of ears. If the past affords any pledge for the future, we may confidently expect from the Committee of that House, everything that can be accomplished by the union of taste and assiduity.
By W. T. F.
By W. W.
[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise, by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]
By S. T. P.
By Lord B.
Sir,
To the gewgaw fetters of rhyme (invented by the monks to
enslave the people) I have a rooted objection. I have therefore
written an address for your theatre in plain, homespun,
yeoman's prose; in the doing whereof I hope I am swayed by
nothing but an independent wish to open the eyes of this gulled
people, to prevent a repetition of the dramatic bamboozling they
have hitherto laboured under. If you like what I have done,
and mean to make use of it, I don't want any such aristocratic
reward as a piece of plate with two griffins sprawling upon it,
or a dog and a jackass fighting for a ha'p'worth of gilt gingerbread,
or any such Bartholomew Fair nonsense. All I ask is,
that the door-keepers of your playhouse may take all the sets of
my Register, now on hand, and force everybody who enters
your door to buy one, giving afterwards a debtor and creditor
account of what they have received, post-paid, and in due course
remitting me the money and unsold Registers, carriage-paid.
I am, &c.,
W. C.
Most thinking People,
When persons address an audience from the stage, it is usual, either in words or gesture, to say, "Ladies and Gentlemen, your servant." If I were base enough, mean enough, paltry[Pg 239] enough, and brute beast enough, to follow that fashion, I should tell two lies in a breath. In the first place, you are not ladies and gentlemen, but I hope something better—that is to say, honest men and women; and in the next place, if you were ever so much ladies, and ever so much gentlemen, I am not, nor ever will be, your humble servant. You see me here, most thinking people, by mere chance. I have not been within the doors of a playhouse before for these ten years, nor till that abominable custom of taking money at the doors is discontinued, will I ever sanction a theatre with my presence. The stage-door is the only gate of freedom in the whole edifice, and through that I made my way from Bagshaw's in Brydges Street, to accost you. Look about you. Are you not all comfortable? Nay, never slink, mun; speak out, if you are dissatisfied, and tell me so before I leave town. You are now (thanks to Mr. Whitbread) got into a large, comfortable house. Not into a gimcrack palace; not into a Solomon's temple; not into a frost-work of Brobdingnag filagree; but into a plain, honest, homely, industrious, wholesome, brown, brick playhouse. You have been struggling for independence and elbow-room these three years; and who gave it you? Who helped you out of Lilliput? Who routed you from a rat-hole, five inches by four, to perch you in a palace? Again and again I answer, Mr. Whitbread. You might have sweltered in that place with the Greek name till Doomsday, and neither Lord Castlereagh, Mr. Canning, no, nor the Marquis Wellesley, would have turned a trowel to help you out! Remember that. Never forget that. Read it to your children, and to your children's children! And now, most thinking people, cast your eyes over my head to what the builder (I beg his pardon, the architect) calls the proscenium. No motto, no slang, no Popish Latin to keep the people in the dark. No Veluti in speculum. Nothing in the dead languages, properly so called, for they ought to die, ay, and be damned to boot! The Covent Garden manager tried that, and a pretty business he made of it! When a man says Veluti in speculum, he is called a man of letters. Very well, and is not a man who cries O.P. a man of letters too? You ran your O.P. against his Veluti in speculum, and pray which beat? I prophesied that, though I never told anybody. I take it for granted, that every intelligent man, woman, and child, to whom I address myself, has stood severally and respectively in Little Russell Street, and cast their, his, her, and its eyes on the outside of this building before they paid their money to view the inside. Look at the brick-work, English audience! Look at the brick-work! All plain and smooth like a quaker's meeting. None of your Egyptian pyramids, to entomb subscribers' capitals. No overgrown colonnades of stone, like an alderman's gouty legs in white cotton stockings, fit only to use as rammers for paving[Pg 240] Tottenham Court Road. This house is neither after the model of a temple in Athens, no, nor a temple in Moorfields, but it is built to act English plays in, and provided you have good scenery, dresses, and decorations, I dare say you wouldn't break your hearts if the outside were as plain as the pikestaff I used to carry when I was a sergeant. Apropos, as the French valets say, who cut their masters' throats—apropos, a word about dresses. You must, many of you, have seen what I have read a description of—Kemble and Mrs. Siddons in "Macbeth," with more gold and silver plastered on their doublets than would have kept an honest family in butchers' meat and flannel from year's end to year's end! I am informed (now mind, I do not vouch for the fact), but I am informed that all such extravagant idleness is to be done away with here. Lady Macbeth is to have a plain quilted petticoat, a cotton gown, and a mob cap (as the court parasites call it; it will be well for them if, one of these days, they don't wear a mob cap—I mean a white cap, with a mob to look at them), and Macbeth is to appear in an honest yeoman's drab coat, and a pair of black calamanco breeches. Not Salamanca; no, nor Talavera neither, my most noble Marquis, but plain, honest, black calamanco, stuff breeches. This is right; this is as it should be. Most thinking people, I have heard you much abused. There is not a compound in the language but is strung fifty in a rope, like onions, by the Morning Post, and hurled in your teeth. You are called the mob, and when they have made you out to be the mob, you are called the scum of the people, and the dregs of the people. I should like to know how you can be both. Take a basin of broth—not cheap soup, Mr. Wilberforce, not soup for the poor at a penny a quart, as your mixture of horses' legs, brick-dust, and old shoes was denominated, but plain, wholesome, patriotic beef or mutton broth; take this, examine it, and you will find—mind, I don't vouch for the fact, but I am told you will find the dregs at the bottom, and the scum at the top. I will endeavour to explain this to you: England is a large earthenware pipkin. John Bull is the beef thrown into it. Taxes are the hot water he boils in. Rotten boroughs are the fuel that blazes under this same pipkin. Parliament is the ladle that stirs the hodge-podge, and sometimes—but hold, I don't wish to pay Mr. Newman a second visit. I leave you better off than you have been this many a day. You have a good house over your head; you have beat the French in Spain; the harvest has turned out well; the comet keeps its distance; and red slippers are hawked about in Constantinople for next to nothing, and for all this, again and again I tell you, you are indebted to Mr. Whitbread!
By T. M.
By R. S.
By Laura Matilda.
By W. S.
Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating as near as he could their very phrase.—Don Quixote.
To be spoken by Mr. Kemble in a Suit of the Black Prince's Armour, borrowed from the Tower.
Ghost of Dr. Johnson rises from trap-door P.S. and Ghost of Boswell, from trap-door O.P. The latter bows respectfully to the House, and obsequiously to the Doctor's Ghost, and retires.
Doctor's Ghost loquitur.
That which was organized by the moral ability of one, has been executed by the physical efforts of many, and Drury Lane Theatre is now complete. Of that part behind the curtain, which has not yet been destined to glow beneath the brush of the varnisher, or vibrate to the hammer of the carpenter, little is thought by the public, and little need be said by the committee. Truth, however, is not to be sacrificed for the accommodation of either, and he who should pronounce that our edifice has received its final embellishment, would be disseminating falsehood without incurring favour, and risking the disgrace of detection without participating the advantage of success.
Professions lavishly effused and parsimoniously verified are alike inconsistent with the precepts of innate rectitude and the practice of external policy: let it not then be conjectured, that because we are unassuming, we are imbecile; that forbearance is any indication of despondency, or humility of demerit. He that is the most assured of success will make the fewest appeals to favour, and where nothing is claimed that is undue, nothing that is due will be withheld. A swelling opening is too often succeeded by an insignificant conclusion. Parturient mountains have ere now produced muscipular abortions, and the auditor who compares incipient grandeur with final vulgarity, is reminded of the pious hawkers of Constantinople, who solemnly perambulate her streets, exclaiming, "In the name of the Prophet—figs!"
Of many who think themselves wise, and of some who are thought wise by others, the exertions are directed to the revival of mouldering and obscure dramas; to endeavours to exalt that which is now rare only because it was always worthless, and[Pg 256] whose deterioration, while it condemned it to living obscurity, by a strange obliquity of moral perception constitutes its title to posthumous renown. To embody the flying colours of folly, to arrest evanescence, to give to bubbles the globular consistency as well as form, to exhibit on the stage the piebald denizen of the stable, and the half-reasoning parent of combs, to display the brisk locomotion of Columbine, or the tortuous attitudinizing of Punch; these are the occupations of others, whose ambition, limited to the applause of unintellectual fatuity, is too innocuous for the application of satire, and too humble for the incitement of jealousy.
Our refectory will be found to contain every species of fruit, from the cooling nectarine and luscious peach, to the puny pippin and the noxious nut. There indolence may repose, and inebriety revel; and the spruce apprentice, rushing in at second account, may there chatter with impunity, debarred by a barrier of brick and mortar from marring that scenic interest in others, which nature and education have disqualified him from comprehending himself.
Permanent stage-doors we have none. That which is permanent cannot be removed, for if removed it soon ceases to be permanent. What stationary absurdity can vie with that ligneous barricado, which, decorated with frappant and tintinabulant appendages, now serves, as the entrance of the lowly cottage, and now as the exit of a lady's bed-chamber; at one time insinuating plastic Harlequin into a butcher's shop, and at another, yawning as the flood-gate to precipitate the Cyprians of St. Giles's into the embraces of Macheath. To elude this glaring absurdity, to give to each respective mansion the door which the carpenter would doubtless have given, we vary our portal with the varying scene, passing from deal to mahogany, and from mahogany to oak, as the opposite claims of cottage, palace, or castle may appear to require.
Amid the general hum of gratulation which flatters us in front, it is fit that some regard should be paid to the murmurs of despondence that assail us in the rear. They, as I have elsewhere expressed it, "who live to please," should not have their own pleasures entirely overlooked. The children of Thespis are general in their censures of the architect in having placed the locality of exit at such a distance from the oily irradiators which now dazzle the eyes of him who addresses you. I am, cries the Queen of Terrors, robbed of my fair proportions. When the king-killing Thane hints to the breathless auditory the murders he means to perpetrate in the castle of Macduff "ere his purpose cool," so vast is the interval he has to travel before he can escape from the stage, that his purpose has even time to freeze. Your condition, cries the Muse of Smiles, is hard, but it is cygnet's down in comparison with mine. The peerless peer of capers[Pg 257] and congees has laid it down as a rule, that the best good thing uttered by the morning visitor should conduct him rapidly to the doorway, last impressions vieing in durability with first. But when on this boarded elongation it falls to my lot to say a good thing, to ejaculate "keep moving," or to chaunt "hic hoc horum genetivo," many are the moments that must elapse ere I can hide myself from public vision in the recesses of O.P. or P.S.
To objections like these, captiously urged and querulously maintained, it is time that equity should conclusively reply. Deviation from scenic propriety has only to vituperate itself for the consequences it generates. Let the actor consider the line of exit as that line beyond which he should not soar in quest of spurious applause: let him reflect that in proportion as he advances to the lamps, he recedes from nature; that the truncheon of Hotspur acquires no additional charm from encountering the cheek of beauty in the stage-box, and that the bravura of Mandane may produce effect, although the throat of her who warbles it should not overhang the orchestra. The Jove of the modern critical Olympus, Lord Mayor of the theatric sky, has, ex cathedrâ, asserted that a natural actor looks upon the audience part of the theatre as the third side of the chamber he inhabits. Surely of the third wall thus fancifully erected, our actors should by ridicule or reason be withheld from knocking their heads against the stucco.
Time forcibly reminds me that all things which have a limit must be brought to a conclusion. Let me, ere that conclusion arrives, recall to your recollection that the pillars which rise on either side of me, blooming in varied antiquity, like two massy evergreens, had yet slumbered in their native quarry, but for the ardent exertions of the individual who called them into life: to his never-slumbering talents you are indebted for whatever pleasure this haunt of the Muses is calculated to afford. If, in defiance of chaotic malevolence, the destroyer of the temple of Diana yet survives in the name of Erostratus, surely we may confidently predict, that the rebuilder of the temple of Apollo will stand recorded to distant posterity in that of—Samuel Whitbread.
By the Hon. W. S.
Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvas.—Virgil.
By M. G. L.
Omnia transformat sese in miracula rerum.—Virgil.
By S. T. C.
By a Pic-nic Poet.
This is the very age of promise. To promise is most courtly and fashionable. Performance is a kind of will or testament, which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.—Timon of Athens.
To be sung by Mr. Johnstone in the character of Looney M'Twolter.
Lege, Dick, Lege!—Joseph Andrews.
By the Editor of the M. P.
Bounce, Jupiter, bounce!—O'Hara.
Ladies and Gentlemen,
As it is now the universally-admitted, and indeed pretty-generally-suspected aim of Mr. Whitbread and the infamous, bloodthirsty, and, in fact, illiberal faction to which he belongs, to burn to the ground this free and happy Protestant city, and establish himself in St. James's Palace, his fellow committee-men have thought it their duty to watch the principles of a theatre built under his auspices. The information they have received from undoubted authority, particularly from an old fruit-woman who had turned king's evidence, and whose name for obvious reasons we forbear to mention, though we have had it some weeks in our possession, has induced them to introduce various reforms: not such reforms as the vile faction clamour for, meaning thereby revolution, but such reforms as are necessary to preserve the glorious constitution of the only free, happy, and prosperous country now left upon the face of the earth. From the valuable and authentic source above alluded to, we have learnt that a sanguinary plot has been formed by some united Irishmen, combined with a gang of Luddites, and a special committee sent over by the Pope at the instigation of the beastly Corsican fiend, for destroying all the loyal part of the audience on the anniversary of that deeply-to-be-abhorred and highly-to-be-blamed stratagem, the gunpowder plot, which falls this year on Thursday, the 5th of November. The whole is under the direction of a delegated committee of O.P.'s, whose treasonable exploits at Covent Garden you all recollect, and all of whom would have been hung from the chandeliers at that time but for the mistaken lenity of government. At a given signal a well-known O.P. was to cry out from the gallery, "Nosey! Music!" whereupon all the O.P.'s were to produce from their inside pockets a long pair of shears, edged with felt to prevent their making any noise, manufactured expressly by a wretch at Birmingham, one of Mr. Brougham's evidences, and now in custody. With these they were to cut off the heads of all the loyal N.P.'s in the house, without distinction of sex or age. At the signal, similarly given, of "Throw him over," which it now appears always alluded to the overthrow of our never-sufficiently-enough-to-be-deeply-and-universally-to-be-venerated constitution, all the heads of the N.P.'s were to be thrown at the fiddlers, to prevent their appearing in evidence, or perhaps as a false and illiberal insinuation that they have no[Pg 273] heads of their own. All that we know of the further designs of these incendiaries is, that they are by-a-great-deal-too-much too-horrible-to-be-mentioned.
The manager has acted with his usual promptitude on this trying occasion. He has contracted for 300 tons of gunpowder, which are at this moment placed in a small barrel under the pit, and a descendant of Guy Faux, assisted by Colonel Congreve, has undertaken to blow up the house, when necessary, in so novel and ingenious a manner, that every O.P. shall be annihilated, while not a whisker of the N.P.'s shall be singed. This strikingly displays the advantages of loyalty and attachment to government. Several other hints have been taken from the theatrical regulations of the not-a-bit-the-less-on-that-account-to-be-universally-execrated monster Bonaparte. A park of artillery, provided with chain-shot, is to be stationed on the stage, and play upon the audience in case of any indication of misplaced applause or popular discontent (which accounts for the large space between the curtain and the lamps); and the public will participate our satisfaction in learning that the indecorous custom of standing up with the hat on is to be abolished, as the Bow Street officers are provided with daggers, and have orders to stab all such persons to the heart, and send their bodies to Surgeons' Hall; gentlemen who cough are only to be slightly wounded. Fruit-women bawling "Bill of the Play" are to be forthwith shot, for which purpose soldiers will be stationed in the slips, and ball-cartridge is to be served out with the lemonade. If any of the spectators happen to sneeze or spit they are to be transported for life, and any person who is so tall as to prevent another seeing, is to be dragged out and sent on board the tender, or, by an instrument taken out of the pocket of Procrustes, to be forthwith cut shorter, either at the head or foot, according as his own convenience may dictate.
Thus, ladies and gentlemen, have the committee, through my medium, set forth the not-in-a-hurry-to-be-paralleled plan they have adopted for preserving order and decorum within the walls of their magnificent edifice. Nor have they, while attentive to their own concerns, by any means overlooked those of the cities of London and Westminster. Finding, on enumeration, that they have with a with-two-hands-and-one-tongue-to-be-applauded liberality, contracted for more gunpowder than they want, they have parted with the surplus to the mattock-carrying and hustings-hammering high bailiff of Westminster, who has, with his own shovel, dug a large hole in the front of the parish church of St. Paul, Covent Garden, that, upon the least symptom of ill-breeding in the mob at the general election, the whole of the market may be blown into the air. This, ladies and gentlemen, may at first make provisions rise, but we pledge the credit of our theatre that they will soon fall again, and people be supplied[Pg 274] as usual with vegetables in the in-general-strewed-with-cabbage-stalks-but-on-Saturday-night-lighted-up-with-lamps market of Covent Garden.
I should expatiate more largely on the other advantages of the glorious constitution of these by-the-whole-of-Europe-envied realms, but I am called away to take an account of the ladies, and other artificial flowers, at a fashionable rout, of which a full and particular account will hereafter appear. For the present, my fashionable intelligence is scanty, on account of the opening of Drury Lane; and the ladies and gentlemen who honour me with their attention, will not be surprised if they find nothing under my usual head!
By the Rev. G. C.
If the following poem should be fortunate enough to be selected for the opening Address, a few words of explanation may be deemed necessary, on my part, to avert invidious misrepresentation. The animadversion I have thought it right to make on the noise created by tuning the orchestra, will, I hope, give no lasting remorse to any of the gentlemen employed in the band. It is to be desired that they would keep their instruments ready tuned, and strike off at once. This would be an accommodation to many well-meaning persons who frequent the theatre, who not being blest with the ear of St. Cecilia, mistake the tuning for the overture, and think the latter concluded before it is begun.
was originally written "one hautboy will," but having providentially been informed, when this poem was upon the point of being sent off, that there is but one hautboy in the band, I averted the storm of popular and managerial indignation from the head of its blower; as it now stands, "one fiddle" among many, the faulty individual will, I hope, escape detection. The story of the flying playbill is calculated to expose a practice, much too common, of pinning playbills to the cushions, insecurely, and frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all. If these lines save one playbill only from the fate I have recorded,[Pg 275] I shall not deem my labour ill employed. The concluding episode of Patrick Jennings, glances at the boorish fashion of wearing the hat in the one-shilling gallery. Had Jennings thrust his between his feet at the commencement of the play, he might have leaned forward with impunity, and the catastrophe I relate would not have occurred. The line of handkerchiefs formed to enable him to recover his loss, is purposely so crossed in texture and materials, as to mislead the reader in respect of the real owner of any one of them. For, in the satirical view of life and manners, which I occasionally present, my clerical profession has taught me how extremely improper it would be by any allusion, however slight, to give any uneasiness, however trivial, to any individual, however foolish or wicked. G. C.
Interior of a theatre described.—Pit gradually fills.—The check-taker.—Pit full.—The orchestra tuned.—One fiddle rather dilatory.—Is reproved—and repents.—Evolutions of a playbill.—Its final settlement on the spikes.—The gods taken to task—and why.—Motley group of playgoers.—Holywell Street, St. Pancras.—Emanuel Jennings binds his son apprentice.—Not in London—and why.—Episode of the hat.
Gentlemen,
Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parnassus, I was suddenly seized with a violent travestie in the head. The first symptoms I felt were several triple rhymes floating about my brain, accompanied by a singing in my throat, which quickly communicated itself to the ears of everybody about me, and made me a burthen to my friends, and a torment to Doctor Apollo, three of whose favourite servants, that is to say, Macbeth, his butcher, Mrs. Haller, his cook, and George Barnwell, his book-keeper, I waylaid in one of my fits of insanity, and mauled after a very frightful fashion. In this woeful crisis I accidentally heard of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, which cures every disorder incident to Grub Street. I send you enclosed a more detailed specimen of my case; if you could mould it into the shape of an Address to be said or sung on the first night of your performance, I have no doubt that I should feel the immediate effects of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, of which they tell me one hiss is a dose.
I am, &c.
Momus Medlar.
By T. H.
Scene draws, and discovers Punch on a throne surrounded by Lear, Lady Macbeth, Macbeth, Othello, George Barnwell, Hamlet, Ghost, Macheath, Juliet, Friar, Apothecary, Romeo, and Falstaff.—Punch descends, and addresses them in the following
(1825.)
——♦——
Let us take to the road!—Beggar's Opera.
O breathe not his name!—Moore.
EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.
TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING THE WASHING COMMITTEE.
Rover. Do you know, you villain, that I am this moment the greatest man living?—Wild Oats.
M.P. FOR GALWAY.
Author of the Cook's Oracle—Observations on Vocal Music—the Art of Invigorating and Prolonging Life—Practical Observations on Telescopes, Opera Glasses, and Spectacles—the Housekeeper's Ledger—and the Pleasure of Making a Will.
I rule the roast, as Milton says!—Caleb Quotem.
THE END.
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LONDON AND EDINBURGH
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[1] The usual language of the Honourable Edward Howard, Esq., at the rehearsal of his plays.
[3] See the two prologues to the "Maiden Queen."
[4] There were printed papers given the audience before the acting the "Indian Emperor;" telling them that it was the sequel of the "Indian Queen," part of which play was written by Mr. Bayes, &c.
[5] "Persons, egad, I vow to Gad, and all that," is the constant style of Failer in the "Wild Gallant:" for which, take this short speech, instead of many:
"Failer. Really, madam, I look upon you, as a person of such worth, and all that, that I vow to Gad, I honour you of all persons in the world; and tho' I am a person that am inconsiderable in the world, and all that, madam, yet for a person of your worth and excellency I would," &c.—"Wild Gallant," p. 8.
[6] He contracted with the King's company of actors, in the year 1668, for a whole share, to write them four plays a year.
[7] In ridicule of this:
[8] "I am the evening dark as night."—"Slighted Maid," p. 49.
[10] Abraham Ivory had formerly been a considerable actor of women's parts; but afterwards stupefied himself so far, with drinking strong waters, that, before the first acting of this farce, he was fit for nothing but to go of errands; for which, and mere charity, the company allowed him a weekly salary.
See the "Amorous Prince," pp. 20, 22, 39, 69, where all the chief commands, and directions, are given in whispers.
[12] Mr. William Wintershull was a most excellent, judicious actor; and the best instructor of others; he died in July, 1679.
[13] He was a great taker of snuff; and made most of it himself.
[14] "The Lost Lady," by Sir Robert Stapleton.
[15] Compare this with Prince Leonidas in "Marriage A-la-mode."
[16] In imitation of this passage:—
[17] Such easy turns of state are frequent in our modern plays; where we see princes dethroned, and governments changed, by very feeble means, and on slight occasions: particularly in "Marriage A-la-mode;" a play writ since the first publication of this farce. Where (to pass by the dulness of the state-part, the obscurity of the comic, the near resemblance Leonidas bears to our Prince Prettyman, being sometimes a king's son, sometimes a shepherd's; and not to question how Amalthea comes to be a princess, her brother, the king's great favourite, being but a lord) it is worth our while to observe, how easily the fierce and jealous usurper is deposed, and the right heir placed on the throne; and it is thus related by the said imaginary princess:—
This shows Mr. Bayes to be a man of constancy, and firm to his resolution, and not to be laughed out of his own method; agreeable to what he says in the next act: "As long as I know my things are good, what care I what they say?"
[19] Prince Prettyman and Tom Thimble; Failer, and Bibber his tailor, in the "Wild Gallant," pp. 5, 6.
[20] "Nay, if that be all, there's no such haste. The courtiers are not so forward to pay their debts."—"Wild Gallant," p. 9.
[22] A great word with Mr. Edward Howard.
[23] In imitation of this:—
This is the latter part of a song, made by Mr. Bayes on the death of Captain Digby, son of George, Earl of Bristol, who was a passionate admirer of the Duchess Dowager of Richmond, called by the author Armida. He lost his life in a sea-fight against the Dutch, the 28th of May, 1672.
[24] Mr. Edward Howard's words.
[25] See the two kings in "The Conquest of Granada."
[27] See the Prince in "Marriage A-la-mode."
[28] "Let my horses be brought ready to the door, for I'll go out of town this evening.
[29] "And what's this maid's name?"—"English Monsieur," p. 40.
[30] "I bring the morning pictur'd in a cloud."—"Siege of Rhodes," part i. p. 10.
[31] "Mr. Comely in love."—"English Monsieur," p. 49.
[32] Sir William D'Avenant's play of "Love and Honour."
[33] "But honours says not so."—"Siege of Rhodes," part i. p. 19.
[34] "Love in a Nunnery," p. 34.
[35] Col. Henry Howard, son of Thomas, Earl of Berkshire, made a play called the "United Kingdoms," which began with a funeral; and had also two kings in it. This gave the duke a just occasion to set up two kings in Brentford, as it is generally believed; tho' others are of opinion, that his grace had our two brothers, King Charles and the Duke of York, in his thoughts. It was acted at the Cockpit, in Drury Lane, soon after the Restoration; but miscarrying on the stage, the author had the modesty not to print it; and therefore, the reader cannot reasonably expect any particular passages of it. Others say, that they are Boabdelin and Abdalla, the two contending kings of Granada; and Mr. Dryden has, in most of his serious plays, two contending kings of the same place.
[36] "Conquest of Granada," in two parts.
[38] Almanzor in the "Conquest of Granada."
[39] In ridicule of this:—
[40] See the scene in the "Villain." Where the host furnishes his guests with a collation out of his clothes; a capon from his helmet, a tansey out of the lining of his cap, cream out of his scabbard, &c.
[41] In ridicule of this:—
[42] It was at first, "dares die."—Ibid.
[44] In ridicule of this:—
[46] In ridicule of this:—
[50] In ridicule of this:—
[51] See "Tyrannic Love," act iv. sc. 1.
[52] In ridicule of this:—
[53] "Aglaura," and the "Vestal Virgin," are so contrived by a little alteration towards the latter end of them, that they have been acted both ways, either as tragedies or comedies.
[54] There needs nothing more to explain the meaning of this battle, than the perusal of the first part of the "Siege of Rhodes," which was performed in recitative music, by seven persons only: and the passage out of the "Playhouse to be Let."
[55] The "Siege of Rhodes" begins thus:—
[56] The third entry thus:—
[59] In ridicule of this:—
[60] "The burning mount Vesuvio."—"Slighted Maid," p. 81.
[61] "Drink, drink wine, Lippara wine."—Ibid.
[62] Valeria, daughter to Maximin, having killed herself for the love of Porphyrius; when she was to be carried off by the bearers, strikes one of them a box on the ear, and speaks to him thus:—
[63] Two noted alehouses in Oxford, 1700.
[64] The cat ran away with this part of the copy, on which the Author had unfortunately laid some of Mother Crump's sausages.
[65] Corneille recommends some very remarkable day wherein to fix the action of a tragedy. This the best of our tragical writers have understood to mean a day remarkable for the serenity of the sky, or what we generally call a fine summer's day: so that, according to this their exposition, the same months are proper for tragedy which are proper for pastoral. Most of our celebrated English tragedies, as Cato, Mariamne, Tamerlane, &c., begin with their observations on the morning. Lee seems to have come the nearest to this beautiful description of our author's:—
Massinissa, in the new Sophonisba, is also a favourite of the sun:—
Memnon, in the Persian Princess, makes the sun decline rising, that he may not peep on objects which would profane his brightness:—
[66] This line is highly conformable to the beautiful simplicity of the ancients. It hath been copied by almost every modern:—
"Not to be is not to be in woe."—"State of Innocence."
"Love is not sin but where 'tis sinful love."—"Don Sebastian."
"Nature is nature, Lælius."—"Sophonisba."
"Men are but men, we did not make ourselves."—"Revenge."
[67] Dr. B—y reads. The mighty Tall-mast Thumb. Mr. D—s, The mighty Thumbing Thumb. Mr. T—d reads, Thundering. I think Thomas more agreeable to the great simplicity so apparent in our author.
[68] That learned historian Mr. S—n, in the third number of his criticism on our author, takes great pains to explode this passage. "It is," says he, "difficult to guess what giants are here meant, unless the giant Despair in the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' or the giant Greatness in the 'Royal Villain;' for I have heard of no other sort of giants in the reign of king Arthur." Petrus Burmannus makes three Tom Thumbs, one whereof he supposes to have been the same person whom the Greeks call Hercules; and that by these giants are to be understood the Centaurs slain by that hero. Another Tom Thumb he contends to have been no other than the Hermes Trismegistus of the ancients. The third Tom Thumb he places under the reign of king Arthur; to which third Tom Thumb, says he, the actions of the other two were attributed. Now, though I know that this opinion is supported by an assertion of Justus Lipsius, "Thomam illum Thumbum non alium quam Herculem fuisse satis constat," yet shall I venture to oppose one line of Mr. Midwinter against them all:
"But then," says Dr. B—y, "if we place Tom Thumb in the court of king Arthur, it will be proper to place that court out of Britain, where no giants were ever heard of." Spenser, in his "Fairy Queen," is of another opinion, where, describing Albion, he says:—
And in the same canto:—
Risum teneatis, amici.
[69] "To whisper in books," says Mr. D—s, "is arrant nonsense." I am afraid this learned man does not sufficiently understand the extensive meaning of the word whisper. If he had rightly understood what is meant by the "senses whisp'ring the soul," in the Persian Princess, or what "whisp'ring like winds" is in Aurengzebe, or like thunder in another author, he would have understood this. Emmeline in Dryden sees a voice, but she was born blind, which is an excuse Panthea cannot plead in Cyrus, who hears a sight:
When Mr. D—s understands these, he will understand whispering in books.
[72] "Omne majus continet in se minus, sed minus non in se majus continere potest," says Scaliger in Thumbo. I suppose he would have cavilled at these beautiful lines in the "Earl of Essex:"
And at those of Dryden:
[73] Mr. Banks hath copied this almost verbatim:
[74] The trumpet in a tragedy is generally as much as to say: Enter king, which makes Mr. Banks, in one of his plays, call it the trumpet's formal sound.
[75] Phraortes, in the Captives, seems to have been acquainted with king Arthur:
[77] Plato is of this opinion, and so is Mr. Banks:—
[78] These floods are very frequent in the tragic authors:—
One author changes the waters of grief to those of joy:
Another:
One drowns himself:
Cyrus drowns the whole world:
[79] An expression vastly beneath the dignity of tragedy, says Mr. D—s, yet we find the word he cavils at in the mouth of Mithridates less properly used, and applied to a more terrible idea:
I would ask Mr. D—s which gives him the best idea, a drunken king, or a drunken sword?
Mr. Tate dresses up king Arthur's resolution in heroic:
Lee also uses this charming word:
[80] Dryden hath borrowed this, and applied it improperly:
[81] This figure is in great use among the tragedians:
[82] A tragical exclamation.
[83] This line is copied verbatim in the Captives.
[84] We find a candlestick for this candle in two celebrated authors:
[85] This simile occurs very frequently among the dramatic writers of both kinds.
[86] Mr. Lee hath stolen this thought from our author:
Dryden hath improved this hint to the utmost perfection:
Banks prefers the works of Michael Angelo to that of the gods:
[87] It is impossible, says Mr. W——, sufficiently to admire this natural easy line.
[88] This tragedy, which in most points resembles the ancients, differs from them in this—that it assigns the same honour to lowness of stature which they did to height. The gods and heroes in Homer and Virgil are continually described higher by the head than their followers, the contrary of which is observed by our author. In short, to exceed on either side is equally admirable; and a man of three foot is as wonderful a sight as a man of nine.
[90] This well-bred line seems to be copied in the Persian Princess:
[91] This doubt of the king puts me in mind of a passage in the "Captives," where the noise of feet is mistaken for the rustling of leaves:—
[92] Mr. Dryden seems to have had this passage in his eye in the first page of Love Triumphant.
[93] Don Carlos, in the Revenge, suns himself in the charms of his mistress:
[94] A tragical phrase much in use.
[95] This speech hath been taken to pieces by several tragical authors, who seem to have rifled it, and share its beauties among them:
[96] Massinissa is one-fourth less happy than Tom Thumb.
[101] An information very like this we have in the tragedy of Love, where Cyrus, having stormed in the most violent manner, Cyaxares observes very calmly, "Why, nephew Cyrus, you are moved?"
[103] There is not one beauty in this charming speech but what hath been borrow'd by almost every tragic writer.
[104] Mr. Banks has (I wish I could not say too servilely) imitated this of Grizzle in his Earl of Essex:
[105] The Countess of Nottingham, in the Earl of Essex, is apparently acquainted with Dollallolla.
[106] Grizzle was not probably possessed of that glue of which Mr. Banks speaks in his Cyrus:
[108] The reader may see all the beauties of this speech in a late ode, called the "Naval Lyrick."
[109] This epithet to a dolphin doth not give one so clear an idea as were to be wished; a smiling fish seeming a little more difficult to be imagined than a flying fish. Mr. Dryden is of opinion that smiling is the property of reason, and that no irrational creature can smile:
[110] These lines are written in the same key with those in the Earl of Essex:
Or with this in Cyrus:
And with above half of the modern tragedies.
[111] Aristotle, in that excellent work of his, which is very justly styled his masterpiece, earnestly recommends using the terms of art, however coarse or even indecent they may be. Mr. Tate is of the same opinion.
I think these two great authorities are sufficient to justify Dollallolla in the use of the phrase, "Hie away, hie!" when in the same line she says she is speaking to a setting-dog.
[112] We meet with such another pair of scales in Dryden's King Arthur:
Also in Sebastian:—
[113] Mr. Rowe is generally imagined to have taken some hints from this scene in his character of Bajazet; but as he, of all the tragic writers, bears the least resemblance to our author in his diction, I am unwilling to imagine he would condescend to copy him in this particular.
[114] This method of surprising an audience, by raising their expectation to the highest pitch, and then baulking it, hath been practised with great success by most of our tragical authors.
[115] Almeyda, in Sebastian, is in the same distress:—
[116] "As very well he may, if he hath any modesty in him," says Mr. D—s. The author of Busiris is extremely zealous to prevent the sun's blushing at any indecent object; and therefore on all such occasions he addresses himself to the sun, and desires him to keep out of the way.
Mr. Banks makes the sun perform the office of Hymen, and therefore not likely to be disgusted at such a sight:
[117] Neurmahal sends the same message to heaven:
We find another to hell in the Persian Princess:
[118] Anthony gives the same command in the same words.
[120] Nothing is more common than these seeming contradictions; such as—
[121] Lee hath improved this metaphor:
[122] Almahide hath the same contempt for these appetities:
The Earl of Essex is of a different opinion, and seems to place the chief happiness of a general therein:
But, if we may believe one who knows more than either, the devil himself, we shall find eating to be an affair of more moment than is generally imagined:
[123] "This expression is enough of itself," says Mr. D., "utterly to destroy the character of Huncamunca!" Yet we find a woman of no abandoned character in Dryden adventuring farther, and thus excusing herself:
Cassandra speaks before she is asked: Huncamunca afterwards. Cassandra speaks her wishes to her lover: Huncamunca only to her father.
[125] Mr. Dennis, in that excellent tragedy called Liberty Asserted, which is thought to have given so great a stroke to the late French king, hath frequent imitations of this beautiful speech of king Arthur:
[127] This beautiful line, which ought, says Mr. W——, to be written in gold, is imitated in the New Sophonisba:
The author of a song called Duke upon Duke hath improved it:
Where, by the help of a little false spelling, you have two meanings in the repeated words.
[128] Edith, in the Bloody Brother, speaks to her lover in the same familiar language:
[131] I do not remember any metaphors so frequent in the tragic poets as those borrowed from riding post.
[132] This image, too, very often occurs:
[133] There is great dissension among the poets concerning the method of making man. One tells his mistress that the mould she was made in being lost, Heaven cannot form such another. Lucifer, in Dryden, gives a merry description of his own formation:
In one place the same poet supposes man to be made of metal:
In another of dough:
In another of clay:
One makes the soul of wax:
Another of flint:
To omit the great quantities of iron, brazen, and leaden souls which are so plenty in modern authors—I cannot omit the dress of a soul as we find it in Dryden:
Nor can I pass by a particular sort of soul in a particular sort of description in the New Sophonisba.
[134] This line Mr. Banks has plunder'd entire in his Anna Bullen.
[136] I know some of the commentators have imagined that Mr. Dryden, in the altercative scene between Cleopatra and Octavia, a scene which Mr. Addison inveighs against with great bitterness, is much beholden to our author. How just this their observation is I will not presume to determine.
[137] "A cobbling poet indeed," says Mr. D.; and yet I believe we may find as monstrous images in the tragic authors. I'll put down one: "Untie your folded thoughts, and let them dangle loose as a bride's hair."—"Injured Love."
Which line seems to have as much title to a milliner's shop as our author's to a shoemaker's.
[138] Mr. L—— takes occasion in this place to commend the great care of our author to preserve the metre of blank verse, in which Shakespeare, Jonson, and Fletcher, were so notoriously negligent; and the moderns, in imitation of our author, so laudably observant:
Every page of Sophonisba gives us instances of this excellence.
[141] Verba Tragica.
[142] This speech has been terribly mauled by the poet.
[148] Our author, who everywhere shows his great penetration into human nature, here outdoes himself: where a less judicious poet would have raised a long scene of whining love, he, who understood the passions better, and that so violent an affection as this must be too big for utterance, chooses rather to send his characters off in this sullen and doleful manner, in which admirable conduct he is imitated by the author of the justly celebrated Eurydice. Dr. Young seems to point at this violence of passion:
And Seneca tells us, "Curæ leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent." The story of the Egyptian king in Herodotus is too well known to need to be inserted; I refer the more curious reader to the excellent Montaigne, who hath written an essay on this subject.
[151] To understand sufficiently the beauty of this passage, it will be necessary that we comprehend every man to contain two selfs. I shall not attempt to prove this from philosophy, which the poets make so plainly evident.
One runs away from the other:
In a second, one self is a guardian to the other:
Again:
In the same, the first self is proud of the second:
In a third, distrustful of him:
In a fourth, honours him:
In a fifth, at variance with him:
Again, in a sixth:
From all which it appears that there are two selfs; and therefore Tom Thumb's losing himself is no such solecism as it hath been represented by men rather ambitious of criticising than qualified to criticise.
[152] Mr. F. imagines this parson to have been a Welsh one, from his simile.
[153] Our author hath been plundered here, according to custom:
[155] Mr. Dryden hath imitated this in All for Love.
[156] This Miltonic style abounds in the New Sophonisba.
[159] "Here is a sentiment for the virtuous Huncamunca!" says Mr. D—s. And yet, with the leave of this great man, the virtuous Panthea, in Cyrus, hath a heart every whit as ample:
Nor is the lady in Love Triumphant more reserved, though not so intelligible:
[160] A ridiculous supposition to any one who considers the great and extensive largeness of hell, says a commentator; but not so to those who consider the great expansion of immaterial substance. Mr. Banks makes one soul to be so expanded, that heaven could not contain it.
The Persian Princess hath a passage not unlike the author of this:
This threatens to fill hell, even though it was empty; Lord Grizzle, only to fill up the chinks, supposing the rest already full.
[161] Mr. Addison is generally thought to have had this simile in his eye when he wrote that beautiful one at the end of the third act of his Cato.
[162] This beautiful simile is founded on a proverb which does honour to the English language:
I am not so well pleased with any written remains of the ancients as with those little aphorisms which verbal tradition hath delivered down to us under the title of proverbs. It were to be wished that, instead of filling their pages with the fabulous theology of the pagans, our modern poets would think it worth their while to enrich their works with the proverbial sayings of their ancestors. Mr. Dryden hath chronicled one in heroic:
My Lord Bacon is of opinion that whatever is known of arts and sciences might be proved to have lurked in the Proverbs of Solomon. I am of the same opinion in relation to those above-mentioned; at least I am confident that a more perfect system of ethics, as well as economy, might be compiled out of them than is at present extant, either in the works of the ancient philosophers, or those more valuable, as more voluminous ones of the modern divines.
[163] Of all the particulars in which the modern stage falls short of the ancients, there is none so much to be lamented as the great scarcity of ghosts. Whence this proceeds I will not presume to determine. Some are of opinion that the moderns are unequal to that sublime language which a ghost ought to speak. One says, ludicrously, that ghosts are out of fashion; another, that they are properer for comedy; forgetting, I suppose, that Aristotle hath told us that a ghost is the soul of tragedy; for so I render the [Greek: psychê ho mythos tês tragôdias], which M. Dacier, amongst others, hath mistaken; I suppose misled by not understanding the Fabula of the Latins, which signifies a ghost as well as fable.
Of all the ghosts that have ever appeared on the stage, a very learned and judicious foreign critic gives the preference to this of our author. These are his words, speaking of this tragedy:—"Nec quidquam in illâ admirabilius quàm phasma quoddam horrendum, quod omnibus aliis spectris, quibuscum scatet Angelorum tragœdia, longè (pace D—ysii V. Doctiss. dixerim) prætulerim."
[164] We have already given instances of this figure.
[165] Almanzor reasons in the same manner:
[166] "The man who writ this wretched pun," says Mr. D., "would have picked your pocket:" which he proceeds to show not only bad in itself, but doubly so on so solemn an occasion. And yet, in that excellent play of Liberty Asserted, we find something very much resembling a pun in the mouth of a mistress, who is parting with the lover she is fond of:
Agamemnon, in the Victim, is full as facetious on the most solemn occasion—that of sacrificing his daughter:
King Arthur seems to be as brave a fellow as Almanzor, who says most heroically: "In spite of ghosts I'll on."
[169] The ghost of Lausaria, in Cyrus, is a plain copy of this, and is therefore worth reading:
[171] "A string of similes," says one, "proper to be hung up in the cabinet of a prince."
[172] This passage hath been understood several different ways by the commentators. For my part I find it difficult to understand it at all. Mr. Dryden says—
So that, till the body of a spirit be better understood, it will be difficult to understand how it is possible to run him through it.
[173] Cydaria is of the same fearful temper with Dollalolla:
[175] These quotations are more usual in the comic than in the tragic writers.
[176] "This distress," says Mr. D—, "I must allow to be extremely beautiful, and tends to heighten the virtuous character of Dollallolla, who is so exceeding delicate, that she is in the highest apprehension from the inanimate embrace of a bolster. An example worthy of imitation for all our writers of tragedy."
says Mr. D. "For, passing over the absurdity of being equal to odds, can we possibly suppose a little insignificant fellow—I say again a little insignificant fellow—able to vie with a strength which all the Samsons and Herculeses of antiquity would be unable to encounter?" I shall refer this incredulous critic to Mr. Dryden's defence of his Almanzor; and, lest that should not satisfy him, I shall quote a few lines from the speech of a much braver fellow than Almanzor, Mr. Johnson's Achilles:
[178] "I have heard of being supported by a staff," says Mr. D., "but never of being supported by a helmet." I believe he never heard of sailing with wings, which he may read in no less a poet than Mr. Dryden:
What will he say to a kneeling valley?
I am ashamed of so ignorant a carper, who doth not know that an epithet in tragedy is very often no other than an expletive. Do not we read in the New Sophonisba of "grinding chains, blue plagues, white occasions, and blue serenity?" Nay, it is not the adjective only, but sometimes half a sentence is put by way of expletive, as "Beauty pointed high with spirit," in the same play; and "In the lap of blessing, to be most curst," in the Revenge.
[179] A victory like that of Almanzor:
[181] We read of such another in Lee:
[182] These lines are copied verbatim in the Indian Emperor.
[183] "Unborn thunder rolling in a cloud."—"Conquest of Granada."
[185] See the History of Tom Thumb, p. 141.
[188] The character of Merlin is wonderful throughout; but most so in this prophetic part. We find several of these prophecies in the tragic authors, who frequently take this opportunity to pay a compliment to their country, and sometimes to their prince. None but our author (who seems to have detested the least appearance of flattery) would have passed by such an opportunity of being a political prophet.
[189] "I saw the villain, Myron; with these eyes I saw him."—"Busiris." In both which places it is intimated that it is sometimes possible to see with other eyes than your own.
[190] "This mustard," says Mr. D., "is enough to turn one's stomach. I would be glad to know what idea the author had in his head when he wrote it." This will be, I believe, best explained by a line of Mr. Dennis:
The understanding that can digest the one will not rise at the other.
[192] Dr Young seems to have copied this engagement in his Busiris:
[193] This last speech of my Lord Grizzle hath been of great service to our poets:
[195] Lee seems to have had this last in his eye:
[197] Mr. Dryden seems to have had this simile in his eye, when he says:
[200] Here is a visible conjunction of two days in one, by which our author may have either intended an emblem of a wedding, or to insinuate that men in the honeymoon are apt to imagine time shorter than it is. It brings into my mind a passage in the comedy called the Coffee-House Politician:
[201] These beautiful phrases are all to be found in one single speech of King Arthur, or the British Worthy.
[203] We may say with Dryden:
I know of no tragedy which comes nearer to this charming and bloody catastrophe than Cleomenes, where the curtain covers five principal characters dead on the stage. These lines too—
seem to have belonged more properly to this scene of our author; nor can I help imagining they were originally his. The Rival Ladies, too, seem beholden to this scene:
No scene, I believe, ever received greater honours than this. It was applauded by several encores, a word very unusual in tragedy. And it was very difficult for the actors to escape without a second slaughter. This I take to be a lively assurance of that fierce spirit of liberty which remains among us, and which Mr. Dryden, in his essay on Dramatic Poetry, hath observed. "Whether custom," says he, "hath so insinuated itself into our countrymen, or nature hath so formed them to fierceness, I know not; but they will scarcely suffer combats and other objects of horror to be taken from them." And indeed I am for having them encouraged in this martial disposition; nor do I believe our victories over the French have been owing to anything more than to those bloody spectacles daily exhibited in our tragedies, of which the French stage is so entirely clear.
[204] A See the "Robbers." a German tragedy, in which robbery is put in so fascinating a light, that the whole of a German University went upon the highway in consequence of it.
[205] See "Cabal and Love," a German tragedy, very severe against Prime Ministers and reigning Dukes of Brunswick. This admirable performance very judiciously reprobates the hire of German troops for the American war in the reign of Queen Elizabeth—a practice which would undoubtedly have been highly discreditable to that wise and patriotic princess, not to say wholly unnecessary, there being no American war at that particular time.
[206] See the "Stranger; or, Reform'd Housekeeper," in which the former of these morals is beautifully illustrated; and "Stella," a genteel German comedy, which ends with placing a man bodkin between two wives, like Thames between his two banks, in the "Critic." Nothing can be more edifying than these two dramas. I am shocked to hear that there are some people who think them ridiculous.
[207] These are the warnings very properly given to readers, to beware how they judge of what they cannot understand. Thus, if the translation runs "lightning of my soul, fulguration of angels, sulphur of hell;" we should recollect that this is not coarse or strange in the German language, when applied by a lover to his mistress; but the English has nothing precisely parallel to the original Mulychause Archangelichen, which means rather "emanation of the archangelican nature"—or to Smellmynkern Vankelfer, which, if literally rendered, would signify "made of stuff of the same odour whereof the devil makes flambeaux." See Schüttenbrüch on the German Idiom.
[208] This is an excellent joke in German; the point and spirit of which is but ill-rendered in a translation. A Noddy, the reader will observe, has two significations—the one a "knave at all-fours;" the other a "fool or booby." See the translation by Mr. Render of "Count Benyowsky; or, the Conspiracy of Kamtschatka," a German tragi-comi-comi-tragedy: where the play opens with a scene of a game at chess (from which the whole of this scene is copied), and a joke of the same point and merriment about pawns—i.e., boors being a match for kings.
[209] This word in the original is strictly "fellow-lodgers"—"co-occupants of the same room, in a house let out at a small rent by the week." There is no single word in English which expresses so complicated a relation, except, perhaps, the cant term of "chum," formerly in use at our universities.
[210] The balalaika is a Russian instrument, resembling the guitar.—See the play of "Count Benyowsky," rendered into English.
[211] See "Count Benyowsky; or, the Conspiracy of Kamschatka," where Crustiew, an old gentleman of much sagacity, talks the following nonsense:
Crustiew [with youthful energy and an air of secrecy and confidence.] "To fly, to fly, to the Isles of Marian—the island of Tinian—a terrestrial paradise. Free—free—a mild climate—a new created sun—wholesome fruits—harmless inhabitants—and Liberty—tranquillity."
[212] See "Count Benyowsky." as before.
[213] See "Count Benyowsky."
[214] See "Count Benyowsky" again; from which play this and the preceding references are taken word for word. We acquit the Germans of such reprobate silly stuff. It must be the translator's.
[215] We believe this song to be copied, with a small variation in metre and meaning, from a song in "Count Benyowsky; or, the Conspiracy of Kamtschatka,"—where the conspirators join in a chorus, for fear of being overheard.
[216] Geisers, the boiling springs in Iceland.
[217] Query, purly?—Printer's Devil.
[218] Captain Kater, the Moon's Surveyor.
[219] The Doctor's composition for a nightcap.
Transcriber Notes:
P. 5: 'INTRODUTION' changed to 'INTRODUCTION'.
P. 83. 'beesech' changed to 'beseech'.
P. 103. 'quetions' changed to 'questions'.
P. 111. 'Futnre' changed to 'future'.
P. 145. 'acqaintance' changed to 'acquaintance'.
P. 187. 'Queeen' changed to 'Queen'.
P. 188. '-cophronio' changed to '-cophornio'.
P. 281. 'surpise' changed to 'surprise'.
Fixed various punctuation.
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