DRAMATIC DIALOGUES For the Use of Schools.
BY CHARLES STEARNS, A. M. PASTOR OF THE CHURCH, AND PRECEPTOR OF THE LIBERAL SCHOOL IN LINCOLN.
PUBLISHED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS.
LEOMINSTER, MASSACHUSETTS, PRINTED BY JOHN PRENTISS, & CO. FOR THE AUTHOR. 1798.
- COLONEL ABIJAH PEIRCE, Moderator,
- DEACON EDMOND WHEELER, Treasurer, *
- HON. EBENEZER BROOKES, Esquire,
- JOSEPH ADAMS, Esquire.
- JOHN CODMAN, Esquire,
- SAMUEL HOAR, Esquire,
- DEACON SAMUEL FARRAR,
- DEACON DANIEL BROOKES,
- CAPT. DANIEL HARRINGTON,
- CAPT. JOSHUA BROOKES,
- LIEUT. WILLIAM LAWRENCE,
- LIEUT. BULKLEY ADAMS,
- LIEUT. LEONARD HOAR,
- LIEUT. ABNER MATTHIES,
- MR. JOHN ADAMS,
- MR. ZECHARIAH SMITH,
- MR. EPHRAIM FLYNT,
- MR. EPHRAIM WESTON,
- MR. ANDREW ADAMS,
- MR. ISAAC MUNROE,
- MR. ELIJAH FISK, Associated PROPRIETORS of the LIBERAL SCHOOL in LINCOLN;
THIS WORK IS HUMBLY DEDICATED BY THEIR SINCERE FRIEND, AND MOST OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT,
INTRODUCTION; SHOWING HOW TO CONDUCT AN EXHIBITION, AND ENSURE SUCCESS; WITH REMARKS ON THE CHARACTERS, ATTITUDES, GESTURES, &c. OF THE PERFORMERS.
Introduction, &c.
SOMETIMES human beings are unreasonably charmed with novelty; and at other times reject that which is useful and good without sufficient trial. What has appeared wrong, on account of some adventitious circumstances, has been rejected, as wrong in its own nature. This has been exactly the case with school exhibitions—They are in themselves exceedingly useful—When they are properly conducted they enlarge the ideas and polish the manners of students. They show an example of moral precepts represented in real life—But by means of some injudicious attempts, the public mind seems greatly prejudiced against them. It is said ‘they are expensive, that they encourage profanity and vice; that the feelings of students are often hurt by the distribution of parts—or their parents cruelly mortified—that students acquire by them an indecent confidence, and that they intrude upon studies more necessary and useful than rhetoric—and they are imitations of a theatre, which is always a seminary of vice.’ Yet we believe, that they may be so managed as not to be chargeable with any of these evils; but be productive of a most innocent and rational amusement, and not only improve the outward carriage of the students; but implant the most useful morals in them; and in the minds of their friends, who attend their performances. And the design of the introduction of this work, is to show how this may be done. For perspicuity's sake I shall consider myself as speaking to a person who wishes to know my sentiments of an exhibition.
SECTION I. OF GUARDING AGAINST PREJUDICES.
IT is vain for a student, new from a university, to think of confronting the prejudices of a people by mere assertions; and confidently reprobating their opinions—Mankind [Page 8] resent such treatment; and the prejudice is the stronger from that very cause. It is best to begin with a small exhibition, and only ask to show a few pieces—People are afraid of what is done in the dark—for that reason get some popular person or persons to look over your pieces before exhibition, and show the utmost readiness to have them rejected if thought improper. Then tell those, who inspect your pieces, by no means to admit such as they dislike. And if there be a single word, or phrase, which offends, let it be struck out without mercy. If they should reject all but simple dialogues, be content. But exhibit them in the most advantageous manner.
When the audience can bear dialogues, the number of dialogists may be increased, and soon it will be found that dramas, if not in themselves offensive to religion and morals, will be perfectly harmless—Adhere to the system of correcting them perfectly before they are given out to the students, by yourself and by others. Women are generally better judges of the delicacy of writings than men. —Apply then to some of the most sensible, and best educated ladies, in the town, or district, where you keep a school; and desire that they will examine your pieces, and note every passage which offends them. Such passages must all be sacrificed, and there is no loss in the case —You will probably substitute better phrases in the room of those excepted against, get a character for modesty, and acquire a purity of stile in your original compositions.
Do not imagine that your pieces in order to please must be calculated, to excite laughter. Those which excite the loudest peals of mirth o [...]ten please the least on the whole. —People often laugh at buffoonery, and when they go away from the scene, where they saw it, are angry with, and condemn themselves for being pleased, even for a moment. You may insert diverting p [...]ces, and it is generally best in the course of an exhibition, to have one or two that are laughable, but it is not advisable to have your pieces mostly of that cast. Those which are sublime, which waken the mind and benevolent affections▪ which excite the sentiments of piety or shew moral principles to advantage, will please all people who are not ideots or totally corrupted in their mental taste. Most of the pieces performed at an exhibition should decidedly be of the useful kind▪ and those which are more diverting, should be perfectly harmless [Page 9] —It is best never to descend lower than those which promote politeness and good humor.
Another thing should be attended to with great care. That none of the pieces be of such a nature as to bear even a plausible application to any person in the town, or district▪ where you are, in the way of ridicule—The wounds of ridicule are incurable, and the attempt of taking off individuals, is never forgiven.—Rather drop a diverting piece, or let vice pass unpunished, than offer a direct affront to any person by an exhibition. And avoid all general satire —It can never be just—If a married man be a ridiculous character; let it be, because he abuses his wife or his children—If an old bachelor, because he is mischievous and ill-natured—an old maid because she is vicious, and disturbs the peace of families—a lawyer for knavery—a priest for keeping low company—a merchant for cheating—is lawful prize for ridicule. But nothing that is good or useful, or even harmless should be ridiculed—And good men and women are found in all the lawful employments of life— above all things religion—marriage—and necessary and useful labor, should be exempted from ridicule.
Let not exhibitions be too expensive—People are generally hurt by expence, and will not long love that which draws their money from them—In some instances, bands of music have been hired, a great expence has been incurred for dresses, decorations for a stage, machines, and what not. Exhibitions can never become customary with all these appendages—They would banish themselves by the mere cost of maintaining them—Only reflect that you are at the head of a school, and are not the manager of a theatre, and you will avoid those extremes—The object of speaking in schools is, to use the student to a clear, and judicious mode of expression, and action, on all the occasions of life, and business. This may be provided for at a very small expence, as we shall show in another place.
Be very careful that the sentiments contained in your pieces be just and philosophically true—that they be wholly purified from all prophane, obscene and low, black-guardly sentiments, and phrases—and that the phrases which express humor, as those peculiar to clowns, cits, sailors, soldiers &c. be such, as will not offend persons of modesty and good taste. By these means you will avoid having a bad impression on the minds of the audience in the [Page 10] first and most simple performances of rhetoric, and if they be performed well it will create a desire to hear those which are more perfect till at last you may freely exhibit whatever is promotive of piety or morals, and be only the more approved as the performances are more complete—But we must now describe the apparatus and manner of an exhibition.
SECTION II. OF NECESSARY PREPARATIONS.
IT is necessary in your schoolhouse, to have a small esplanade, or stage. If no one be made in the construction of the house you may erect a temporary one. It will be very convenient to have a room behind the stage, to which the performers can withdraw, when they should be supposed absent. About this stage, on a frame erected for the purpose, you may draw curtains, to conceal the stage, occasionally▪ from the audience. This will give opportunity to represent different scenes of action. Then by tables, books, &c. the stage may represent a study—by national arms, and emblems &c. a court—by military trophies, an encampment or field of war—by means of shackles, chains &c. a prison—by handsome furniture, a gentleman's parlor—by cheap furniture, of the rural kind, a cottage or shepherd's tent &c. Thus on a stage of no more than twelve feet by eight—by such judicious alterations, effects may be produced on the imagination, which are truly surprizing, if we consider the cause, and it may be done without any extraordinary expense.
Beside the curtains which are drawn around the stage, there should be one drawn across from side to side, which may totally hide the back-scene, and be so contrived, as to open at the end, and in the middle. Persons engaged in opposite parties, sentiments, or interests, or who are any way at variance, should enter on opposite sides of the stage. If during the representations they be not reconciled they should also depart on opposite sides, if they become friends they should go off on the same side &c. while the others are performing; they, who are to follow, must remain concealed behind the back curtain, if there be no drawing [Page 11] room behind. If there be a drawing room behind, that is properly the place for the performers who are waiting— the curtain opens in the middle to receive some grand or august character—Or opening into another room, it may represent objects at a distance—Or it may represent an action which is seen from one room into another. As in the " Orphan of China," the opening of the curtain in the middle, and the ladies closing the door by standing close together, while the children, threatened to be kil [...]ed by the Tartars, are behind them, produces a striking effect on the imagination and feelings of the audience. And this back curtain will be found of great use in all representations of the dramatic kind—Such an appara [...]s as this will cost little or nothing, and will be found sufficient for any thing which can be well represented by the boys and girls of a school. Being thus furnished with a stage, next it must be our care to furnish the stage with performers. Masks, dresses arms, emblems, professional implements, may easily and occasionally be procured, as they may be of use, by borrowing them of the owners.
SECTION III. OF SELECTING THE PERFORMERS.
IT should be a capital maxim in selecting the persons to perform, that they be heartily willing for the enterprize and desirous of distinguishing themselves —Unless your superiors or employers require, never take any person who expresses reluctance to be a speaker. Such will never perform well. And be assured that the parents or guardians of each student, approve of his being instructed in rhetoric, before you bestow your pains upon him. By these precautions you will not only avoid blame; but escape a derangement of your exhibition after it is formed.
You will also have a set of lively, animated acto [...]—and have them perfectly at your own command—advise the best speakers to undertake parts, but compel none—advise, if you fear having too many, the poorer speakers not to take parts—but if they be greatly desirous, accept them. And let them begin with the shorter parts, and those which require the least skill in speaking—And it may be questioned [Page 12] whether an exhibition appears so well, to have all the parts uniformly executed according to the strict rules of good speaking; as it [...] to have the principal parts, exceedingly well performed, and the under parts with less skill—Cicero observes that the Greek players who had under parts purposely fell short in some degree, of what they could perform, that the principal parts might appear to greater advantage—The less able speakers may not be useless to you.
In this first selection by these means you will have a lively spirited corps of volunteers for your exhibition— and you will have no guardian or parent blaming you for compelling his boys or girls to speak against their wills and exposing their weakness, in case they should be [...]successful.
Before you distribute the parts other points are to be considered—It must not be thought that you intend to mark the foibles or vices of any of your performers in public. Should you assign the part of a clown, to a person naturally clumsy and awkward, he, and his parents, might think you meant it as a stigma upon him, or the family. Should you assign the part of a rogue, to a boy who is known to be such a character; it will give offence. And neither of the parts would be performed well; thro an uneasy consciousness which would attend the performance. If you would escape the uneasiness of relations or discontent in your school, all assignments which would carry a pointed reflection on individuals or families must be avoided—And there are certain principles which may help you out of all difficulty.
Scholar [...] uniformly perform best in the character which [...] to them, or that which is directly the opposite. When the part which is natural to any one is a good part, and represents a good, or harmless character, you may assign it to him without scruple—He will perform well because [...]e is in his own natural way—But the character of a [...]o [...]ue is best performed by a very honest person, provided he understands the business of taking off characters well. The honest man's aversion to a rogue causes him to observe the p [...]ar features of the character. From which [...] he will strike it off in a lively manner, and feel no kind of fear lest it should be applied to himself—Also a person who when he pleases can behave very gentcelly, yet [Page 13] possesses a good imitative faculty best performs the character of a clown, and the best tempered girl in your school should have the part of Keensight in "The Mother of a Family"—The part of an old maid should go to a girl in the school who is most popular among the young gentlemen— The principle is, we perform well in the character which is natural to us▪ because we are then in our own way, and we observe most the traits of that character which is most contrary to us, and therefore can counterfeit it the easiest.
But, as to grave and serious characters being good, they must be assigned to grave and serious persons—Merry or cheerful characters to persons of the same cast. A general is ill personated by a palefaced boy—He should be a large man and a noble figure—A magistrate the same, when he appears in his proper character—A Lady of eminence should be represented by one tall, well proportioned, and pe [...]onable—And it would be most absurd to represent a shepherdess the Venus of the groves but by a girl who is beautiful in reality.
And it may not be amiss in many cases to let the scholars chuse the parts for themselves or draw them out by lot in case there is like to be a competition—And it may be settled also as a principle after the parts are assigned that any who please may change between themselves, if both may thereby be suited better. And to conclude this section in a few words—Endeavor to designate your performers in such a manner as to have them easy and satisfied, and if possible let none of their friends be discontented—For it is often from the resentment of persons who think themselves hurt; that clamors have been raised against the study of rhetoric, which is by good judges tho't a necessary part of education [...] a free state.
SECTION IV. OF DISTRIBUTING THE PARTS.
FOR the principal character in each piece you will doubtless select a speaker on whom you can depend for steadiness of temper, and complete self command—You [Page 14] will do the same for any persons who will perform the single pieces. If you have a single piece to begin your exhibition, let it be given to a person of great firmness. For complete coolness, and selfcommand, are in no part of an exhibition, so necessary as in the first piece that is spoken. The first piece, spoken well, gives such a spring to the spirits of the performers who are to follow; as will carry with it the most happy effects, thro the whole exhibition—And in fact the first performance is the most difficult and most trying to the feelings of the performer. If it should fail it will sink the spirits of the other performers, and probably spoil the whole exhibition. For performing the last piece which should be a single one, and an epilogue to the whole, you should have that speaker in your school, who has the most sweet and harmonious voice, with the most easy and gentle manners, and in every view the most pleasing speaker. For this part should make the audience feel intensely, and as it was said of Pericles the Orator, should leave the sting of pleasure in the hearts of the hearers. If you have an intermediate single piece, any good and clear speaker may have it and we shall show hereafter of what advantage such a piece may be—The rest of the parts may be disposed of according to your discretion. Only due regard should be had to the voice and manner of performing.—A slow mournful voice suits a melancholy part; a voice hard and sharp an angry character, a soft and sweet voice and manners agree to a father of a family, a lover, a flatterer &c. a lively sharp voice to a merry character &c. but a little attention and experience is worth more than a thousand rules.
To avoid giving offence by distributing the parts; take notice how many performers you have, and let the single pieces be considered. Let each student who desires it have nearly as many lines to speak, as they who perform the single pieces—the least offensive way of disposing of the single pieces which are considered as most honorary because in them the whole attention of the audience is turned on the speaker—is to dispose of them in the school by ballot. Let the students ballot for the persons to perform them— while the precep [...]or holds a negative upon their choice in case they choose wrong—In this way all odium of partiality is avoided. And let the highest candidates, who miss o [...] single pieces, have the principal parts in the other performances [Page 15] —there is no danger in this way. A school [...]ill seldom choose wrong. The preceptor is never considered as in the fault. The scholars are pleased, and easy among themselves. And it is a good exercise to train them up to act the part of judicious electors in a free state. If those who must take under parts be good speakers, and desire it, give them a duplicate of parts—that is, two parts, each making up in the whole, nearly as great a number of lines as those have who have single parts or principal parts in dialogues—those who are content with short parts, leave content, and urge no more upon them.
As to the quality of the parts assigned, some will show the speaker to advantage, and some will not—the expression of a vicious character is generally bad—to assign an immodest or profane part to any scholar, male, or female, is wrong. There should be no such in school—such par [...] as while they are performing put a modest, and conscientious mind in pain, should be industriously avoided.
But it is necessary sometimes to represent vicious parts, else the virtuous characters would not appear to advantage. Much of the admiration of virtue depends on its being contrasted with vice—such passions as jealousy, discontent, ill humor, &c. must be represented. The repre [...]entation of them th [...] not agreeable, yet is not disgusting, neither in a moderate degree does it excite horror. They may therefore make a part in a school exhibition without any impropriety.
Now as the base passions give a person a disagreeable appearance, if you assign only a part which represents a scholar in a disagreeable view to the audience, you mortify the scholar, and give pain to his relations and friends. For this reason the most disagreeable parts should be assigned to those who, in the other part of the duplicate, have the most agreeable —never assign two very agreeable parts, or two very disagreeable once to the same scholar but treat the parts, as Laban did his daughters; make the good ones put off the bad—two parts of middling length, or goodness, may be assigned together, or otherwise, let a good and a bad, a long and a short one, go together. By this method your scholars will be satisfied, and you will have the credit of acting impartially.
SECTION V. THE ARRANGEMENT OF AN EXHIBITION.
BEING stored with single pieces, dialogues, dramas, and all legitimate materials of an exhibition—nothing profane or indecent being admitted—having also digested righteous principles of assigning parts in your mind and compleated that difficult work; it now remains, to arrange those parts so, as to constitute an agreeable whole—the first thing is to determine how many single pieces you will have. You may think it an arbitrary matter, but it is not—there ought to be two, three, or five—one single piece makes the exhibition appear odd▪ It must then have a head without feet, or feet without a head—two single pieces convey an idea of a beginning and end, in regular method—but such an exhibition, tho it may not offend, because it is regular, will not please in the highest degree, because it does not excite an idea of variety which is sufficiently clear—five single pieces, unless you mean to have a very long exhibition, will be out of all proportion with the other parts—and four exactly divides the exhibition into halves, and annihilates the pleasing idea of variety in the general arrangement.
Three single pieces seem then to be the number most convenient, and we shall call them the prologue, the intermediate, and the epilogue.—Very much of the eclat of an exhibition depends on these—we shall therefore describe them in their order with the parts which should come between them.
1. The PROLOGUE or introductory piece should always be assumed from some topic which is calculated to waken the tender feelings of the audience, and dispose them to candor—the tender sensibility of youth, their desire to please, their expectations of kindness from their parents and friends, are suitable ideas for a prologue. And these may be mixed with any other which may prepare the audience to receive the exhibition kindly—It should be spoken generally in a rather low pitch of the voice and with the air of diffidence, expressive of the modesty of the students and the respect which they feel for the audience. [Page 17] Nothing is more absurd than blustering, and towering rhetoric in a prologue.
If there be any serious business of the school, such as examination of scholars in reading, philosophy, or any branch of science, it best comes in immediately after the prologue, and while the attention of the audience is not yet fatigued. But if every thing of this kind has been transacted before;-let the most serious and sublime pieces follow the prologue. While the attention is not yet fatigued the serious and the sublime strike the mind with much the greatest advantage. Matters which are weighty and apply to the judgment, are ill introduced after the mind is already overcharged. They cannot be received with the approbation they deserve, and consequently will be thought to be dull, and insipid.
It is a mistake to suppose an audience will not relish serious matter—Variety is pleasing to the human mind; and that exhibition will please most, which has some pieces serious, some highly argumentative and rational, some pathetic, some merely interesting, some highly diverting.— But most exhibitors err in forever aiming to excite a laugh. They are often unsuccessful, and then it occasions disgust. —And they are in danger of making the whole a scene of low buffoonery.
When the dialogists have transacted all matters of the most serious and solid kind, it will be best to vary the exercises, and bring in the
2. INTERMEDIATE—a single piece, taken from any topic which is amusing. It should be a piece which requires no great attention of the mind to understand it; and it ought not by any means to be pathetic or sublime; but some pretty speech, which shall relieve the attention, and give the mind opportunity to recruit itself for the Dramas which are to follow. The fable of the Two Ladies, the Florist and the Bear, is a good example. The characteristic of this part is that it entertains the mind without fatiguing it, and leaves all the stronger passions unengaged for the pathetic scenes which are to follow. Next after the intermediate should come in the most interesting and passionate pieces which you have to exhibit. These will take less, if exhibited after the audience have been raised to a high pitch of mirth. Then to conclude the dialogistic representation, [Page 18] introduce a piece which is highly diverting▪ and thus the mind will find itself agreeably relieved from the intensity of the passions, and you will then, to conclude your exhibition, only want a good▪
3. EPILOGUE or concluding part. This part will contain many interesting matters; compliments to the audience, for their candor and attention; thanks to the parents and guardians for affording the means of instruction; addresses to amicable and parental affections; school mates taking leave of each other, &c.—And indeed polite and genteel address and compliments to several parts of the assembly, will make the varied substance of this part. A well written Epilogue, in which all the ornament and pomp of verse may be shown, all the graces of the most refined elocution should be displayed, pronounced in a mixt school by some elegant young lady, will give such a finishing stroke to the whole, as to leave the audience little power or will to criticise upon the performances. And they must go away pronouncing it a good exhibition. If they find their feelings are not shocked, or their reason affronted, but with the entertainment they have received good principles, which remain fixed in their memories, they will not long be enemies to exhibitions.
SECTION VI. OF THE LENGTH AND QUANTITY OF AN EXHIBITION.
THE time of an exhibition ought not to exceed four hours and half, or at the most five hours. Lengthy entertainments, where the audience are so confined, will necessarily grow tiresome: and the best pieces, after the hearers are tired, make no favorable impression. Four or six dramatic pieces are enough. Let two of four and three of six dramatic pieces precede the intermediate, and the same numbers follow it: thus you will have either seven or nine pieces in the whole; and the odd numbers are best, because they remove the idea of uniformity, which is tiresome when carried to an excess.
SECTION VII. REMARKS ON ATTITUDES, GESTURES &c.
THE first thing necessary for a person performing well is, that which is necessary to all polite behavior in genteel companies. It is to enter an audience or company in an easy and graceful manner, and leave it in the same stile. The gentleman or lady who is to perform, must be able to enter without trembling and extreme agitation—with a steady countenance, suited to the part to be performed— and must do the honors of entrance, in a bow or courtesy, in an easy and elegant manner, whenever that is required. —And even in burlesque or passionate parts, the entrance or exit must be suited to and entirely governed by the part to which it belongs.
To bring your scholars to act thus easily and genteely, attend first to the neatness of [...]heir persons. See that they be cleanly, and neat in their dress, that they be well washed and combed every day. This done will give them genteel feelings, which will express themselves in genteel airs. Allow no scholar to affect oddity or to dress in an absurd, and uncouth manner. Use them to decent and handsome positions in reading—correct them if they hang their heads down on their bosoms or on one side, if they stoop forward or strut back immoderately. Suffer them not to lounge and loll about, to distort their faces, or limbs, to roll their eyes about, or make any awkward or disagreeable motion, with them.
Instruct them how to come into a room and how to go out—Let a young gentleman always stand firmly on his feet to make a bow, and learn to bring up his feet to a firm position—without appearing to design it—When a man beings up his right foot so that the heel of it shall be two or three inches distant from the buckle or shoetye of the left, he stands in a good position to make a bow—He should take off his hat, raising his hand to his head in a spiral line —not catching it off, in a direct line, either sideways, or before. He should bend his body not in one point only, but its flexture should begin from the neck and proceed from thence gradually downward—And a bow to express reverence, [Page 20] should at least be so low, that the eyes in their natural position in the head, should be directed to the feet of the person to whom the bow is made. However it must be varied according to the greater or less degree of respect to be expressed by it—There should be no toss of the head, no hitch, or jerk in making a bow. But the motion of it, should always be smooth and easy both in falling and raising of the body—The hat should be put on with the hand moving in a spiral line, as in taking it off—and in taking off the hat, and putting it on, you should never bring your hat between your face, and the face of the person to whom your speech is directed—The arms should, in entering a room, hang easy by the sides, neither extended in any direction nor hanging exactly parallel to the sides of the body.
A young Lady should in general enter a room with a steady modest countenance. She should bring up her feet to a firm position to make a courtesy. Perhaps as good a one for general use as any is to have the heel of the left foot at a moderate distance from the shoetye of the right, and govern her motions with her right foot; or if a lady does not find this easy, let her take the reverse, or any position in which she can stand firm to command her motions, and her figure not be ungraceful—It is very graceful to bring her clothes forward by a small almost imperceptible motion, so as to hide the flexure of her limbs, before she lets herself down— Then she should appear to sink with an easy motion, as low as intended, and if she can add a very small motion, as if withdrawing thro modesty from the object to which she addresses herself, it will make her appear very graceful. She should with an easy motion, rise to her natural mode of standing—Here let it be observed that her arms should not be folded on her lap; but hang in an easy manner, at the sides. And the withdrawing motion, should be very small, in all instances. And by persons who naturally stoop forward it had better be wholly omitted. Nay it had better be omitted by all who cannot perform it gracefully.
If your scholars have had the advantage of a good dancing school, it will save you much attention to these matters—but if they have had no instruction of this kind, it must be given, or you never will have a good exhibition.
The main difficulty is to get a scholar into the habit of entering into and going out of a room with perfect composure and ease of mind. For this end it will be useful to [Page 21] let your scholars, taking their turns, go out of the school room, speaking something to the student, as "ladies, or gentlemen," (as the case may be) "we wish you a happy day" or in entering— saying "gentlemen or ladies I am very happy to see you" or any other civil sentence or phrase— this should be done while they are conscious of being observed by the school. And when they are able to do this composedly, you will soon find them able to perform any thing with composure, which you can wish them to perform.
For the movements of the hands, &c. &c. and how the passions are expressed— you may look into any of the common books on this subject. The "Art of Speaking" says as much on that head▪ as is useful, and even more. As to the expression of the passions in the countenance, the Plate of the passions in the English "Preceptor;" or in Hogarth's "Analysis of Beauty," will teach more than all the written precepts in the world.
But the rhetoric of young ladies should be suitable to their sex. It should never be violent. A lady should never extend her arms at full length, or strike her bosom with her hands, or raise her hand aloft, above her head — a lady in any violent passion should not give it full vent; but appear to be endeavoring to suppress it.—And never even till death should lose her care for decency—And a lady should never address an assembly at large; but may speak to her parents, her guardian, her school mates, &c. And of all things a lady should never address herself to the young men. It should always be considered that a young lady in a school is not actress but merely a scholar. Her object is learning. She should behave exactly as we might rationally suppose a genteel lady would behave in such a situation—except only in burlesque parts, and in them no lady should trespass upon decency.
All the performers in dialogues should appear to address each other, and to take no kind of notice of the audience, unless the parts they are performing requires it —The performers should move about on the stage as the action of the piece requires —neither should they stand toe to toe like boxers, nor should they move but with reason, and to heighten the effect of the piece.
As much of gesture as can be applied with reason; as much motion on the stage, as is proper and natural, should [Page 22] be used. It makes the pieces lively, and is very interesting to the audience—But more should not by any means be admitted.
It is foreign to the purpose of a school to overload exhibitions with music and adventitious ornaments; they cover the faults of a bad exhibition but spoil a good one by drawing off the attention of the audience from the speaking and manners of the students to other objects—the elocution and polite behavior of the students are the grand points to be regarded —yet a few musical pieces may be admmitted if properly applied.
In their behavior the young ladies should be guarded from mincing fidgetry and all silly coquettish airs; should use no affected graces, nor should they be allowed to use any familiarity with the young men, which might offend the nicest taste.
The young gentlemen should behave properly to the ladies, treat them respectfully and offer them no rude or even familiar behavior, so as in the least to offend persons of delicacy—A young gentleman acting a rational part should always address a lady standing at her left hand, and bearing his weight on the foot next to her, to give himself the air of tenderness and respect—A young gentleman may kiss the hand of a lady in token of respect; or he may support her with her arm. But proper amorous kissing, embracing, are things which nature never meant to be exhibited in public.
And tho the practice of modern theatres may be otherwise, it is a rule given by Horace in his "Art of Poetry," that no savage murders or peculiarly shocking barbarities be represented on the stage—Every thing of that kind if supposed at all should be imagined to be done at a distance.
The dresses should be suited to the character, but they need not be expensive. A simple wreath of laurel may denote a conqueror, a diadem a monarch; his badge of office any magistrate. We know so little of the dress of antient and foreign nations, that any very simple device answers to convey the idea of office.
SECTION VIII. OF REHEARSALS; AND HOW TO KNOW WHEN THE STUDENTS ARE FIT FOR EXHIBITION.
EVERY thing which is absurd in action or speech strikes any person instantaneously who has but a little knowledge of what is right; let your scholars in a great measure correct one another. As to entrances and exits, practise your scholars to go in turns and make their exit and entrance under the observance of the school, till, on the performance, the looks of the school testify approbation—For if there be the least awkwardness, those who are observers will perceive it, and it will affect them very strongly—Tho they mean to be extremely kind to one another, they will not be able to suppress a laugh. But when all are come to the point that they perform passably, they will mutually show their approbation in their countenance—The like may be said of gesture. When one part of the school are spectators and the other part performers, those gestures which affect the spectators agreeably, are with very few exceptions good. Those which affect them disagreeably, bad—The principles of these affections are properly natural.
IT is generally best, if your school be large, to divide it, and not always have the whole school together at rehearsals. And especially, if you, to save the time of your scholars and prevent the study of rhetoric from intruding on other studies, have your rehearsals in the evening; it will be best to divide the school, that the scholars may not be kept out too late in the evening and incur censure on that account.
In your rehearsals, correct all false pronunciation first. Make them recite and pronounce the pieces well. Then add gradually the graces of motion, and corporal gesture. And when you find that while one party of your scholars is performing, the rest who make a little audience are properly affected—you have obtained your aim. If the genteel scenes produce strong expressions of approbation—if the ridiculous parts readily and promptly excite laughter— if the pathetic ones bring tears into the eyes of the auditors; [Page 24] then your pieces are ripe for exhibition. And to delay it longer would be to let the ardor of your scholars abate; and, consequently, to lose in some measure, the life of your exhibition.
It is a great point both at rehearsals, and exhibitions, to keep up the courage of your scholars. Always correct them, unless they show obstinacy, in a mild tone of voice. Assure them that they will soon overcome all difficulties, and do very well—you must possess their confidence else you cannot inspire them with courage—frequently talk with them about speaking, and gesture, and show that you mean never to hurt their feelings if you can possibly avoid it. Yet correct every instance punctually in which your scholars fail; and assure them, that it is necessary to give them a good appearance, and make them eminent speakers, and in prompting both at rehearsals and exhibitions, always speak very distinctly, but in a soft and encouraging tone of voice, that your scholars may not lose the command of feeling, by apprehension of your displeasure.
If any of your scholars make an absolute sauxpas and get entirely out; by a preconcerted sign, let them retire, saying nothing about it —say not a word to them of disapprobation; but encourage them, and bring them on again in another place—by this device you may in many instances conceal the fault from the audience, or you may prevent its being very sensibly felt.
Yet the scholars should understand that they have the utmost displeasure of their preceptor to fear, if they wilfully do any thing that is improper at an exhibition. For unless he be able to command the prompt obedience of his scholars, it will be absolutely unjust that he should be answerable for the event.
SECTION IX. OF THE BENEFIT OF SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS.
WHEN school exhibitions are regulated by reason, divested of extreme expense, and conducted with propriety they are of very great use— they awaken the ambition of students, and they become desirous of behaving in a rational manner. We suppose in saying this, that the parts they [Page 25] have performed be such as reason and religion do not disapprove. That they are replete with good sentiments, and promotive of good morals. It has often been observed, that where there have been in the same town, schools on the same footing in other respects, yet some have had exhibitions and others not, that the schools in which there have been exhibitions, have not only excelled in the point of exhibitions but in every other. The rudest nymphs or swains by practising on rhetoric will soon acquire polite manners, for they will often personate the most polite characters. And tho the surly majesty of some male despots among us, may envy the graces of rhetoric to women, because they find themselves already outdone by women in every other excellence; yet it is certain, that a clear, genteel manner of expressing themselves, is a vast advantage to women, in forming that important alliance, which is to last for life.—And in the marriage state the mother who has been taught to read and speak with propriety▪ will be of unspeakable advantage to her children in forming their elocution in early life. And we know that bad habits formed in childhood, stick to many gentlemen of the court the pulpit, and the bar▪ all their lives. Let school exhibitions consist of laudable materials, and be managed with prudence, they will be of great advantage to both sexes, and form for all hearers an useful and instructive entertainment.
DRAMATIC DIALOGUES.
Preface to the Dialogues.
IN the following dialogues the author has aimed to exemplify the principal virtues and vices of human beings, some times a moral principle, is best represented affirmatively; the principle stated and the example given. An instance of this kind you have in Lucy, the principal character in the first Dialogue—Here the principle is set forth, directly in an example of virtue—Sometimes the necessity of a virtue is shown, by the embarrassments attending the opposite vice—As in the character of Fieldfare in the Foundling, or of Amesa in Scanderbeg—This resembles the Reductio ad abs [...]rdum so familiarly known in Logic and Mathematics—The Author thinks that neither of these procedures can be objected to on just principles, for we may practice virtue directly on its own principles, or may set ourselves right by avoiding that which is wrong.
It may possibly be objected, that some of the characters are too high charged and exceed any thing found in real life—The character of Nelly in the "Mother of a Family," and of Butterford in "The Maid of the groves," and of Puffpaste in the 'Founding,' if any, will be tho't of this kind — But the author had his reasons for this seeming excess. In the character of Nelly he would represent the prodigious disadvantage, under which even a woman of a good mind may appear, totally destitute of proper education—In that of Butterford he would show how extremely disagreeable a man of fortune is, void of virtue and good breeding—In the character of Puffpaste he would show that an honest well meaning man, will, notwithstanding the utmost disadvantages, with respect to external appearances, have something entertaining and agreeable about him, and will in fact appear superior to a man of the greatest refinement of education who yet neglects virtue—These characters are so exaggerated that young persons, who are always wanting in experience, may the better discern the intention of them.
[Page 30]It may be said that some of the pieces cannot pretend to originality—That there is a resemblance between "The Triumph of Temper" and Shakespear's "Taming of the Shrew;" between the "Father of a Family—and the "Pere de Famille" of Diederot. That the "Little Box" is partly taken from the "Cistellaria" and partly from the "Poenus" of Plautus—That the "Captive" savours strongly of the "Capteivi of the last mentioned author. That the "Orphan of China" has been better dramatized by Voltaire and Dr. Murphy. That the "Discontented" wife, is but the enlargement of the "UxorMempsigamos" of Erasmus. The author will deny nothing of this; but say that he has given those pieces a cast better fitted for schools than their originals, and they are so far new that he believes that there is not a correspondent page between his book and any other book now in print.
Should the critics of the age make any remarks upon this; or any of the author's works, he means to profit by it—He will be ready if his work should outlive the present edition to alter any sentiments, word, or phrase, that proves to be wrong, as his aim is to gain esteem, if he gains it at all, by fair means—and he would do as much good as he is able in the short space of life allotted to man—Wishing, he confesses, for some degree of approbation for wellmean [...] endeavors, he resigns himself to the candid and impartial public.
LINCOLN, DEC. 26, 1797.
The Woman of Honor. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
GOODNESS OF HEART AND VERACITY OF SPEECH.
The right conduct of human life depends not on the understanding alone. A good heart inclines to right actions, and often guides a person where reason might have failed—And veracity of speech is the quality of any person, which most effectually enables him, or her to gain confidence among acquaintance.
PERSONS.
- THORNHILL—a rich young 'Squire.
- BLANFORD—a suitor to Belinda.
- MR. MERTON—a farmer, uncle to Belinda.
- AIMWELL—suitor to Lucy.
- MISS LUCY PLAINWORTH—a girl of strict honor.
- BELINDA—a wild young girl, her cousin.
- MARCIA—a sensible girl, jealous of Lucy's reputation.
- SOPHIA—friend both to Lucy, and Marcia.
- BETTY—a maid at service.
SCENE.—A Farmer's house in Springfield, in Massachusetts— or may be supposed in any wealthy neighborhood in the country.
Dramatic Dialogues.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—BELINDA and LUCY.
LUCY, do you not intend to go to the ball?
What Ball do you mean?
Cousin Fireflash this day is twenty one; and he gives a splendid Ball to all his acquaintance.
I am invited and mean to go.
Mean to go! and here you sit drudging like some tame old house wife, with a dozen Children.
I am making some clothes for my little brothers and sisters. Yet I shall go to the ball when my partner arrives.
What concern have you to make clothes for the children? Let mothers take care of their own little brats themselves. What have such persons as you, and I, to do with them?
If I look a few years back, I find I was such a little brat myself; and I cannot help feeling affection for the poor helpless beings.
I always hate to look back.
You may look forward then, if you please, you will soon have the care of such creatures.
O fie, you are always thinking of being married, keeping house, and having a family.
No you are first in that. I only considered that young and single▪ I am already bro't to that point. The feeble state of my mother leaves the chief care of the family with me.
I pity you, indeed I do.
You need not pity me. It is not burdensome. I have the approbation of my conscience.
Conscience! what has such a thing as you to do [Page 34] with conscience? But folks say that you are a girl of rare principles you always act on strict honor and practice—no little conven [...]ent deceits—that you had rather be virtuous than fine; and above all qualities you prize goodness of heart▪
I wish all this were true concerning me most sincerely.
Wish it were true; how unpolite! Miss Fashion says she heard so; and that you read godly books on Sundays. But she could give no credit to such a scandalous report.
It is of very little consequence to me. My sentiments depend not on Miss Fashion, or any one else.
So I believe. There is nobody talks, dresses, or acts as you do—Your handkercheif
is not half pufft high enough, I can really see that you have a chin, and a part of a neck is to be seen.
Are they not in condition fit to be seen? Why should I hide them?
Why you are a very wise, gracious, good sort of a girl to be sure—Do pray marry a Parson, and as you have a tart and ready wit, assist him in making his sermons.— Lend your husband your wit and eloquence, and he may make sermons which may keep one awake.
I wish to treat religion and all that concerns religion with proper respect. Your wild flights make me laugh —Yet were you to take counsel, from some of that kind of men, it m [...]ght do you no harm.
Well you'll run me down in talking, I suppose; but I must go, I have a cap to make, a gown to alter, and a hat to trim and a thousand other little things to do, before I can go to the ball.
SCENE II.—LUCY and BETTY.
IS the tea ready Betty.
Madam here's a letter from the sweetest gentleman you ever saw.
A letter for me! If any gentleman wishes to speak with me, let him come himself.
He would, but he is afraid his uncle will be angry, and his uncle has a great fortin. The old fellor has a [Page 35] despot cough, and is thought to be in a presumption—If he dies you'll have a grand husband with a fine fortin.
I have as much pride as his uncle—I will have no connection with a family which disowns me—Besides there is no rich uncle in the case—It is only the plot of some low fellow who is ashamed to be seen by daylight. Take the letter away.
Why madam, you are very nice to be sure, your cousin Clara is not so squeamish▪ she has a Loveyer that writes her the sweetest letters you ever saw, all about altars, and raptures, Ange [...]s and torments, Cupid [...]s darts, flames of love and broken hearts—You can't think how happy she is.
Cousin Clara—you astonish me.
Yes, and she slips him into the house anights as sly! and then they whisper for hours together. The family grumble, but she says she don't care She'll get some justice with a scorched wig, or old broken minister, to marry them up as nice as pyecrust—without publishing intentions, and then the family may grumble at their leisure.
Away with your letter, Betty. I will not have it— I hired you to take care of the kitchen, not to assist me in these affairs. If I cannot do all the work of this kind, which I have to do, it shall remain undone.
I am sorry you won't take this letter, he is really a pretty gentleman and I am afraid it will break his heart.
Then you, or any one that pleases, may mend it. I will have no correspondence with a fellow who dares not show his head in the family—Go, Betty, and get tea ready.
SCENE III.—MARCIA LUCY and BETTY.
WILL you let me see that letter,
shall I open it?
Shall I give you leave to open the seal when I would not do it myself? Let it be sent back just as it is.
It is not sealed.
It may be inscribed or signed, and to give it you, may imply some breach of trust.
It is neither signed, nor inscribed. It is an open billet by some body to be delivered by Betty into your [...]and.
You may do as you please.
O you are rich, Lucy, here's a bank note of fifty pounds.
Then probably it is from some gentleman of fortune, who would make an ill use of his money—Some rich villain.
But stay, I believe it is a counterfeit. I have a true bill, let us compare
It is a counterfeit certainly, I believe the work is all of a piece.
I tho't so from the beginning.
But let us see the precious letter. ‘Meet me at the elms at the bottom of your garden, Betty will inform you of me.’ Well, this is an elegant billet to be sure.
It is from some low, dirty knave. A man who pretends courtship is always a knave, or ill [...]bred, if he dare not face the eyes of the family. But I remember my promise to Miss Speedwell, to meet her at six o'clock—I must go. Betty!
Here madam.
If Mr. Aimwell comes before I return, introduce him to my Father in the parlor, or to my brother in his study; and be sure to tell him, that I am only gone out a few steps, and shall return soon.
O it seems that you are engaged to Mr. Aimwell.
I am for this evening; why do you laugh?
To find you so tender of the gentleman's feelings as to give him notice of your speedy return.
He is a gentleman of character, he has taken a proper notice of me. Why should I not be grateful? while I am engaged to him, I will treat him with respectful attention. After that, I shall do as I please.
O, I see the reason why you would not take the letter from the gentleman I recommended. You think you've found better prog, the "full soul eats raw honey-combs" as the Apostle Solomon says.
Betty, retire with your prog and your impertinence, and mind the business of the kitchen.
That's the harshest word I ever knew come from my mistress's lips. Indeed she is a sweet woman, and I must obey, for she knows I want money.
But I do not see why you should be so particular about giving the gentleman notice of your return.
Might he not imagine I absented myself on purpose [Page 37] to avoid him, and conceive an ill opinion of me—Or wait in cruel suspense till I returned—Is it not unwise to offend a reasonable being; and wrong to hurt an innocent one? But I must go, my friend, and return in a few moments.
Let me go with you.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—MARCIA and SOPHIA.
WELL what do you think of our Lucy?
She is very singular, she acts precisely, and by rule, yet with ease—It is the native goodness of her heart which guides her, she wishes to do right, and that guides her to do it.
It is surprising to see how she is liked by the young gentlemen. The most artful women, who sometimes please the men, and sometimes plague them, are nothing to her for gaining their esteem.
I suspect one reason why many women are not pleasing to men is because all their conduct favors of artifice, and indicates want of good principles—I do not think that men in general are very fond of coquetry in women.
Then women are generally mistaken. And their education is often conducted wrong. Many are brought up to act the coquette from their cradles. Miss Lizard says that to hold a lover long, you must hold him uneasy.
Either her system is not good, or she does not use it, for she has had six new suitors in six months, and the last is said to have left her much against her will. But my cousin Fidelia says the best way to keep a lover is to make him contented with his choice, and to improve one's self continually, so that the last interview shall always be the most agreeable.
Much Fidelia knows about it, she never had but one suitor in her life.
I do not think that against her; for she has always kept him; [...]e as the needle to the pole- [...]ar. You never see her, in any public place, but he is always by—and all his leisure hours, instead of gaming and frequenting taverns, and horse races—he passes in her company.
Then they will be disgusted with each other soon —They cannot always live upon sweetmeats, I am sure.
Longer than you imagine. They intend to try it for life. He has purchased a house, and her household furniture is all ready.
Well this is a pretty affair indeed that such girls as Fidelia and Lucy, who can boast of nothing but beauty, good sense, education, and virtue, should gain the confidence of the finest gentlemen; and be married just when they please. When we that are rich, & can dress fine, and understand exactly all the arts of gaining the affections, must sit by. And if we can be bridemaids, it is a great honor.
We must bear it, for the present, with patience; and establish some principles which will cause our acquaintance to place confidence in us.
As much as I hate reading, I would study Fordyce, Addison, and all the moral writers, a twelve month, to get such a name as Lucy has. A gentleman said this morning—"That he should depend on her promise, as much as on the rising of the sun—and were he to love her, and be denied; he would go strait to the river, and take his plunge at once—and once for all, for he should not expect to move her, by art, or persuasion, any more than to move the earth from its centre."
It is a great advantage to have such a reputation for truth and constancy.
I know it and am vexed that I cannot have it— and I will have it, one way or another—But do you know what a trial Lucy will have this evening.
Not I indeed.
You know she is engaged to Aimwell, and Squire Thornhill swears he will dance with none but her. He admired her at the ball after the review.—He finds Aimwell has been before him; but he says Aimwell shall not have her. You knew he is handsome, rich, eloquent and for so wealthy a man, he has a good character. As to Lucy's fidelity I am not so sure.
But should we rejoice in other's misfortunes—It might make it the better for some others were Lucy's reputation lowered a little—But I shall not attempt it.
Perhaps I shall not be so scrupulous—But hush she is coming this moment.
SCENE II.—MARCIA and LUCY.
WELL miss Lucy, Aimwell is not yet come, tho you was so careful that he might not wait in painful suspense.
He will; or if he be so ungenerous as to break his engagement he will find that I can easily obtain another partner.
True you may. There is squire Thornhill, who is very earnest that you should go with him. Aimwell does not come, you had better agree with him at once.
Not till I am certain, whether Aimwell will come or not.
It grows late, Thornhill desired that I would speak for him—It is best not to affront him—He is very rich, he is handsome, has a good name, and is a fine scholar, and he is positive that one day you must be his wife.
Thank his self importance. Not unless I please.
But you cannot please otherwise.
If I break my word, he will only despise me and have a great right to do it.
He is so enamored of you that he will easily overlook it—I would give him liberty to come.
Positively, I will not, and if you say any thing more of it, I will be affronted.
Well, I say no more. But you may give Thornhill his opportunities at the ball.
Neither will I do that. I will treat Aimwell while I am engaged to him, with respectful attention.
But such is Thornhill's respect for you that he means to send Aimwell a challenge and fight him.
Aimwell has courage—Sophia support me—I'm —faint,
SCENE III.—SOPHIA and MARCIA.
YOU have carried the matter too far.
I did not think of affecting her so deeply —
She is engaged—It is a decided matter. You and I may be bride maids again soon.
I have been too wicked—she is certainly a good [Page 40] girl and if Aimwell gains her he will be richer than Thornhill or any one else.—Let's go, and see her.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—THORNHILL and LUCY.
NO Lucy I must not be denied—you must and shall hear me?
Not unless I please. Who has given you authority over me.
You are obstinate beyond all reason, a lady of the first rank would not reject my offers.
Then I am in the second rank; and am not fit for you.
You trifle with the sincerest and most passionate heart—if you refuse me I shall die by this hand.
If you are passionate enough to kill yourself, you ought to die, that other people may be safe; yet I am under no obligation to do an unjust action because you are disposed to do a rash one.
Aimwell think to engross your perfections! He has no title to them. The very pretention shall cost him his life.
You would persuade me to a base action which is the attempt of a knave, and knaves are always cowards.
Then I'll arm immediately, and Aimwell shall know I am no coward.
SCENE II.—AIMWELL and LUCY.
LUCY, my dearest friend, what discomposed you?
The odious importunity of Thornhill; he has the audacity to threaten your life.
I shall live t [...] the age of Methuselah, if nothing kills me but Thornhill.
But he is in a terrible passion.
Yes and his cowardice will soon cool him—A man who lives in so much pleasure as Thornhill, has no serious tho't of dying.
But you know not what may happen if you fight him.
Fight him! he never will give me the opportunity.
But I may not be quite so unconcerned.
I thank you a thousand times for that friendly concern you show for me, but you may rest secure that nothing formidable will ever take place on my account, and his▪ I shall accept no challenge from him and if he has the insolence to attack me I shall defend myself without ceremony.—Be at ease on my account. I am in no danger from him.
I hope it is not inconsiderate in me to own that I am interested for your life, and happiness. Were I to lose you, I should lose a valuable friend.
Your approbation teaches me the value of life. Adieu for the present. I shall in a few moments attend you to the ball.
SCENE III.—SOPHIA, LUCY, MARCIA and BELINDA.
I AM happy to see you return.
I lost myself for a moment, and am afraid that I appeared foolish to you—and betrayed myself—but the idea of fighting always affrights me.
All shall be a profound secret.
I thank you, ladies—I am not now in fear—Aimwell will not fight unless assaulted, and then Thornhill is no match for him.
You need not fear any thing from us. I must admire your character; tho it throws mine into the shade.
Yes, every one loves Lucy and we may as well submit to it as not, for there is no help for it.
But you will excuse me while I dress for the ball.
SCENE IV.—BLANFORD and BELINDA.
I AM very unhappy, Belinda—there is no sort of carriage to be obtained in this place, and I shall be deprived of your company.
I know not how to give it up. I had great expectations from this evening—I have not been home except on foot for three months.
I will use further endeavors but I have very little expectations of the happiness of waiting on you this evening.
SCENE V.—Re-enter LUCY and MARCIA.
MY dear ladies, what shall I do? Mr. Blanford can obtain no kind of conveyance for me.
Why your uncle has horses and carriages enough.
But I dare not speak to him—I took a sleigh last winter—without his leave—and went out with a young wildfire Buck, against whom he had often cautioned me— the wretch got liquor in his head — overset the sleigh on a bridge, and threw me, and my sister, into the river—we escaped drowning and got home. But as we were drying our wet cloaths by a great fire, the fire took our cloaths, and burnt them up — my uncle, to punish us, forbade us even to ask for any carriage, for six months.
But I am not afraid to ask him—and he is coming in a few moments, I'll ask him for you, may I do it?
Yes, but I will be absent, for I cannot bear to see how much more confidence you have with him than I— It is so hard to persuade him. I wonder what is the reason that old folks are always so unwilling that the young, ones should have any pleasure.
You mistake their views—they are not unwilling, they enjoy their youth over again to see their children happy—but can you wonder that they are concerned for the safety of their children and the honor of families—your uncle has been offended with you—but by a prudent conduct you will soon recover his affections.
I begin to think that it is best for young ladies to be thoughtful prudent, and virtuous; and always to adhere to ruth; I have a great mind to be such an one myself—Clara's misfortune has made me feel very serious.
Clara's misfortune?
She had a l [...]ver, with whom she conversed by means of her maid—unknown to her nearest friends—but the lover has left her, and h [...]s go [...]e off with the maid and marries her. And now it is known, that he courted the [Page 43] maid in reality, and Clara only to get his board in the family.
What does poor Clara say?—
That she will go to Vermont, or Ohio; for she is ashamed to live among people who know her.
SCENE VI.—MERTON and LUCY.
LADIES you seem to be merry, all in preparation for the ball.
No we are very sad, because Belinda cannot go with us.
Why; she has been rather wild and—so—
Lend me a chaise then on her behalf. I will be responsible.
You are honesty and truth itself; by every one's acknowledgment—the chaise shall be at your orders, Miss Lucy, and if my girl goes into good company I shall be glad.
A thousand thanks to you sir—now I shall rejoice more for Belinda than for myself
SCENE VII.—LUCY, MARCIA, BELINDA.
NOW ladies we are all furnished—Belinda you shall have a conveyance.
O Lucy! how do you make every body do just as you please? You are the most artful girl in the world.
I have no art but to mean the thing that is right. Your uncle is very willing and says that if he can keep you out of ban company; you shall have good company, and enough of it.
Ladies, the gentlemen are just now with their carriages at the door—Now we shall be merry—But what alls you Lucy?
I do not know. But I always feel a damp on my spirits when I first set out on a party of pleasure, something seems to whisper me, that a scene of pleasure is always a scene [Page 44] of some danger. But when I am once engaged, then * "long live trifles" I can be as merry as any of you.
The Male Coquette. A COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS.
ABSURDITY OF LYING, AND HYPOCRISY.
Common lying, either of the malicious or marvellous kind, is offensive to all.—And why not that officious lying, by which we would recommend ourselves to particular persons, ladies or friends, whose favor we desire? ‘Ardent lips and a wicked heart, says a very intelligent writer—are like a potsherd covered with tinsel.’
PERSONS.
- CAPT. FLASH—an officer in the recruiting service, and a male coquette.
- TUKELY—a plain, honest, industrious citizen.
- BLUNT—a confident of Capt. Flash.
- MARIA—sister to Tukely.
- WIDOW LOVECASE—an idle, rich widow▪
- ELIZA—a cunning sprightly girl.
-
Citizens' daughters, courted in turn by Capt. Flash.
- AMORET,
- LISETTA,
- NARCISSA,
- PHILENIA,
SCENE—Hyde Park in London.
THE MALE COQUETTE.
ACT I.
SCENE I—TUKELY and BLUNT.
BETWEEN you and me, Tukely, I do not much prize my intimacy with the Captain.
Why?
I do not love to be trusted with so much wickedness. He has engaged the hearts of a number of women, and then left them to miserable disappointment.
Then you ought to expose him publicly.
He tells me all his triumphs, and then says, Now you will not say a word of it to the ladies.
Have you promised him secrecy?
No, I never did, nor laid myself under any obligation to him; but I shall not like to have the name of betraying conversation.
I find he has marked out my sister for his game. I shall prevent him there. For I will kill him, right or wrong, before he shall win my sister, and bring infamy on our family.
I was never ambitious of conquest among the ladies. Loss of reputation is worse than death to them; and occasions great misery among their near relations, however innocent. I cannot build my happiness on the misery of others.
Then I think a man of your blunt honesty ought to expose the Captain.
I shall not speak of his gallantries which have been confided to me; at least not publickly. There is a tacit reliance on one's secrecy in matters which affect reputation, whether we have promised secrecy or not.
Then I will sift him myself—I'll improve the hints you have given—I sha [...]l soon have an opportunity to practise; for my sister is coming—Step aside while I address her on the subject. —
SCENE II.—TUKELY and MARIA.
MARIA you are quite premature. The Captain is not yet abroad.
I wish, George, you would learn a little manners. You are forever meddling—and love to interfere with every agreeable prospect I have.
I confess that I would willingly prevent your disappointment.
What do you mean by that?
I mean that you have nothing agreeable to expect from Capt. Fl [...]sh
Profound wisdom to be sure! why so.
He has the character of courting a dozen ladies besides.
There are many people who are very malicious when they see others happier than themselves.
I know it, but common fame often tells the truth nevertheless.
For my part I find it impossible to doubt of his fidelity.
But if the shadow of a doubt remain, would you not wish it removed, and be happy?
Certainly Now, George, you speak to the purpose, how shall that be done.
Capt. Flash takes his stand commonly near the ever green hedge by Rosamond's pond. It is a spot very convenient to talk wit [...] people aside.
The Captain is very ingenious to avail himself of favorable circumstances.
Now if you have any curiosity, that is to say— plant yourself behind that hedge. It is impenetrable to the sight, but you may hear any thing said on the opposite side, tho spoken in a whisper.
That I shall certainly do, and I am in no fear of hearing any thing d [...]sagreeable, unless I be sick of hearing my own praise.
SCENE III—BLUNT and TUKELY.
NOW I believe I shall accomplish my purpose, nor need you risk your character for secrecy by exposing the Captain.
That will be very pleasing to me, I know myself naturally honest, and detest the Captain's proceedings— yet have scruples about revealing them.
Women are sometimes saved, as well as lost by their curiosity. I have contrived to plant the ladies with whom the Captain converses in such a manner, that each shall hear what he says to those who come after.
That plan is excellent, and to use one of the Captain's own phrases, you will blow him up.
ACT II.
SCENE I—Capt. FLASH alone.
NOW let me take my stand; and when a lady whom I have in view comes along
Now I see several of the quarry—I must contrive to take them separately—They will save me the trouble, for they will come on purpose to talk with me— Split me if I think any man on earth was ever more successful with the ladies—My person, and arts are absolutely irresistible—Tender creatures, it grieves them to refuse me, and let it grieve them, I have slain as many of them in my day as ever Sampson did of the Philistines, and unless I am greatly deceived this will be a grand day for Capt. Flash; but hush! there is the elegant and sensible Maria, who is more than half a captive this moment.
Maria! the delight of my soul, stay a moment and hear the declaration of the tenderest passion, that ever warmed the heart of man.
Your compliments, sir, are excessive, and you must suppose me insupportably vain i [...] I place any confidence in them.
Try me then, Maria, make full proof of my love, if you once admit me the partner of your heart and fortunes, you shall know my constancy, and my truth.
But were I to believe the character which fame hath given of you I should suppose you engaged to a score of women already.
Common fame is a liar, split me to atoms if I do not think you the finest woman my eyes ever saw.
O you make me quite ashamed.
Those blushes
alas! they heighten the beauty which before was too excessive. Divine Maria—That face, those eyes, those cheeks, those lips! they are the tyrant of my soul, they have led me into everlasting captivity. But what do people say about me? What is the voice of fame?
They say you are a worthless coxcomb. That you will not attend the army lest you should be obliged to fight. That you have studied Ovid's Art of Love instead of the art of war; and that you pretend to be in love with twenty ladies at a time.
And did you believe all this? Can a woman of your sense think with the vulgar and have such superstitious fancies?
I am sensible that the world at large is injurious to men of merit. Truly I did not believe it.
Then you will give me liberty to call on you to tea, and in the evening we will find opportunity for a larger conversation, when we will engage in the delightful and rapturous task of explaining our hearts to each other —Shall I come? shall I come?
Yes—yes—you—may; but be a little on your guard in respect of my brother George.
Stab my vitals. How weak women are—This Maria in other matters is a sensible girl; but by the force of love & flattery she melts like wax before the flame—Ah Maria you may be an honest woman at present; but you have not long to boast of it— Let me see who comes next O!
On my l [...]fe the fat buxom widow. Let me re [...]o [...]no [...]e her a little. I must vary my mode of attack: a maid must be won by a regular siege and cautious approaches; but a widow may be taken by assault.
SCENE II.—CAPT. FLASH and LOVECASE.
My charming widow, this [...] felicity; to meet the delig [...] of mine eyes in so advantageous a place—Here a little aside from the company indulge a word with me.
It is in vain Captain for me [...]o think of conversing with men. That man of worth, who once delighted my soul, is no more—Shall I receive the addre [...]s of other [...] before the earth is dry on his grave?
You know by experience the worth of a man of merit. Your good sense will lead you to take another.
Grief must have its hour and its course. It is not becoming for me to talk of such matters, nor can my heart relish them at all —You must excuse me, and allow me no small space of time to grieve for the best of men—Sir I cannot indul [...] your conversation.
[...] [...]e the reason why? Not indulge me; but madam I must not be deny'd—I came with all the blanks for marriage settlements in my pocket.
You are an impudent fellow; what? not consult me first but come with marriage settlements in your pocket; would you give me no choice, no will in the matter? I say again you are an impudent fellow.
That is almost true;
but I am not properly impudent, I am only presuming because I have in view so noble a prize.
To think of marriage settlements with a poor broken hearted widow, whose affections have long since been buried with her husband—And what proposals do you think sufficient to engage the heart of such a one. What motives could remove the sorrows for her lost lover from her min [...]—What charm could give ease to a broken heart?
First you are to take no care in my family at all—Next the coach wish the owner are to be forever at your service to convey you wherever you please to go— Ten thousand pounds are to be settled on you during life; and you must do just as you please with your husband.
You have no thoughts of making such proposals to me—No you will marry if ever you do marry, a girl in all the bloom of youth and beauty.
Mere insipidity, rat me, the ripened charms of [Page 52] a widow practised in alluring the hearts of men must be infinitely more delightful.
Why captain I do suppose that widows know best how to charm the hearts of men, but the men don't think so—I have no thoughts however, that you can have any idea of preferring me to a girl.
I tell you I bro't the articles ready prepared in my pocket; and I desire madam, you would give an answer whether I may call on you at your own proper home, at 10 o'clock this evening.
Sir, can you expect that I should believe you when every body knows, that you devote your principal attention to Maria Tukely.
Blast my constitution if there is one word of truth in that.
I hoped there was—She is esteemed a very fine lady, and I believed you to be a man of merit, so I had the expectation of seeing a lady truly deserving of my friendship, well settled in life, and happy.
Why, widow, could you suppose me capable of loving such a baby—She fawns on me just like a little girl on her father. This very day she hung upon me even to disgust, and I could not get rid of her; but by promising to take tea with her.
That's strange! but girls will do so sometimes when their fancies are excited so as to border on distraction—I am sorry she has no more discretion.
Well, widow, what say you— My desire is to call on you, at your own proper home about 10 o'clock this evening.
Why—as to that, I am fond of having some person read to me—if you bring any good book with you, which might comfort one in affliction, I might like your company for an hour or two.
Excellent widow. It works like wax to the sea [...]—Bring good books to comfort you. I have the good books to comfort a widow. Marriage settlements. But if she ever hears them read, she may bless her ears for the opportunity.
SCENE III.—CAPT. FLASH and ELIZA.
Your Servant Miss Eliza you have seen me at [Page 53] [...], where I had the honor once of dancing with you▪ Come [...] [...]wo are a little acquainted give me that sweet little hand.
I shall not.
Why, what sort of politeness is this?
Because you are Captain Flash, and that is reason enough.
And what has Captain Flash done, that a lady cannot even pass an ordinary compliment with him?
Nothing with me nor ever shall: Persons of undoubted veracity have told me that this same Captain Flash leaves his duty in the a [...]my, and makes [...]t his whole busines to steal the hearts of unguarded ladies, and then sacrifice them to infamy, or consign them to comfortless solitude. I wish for no acquaintance with such a man.
Does not a lady of your good sense know that the world commonly asperses men of merit.
I know also that men of real merit can clear themselves of the aspersion—will you upon my charge confront Mr. Tukely.
Yes, or any man.
I suppose you may challenge him when absent, but not when he is present. He knows you too well.
He knows me not nor I him.
Would you utter a deliberate falshood? It will not recommend you to me—do you not court at once Maria, Tukely [...]s sister, and her aunt Lovecase the fat widow— and how can you say that you do not know him?
It is all [...] from the beginning to the end— I court Maria that fond disgusting sl [...] ▪ I would as soon court a mess of plumb porridge—as for the widow—did you know [...]—she is an intolerable snuff [...]aker, and it sticks in the down on her upper lip; that she looks like a Turk in his whiskers. Upon my truth she looks like the grand Mogul [...] dressed up in petticoats.
To scandalize other ladies, captain, is not the way to find access to [...]—It is also said you have designs on Lisetta the little Prude.
That is as great a lie as all the rest. Why, she uses volatiles to such a decree that she scents of them a mile's distance—give it all up, Eliza, it is mere invention, give me that sweet little hand, and take a little walk with me.
I shall not do it.
Then excuse the presumption of a lover driven to despiration by her who is the object of all his desires.
Let me go, Captain.
I cannot quit this inestimable prize.
Unhand me, insolent wretch, this instant, or I will call my footmen, and they shall give you proper dicipline.
There, go now, and herd with your own sort.
SCENE IV.—TUKELY and Capt FLASH.
WHAT is the matter with you, captain, you look confounded?
Only a little girl here behaved with rather too much prudence and propriety—She is a sensible gir1, I wish to marry sometime or other, what if I follow her, and by means of her relations make honorable proposals in good earnest.
SCENE. V—NARCISSA and PHILENIA.
MISS Philenia, I am astonished at your confidence—To contend for your interest in a man. You might be ashamed.
You do exactly the same—I say the truth, if he invited you to Whites at the Ball, he invited me to Miss Mohairs
I have a dozen letters of his in the most passionate stile, the language of the heart.
I have fifteen in such a stile as to show him the sincerest of lovers.
I hope you will not lie, you mistake the man. The true Capt Flash lodges at M [...]s. Simpson's in Threadneedle Street.
Mine are from Capt. Flash of the third regiment, their station, Gibralter. He is recruiting in this city and lodges at Mrs. Simpsons in Threadneedle Street.
The Captain is a man of the strictest truth. He has sworn his love to me a hundred times on the salvation of his soul.
He would not deceive me I know, he has sworn his love to me a thousand times, so what says your madamship to that.
Some person has imposed on you. Let me see one of your letters, the handwriting and the seal.
I shall not betray the letters of my friends—show one of yours, it will do as well.
I know that those he wrote to me are genuine.
There is no imposition certainly in those which he wrote to me.
I am sure to confound you now—I have his picture in miniature set with diamonds.
And I have a picture set with diamonds of the true identical Capt. Flash.
I advise you to desist—you will become the ridicule of the town.
You are the ridicule of the town already, you have taken a phantom for a lover; I am content with the reality.
Ladies if you will take your station where I will place you; the whole affair will be explained to your mutual satisfaction.
It is a matter very interesting to me. I desire you will inform me whether Capt. Flash makes love to every lady of his acquaintance.
I believe he does not make love to every lady of his acquaintance.
Then he does to many.
He oftens boasts of his exploits to me.
Please to inform me then of his whole character and conduct.
Let us know how far you have gone with him; it may not be safe to inform you.
His addresses have been honorable. I own I have admitted his visits freely at home, and have been with him in public places, and he has appeared to me a man of merit.
So he has made proposals of marriage, to which you have consented▪ then he has absented himself.
He does not visit me so frequently as he did.
You should have known his character before you admitted his visits freely.
If he be true I ought to have the happiness to know it [...] [...]f [...]e be false I should be undeceived—Either way you are inhuman and cruel if you do not inform me.
You would not believe any thing from me; u [...] less it were agreeable to your wishes—But here is a gentleman
who will put you into a situation to inform yourse [...]es.
Here madam take a station which I shall point out to you and your affairs will be cleared up in a few moments.
ACT III.
SCENE I—C. FLASH and LISETTA.
THAT little jewel Eliza has escaped me. She has too much good sense to be caught with chaff—I shall marry her if any of them. But see, are there any more of the quarry?
Yes my sweet little prude Lisetta, she loves extreme delicacy and keen scandal. I'll dose her well with both—my friend Lisetta. This is a happy day because I meet you.
Sir?
My heart loves virtue and good sense, I am enraptured with the beauties of Lisetta's mind.
I cannot endure flattery, Captain—It is odious as wormwood to the bee, who rambles among the sweetest flowers of the field.
Think not I have any tho't of making love to Lisetta—I know her averse to love, that mad passion which deprives human beings of reason and virtue—Friendship and esteem, are all the affections I could expect to excite in the most virtuous Lisetta.
The love of virtue for virtue's sake. I despise any thing that has connection with interest, or the senses.
I abominate the barbarous custom of marrying. [Page 57] I should be a [...]ed of a fa [...]ly if I had one—Let me respect you without the least profit, and serve you without the least hope of reward.
How pleasing it is to talk with a man of sense; But you are devoted to the interest of Philenia.
That is impossible—It is a fact that she drinks strong waters—Did you never observe the tip of her nose how red it is? Split me to atoms, if ever I could bear the smell of brandy.
But then she sings so sweetly.
Blast my constitution if I think she sings sweetly—There is a screech in her voice which resembles the whetting of a saw. It always sets my teeth on edge to hear her.
The little Amoret perhaps may please you.
That simple little ideot—She is the shallowest of all womankind—She could not smell a rat if it lay dead before her nose—What are these to the pure, the delicate, the divine Lisetta?
I should admire the man who could love like an angel, and be content with mere adoration of his mistress.
Then here is the man for you
admit me tomorrow evening to converse with you at home, at 10 o'clock. You shall see how we will pass the time in the most distant and enraptured admiration of each others perfections.
You may come, but be sure that your mind be pure as moonlight before you presume to enter my house— At present I must withdraw.
SCENE II.—Capt. FLASH alone.
WELL how many ladies have I on hand.
There is Maria—I must spare her, or her brother that fireskull will kill me—I'll tell her story however, over a bottle of wine—The widow, the prude and Amoret, I mean to sacrifice to the Goddess pleasure, the only Deity, Vanity excepted, that I adore. Narcissa and Philenia, they must thank themselves for their folly—If I once gain liberty of a private interview they will hardly escape me finally—They will do to make stories of, to divert my brother officers on a dull campaign. Eliza is the only one I can think of marrying—She understands [Page 58] the Trap and avoids it, one might take her and not fear.
SCENE III.— [BLUNT, TUKELY, and all the LADIES enter at once—and the Captain appears extremely confounded— remains silent some moments—at last speaks.]
WHAT all in a company!
The Captain used to reconnoitre—the ladies have been reconnoitring the Captain.
But what brought you here all together?
We begin to smell a rat even before he is dead.
You seem to be dull, captain. How should you like a song that would set your teeth on edge, or shall we raise your spirits with brandy?
Volatile spirit might keep him from fainting.
Sometimes when persons are failing it has served as a good restorative to give them a mess of plum porridge.
The ladies insult you Captian but never mind it, please to take a little Spanish snuff out of the grand Mogul's box, it is the best thing in the world for low-spirits.
Blunt, you rascal—you have betrayed me.
I have not.
He is harmless—But I being apprehensive for my Sister, placed the ladies in the post of observation—Now you may resent it if you dare.
Ladies how shall we punish him? shall we throw the rascal into Rosamond's pond?
No, let me give him his doom—We will bring his character on the stage, and expose him to public ridicule— for the instruction of women, and the terror of all his kind.
Well Ladies I have as good an opinion of you now, as I ever had—so good bye.
The Growth of Rumors. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN ONE ACT.
ABSURDITY OF MAGNIFYING REPORTS.
Next to the folly and wickedness of framing deliberate falsehoods and propagating them concerning honest people, is the pernicious disposition, which inclines some persons, if they hear any disagreeable report, to magnify and spread it. An ill impression is sometimes made in an hour, which it will require years to efface; and perhaps it can never be effaced—a good man "taketh not up an ill report against his neighbor."
PERSONS.
- LONGHEAD—a man who makes the worst of every thing.
- CATCHWORD—a propagator of idle reports.
- BREEDBATE—a lover of scandal.
- REDFACE—a preacher over liquor.
- CURIOUS—a busy-body.
- TELL FAIR—a popular orator.
- GOODMAN—an honest, cautious citizen.
- MADAM PIPER—an aged woman who hears their Dialogue, and speaks as she is affected by it.—Madam Piper sits and works at a distance thro the whole Dialogue.
THE GROWTH OF RUMORS.
SCENE I.—LONGHEAD and CATCHWORD.
DID you hear of the melancholy affair which happened in this Town, this morning?
I have heard nothing new of late.
Neighbor Greetwell's family is in the utmost confusion—Never was a more tragical scene.
This is the first lisp I have had of it.
I wish I had never heard it, it really makes me melancholy to think of it—Did you know his daughter Eliza?
Yes, a beautiful and amiable girl.
She is ruined, and I fear the happiness of the whole house is gone forever.
You don't say so — I am frighted: I loved that family about as well as I loved myself.
That is a tolerable lie to begin with, neighbor Catchword.
She was courted by Mr. Brightman you know— and it was tho't to be a fine match.
Have they broken off? Well if they have done it by consent—
You will hardly ever get a woman to do that —It's a losing game.
But they did not do it by consent; and it is a melancholy affair indeed.
People said their love was ardent and sincere— Why! they were to be married this evening.
Then I don't believe a word about their breaking off, not I—Would they be fools?
Aye but they have, and the bride is all in tears— and the bridegroom in the utmost distress and despair.
Pray tell me on what account.
You know she was to have been married this evening—what grand preparations there were for the wedding—and it was found out this morning, and not till this morning, that she was desparately in love with another man.
That was a pity indeed—But is it fact? Is it fact?
O yes, it must be, Eliza Greetwell was seen to caress with tender endearments, and with tokens of passionate fondness, another man, who was not her lover, at least not her intended bridegroom—So both families of the bride and bridegroom, are in the utmost distress and confusion.
'Tis a pity—'Tis a pity certainly.
Aye but it is too true. We all thought her a girl of the firmest principles—But there is no trusting women now a days.
Any more than men, I suppose.
I could tell you more, but I'm in haste, and bid you adieu.
SCENE II.—BREEDBATE and CATCHWORD.
WELL brother Catchword what news?
Very surprising—You have heard how Eliza Greetwell and her spark have parted. The matter is a [...] up about their being married this evening.
That is curious, they seemed as if they were made on purpose for each other, and only wanted to be one in interest, as they were one in heart and soul.
Alas, how shall men and women put confidence in one another any more? And it is the women's fault you see—There is no trusting them.
If I were near you, you wretch, I would box your [...]ars well.
The young bridegroom was much offended at his bride, for giving such evident preference to another man, the very day she was to be married—he forgave her, and would not forsake her: for he's a generous fellow.
Now I would have you laugh at women for telling stories about ghosts and apparitions—Yours are not half so probable.
[...] always was a fine lad truly a fine man. I [Page 63] am sorry, it will mortify him, as long as he lives. I am very sorry for him. It did not use to be so when I was young. No man would make a woman half a dozen visits unless he meant to marry her. And the ladies never admitted more than three visits, to any gentleman, unless they had a liking to him.
Then I should have turned you out of doors long before I did; and got more credit by it.
Aye, but the times are sadly altered now—I expect one of these days, husbands and wives will dismiss one another, and say nothing about it.
I hope not, I am not quite ready to part with mine.
I shall be melancholy this whole day. But instead of grieving for other people I must attend to my own affairs.
SCENE III.—BREEDBATE and REDFACE.
WHAT do you think neighbor of Miss Greetwell. Did you ever hear the like?
I cannot say a word—I am as dry as the desert of Arabia—I cannot say a word till you let me have something to drink.
You will make fine work of it I dare say when you have raised your spirits a little.
Well, what do you think of that?
O this is due—
It goes to the very right spot of my inmost soul—This is the cordial that keeps men alive—It does not trip up one's heels you see, but only makes him che [...]y, merry—Now as to Eliza Greetwell, what of her.
You'll be just in nice trim to talk about her, when you drink a little more.
I shall talk the better then.
Such a thing when I was young would have rung thro all New-England—But people make light of these things now-a-days.
I dislike these matters very much, but I am apt to think, this affair will not turn out so bad as expected.
Why so?
Because Brightman treats the matter very lightly.
He is a fellow of a fine temper, but he must needs feel very disagreeably—He is of a noble temper, can bear any thing. They say he keeps all his disagreeable feeling [...] to himself.
Now the poor women are to have another basting I suppose.
That is generous in him, if that be fact—Yet what reason can we find that one person should be made unhappy for the sake of another, who does not deserve it?
No, I think it f [...]ll enough, to do it then, when it can no longer be avoided. For we take them in marriage for better or for worse.
But when people in their courtship quarrel and separate, how can we judge who is to blame? they will hardly ever tell the facts which relate to the matter, and who can judge without the facts?
But it seems Mr. Brightman was not in fault.— Every body says that he was attentive and constant, and ardent, and persevering.
Miss Greetwell would be the best judge of that herself.
Alackaday the world grows worse as it grows older—It did not use to be so when I was young—The men were as true as the sun—and they would not injure a woman if they knew they might—The girls actually when I was young, depended more on their sweethearts honesty, than on their own discretion; but you see, it is not as it was, when I was young.
Yes, I remember when you was young; it used to rain gingerbread every night. We planted our potatoes and they produced fat turkies ready roasted.
If the men were so honest how were the girls pray?
How were the girls! They were as kind as turtledoves. If you offered to marry one, she would take you up as quick! and hold you to your promise. There was no getting rid of her—for, as I told you before, the young men were extremely honest.
You do murder truth abominably. The men never were so honest as you tell of, nor were the women ever such fools.
SCENE V.—REDFACE and CURIOUS.
Well neighbor Curious, what news?
Only about Mr. Brightman and Miss Greetwell.
That is indeed a curious matter—I have thought much of it, and cannot account for it. Yes, it i [...] talked of by blacksmiths and barbers, by tradesmen and merchants— The physicians are up in arms about it—The lawyers are buying up blanks and quills—The clergy it is expected will not be silent—We shall have a number of smart sermons on the subject—and some of the senators and representatives think it best to bring in a new bill for the prevention of such evils in time to come.
[...]ut the public in one respect is misinformed—It was not a proper disappointment on either part.
How could that be?
Because they parted in mutual good humor; and agreed to separate.
Who then can say they have done wrong? If parties have associated ever so long, and agree to separate, who can say they are to blame? It may be said indeed that so much time has been spent in vain, because it can never be remembered with pleasure.
Ah! I hardly know what to think about the sin of it—But it makes one's heart ache dreadfully to part with a beloved object. But when one gets a little weaned by the discovery of new faults, new deformities, &c. the parting is not so hard—I tried it
once myself.— Every man is his own friend, and loves to indulge his own humor; but we shall not settle the matter if we talk [...] fortnight about it.
That is true; and as I have a customer waiting for me in my shop this moment, I must go.
SCENE VI.—TELLFAIR and CURIOUS.
Well, that was a very curious affair about Miss Greetwell and Mr. Brightman.
Yes, they had a sharp quarrel; but they were soon reconciled, and were married with great rejoicings.
Hah! was that the case? I thought they had agreed to part.
No—there was some little squabble, I believe, but it was soon over, and they were married very honorably, and I am very glad of it, for the separating of lovers who have long been acquainted, is often attended with very disagreeable consequences.
Yes, and I wonder why men in all their wisdom have never found a remedy for that evil.
Because they want experience—For that since I have been honored with a seat in the legislature, I have thought of bringing in a bill for the prevention of these evils.
What pray sir.
The first provision in the act is—that no lady, unless she thinks her suitor an agreeable man, shall give him more than five audiences and an half, thirty whispers, and fifteen smiles.
Under what penalty?
That she should receive no attention from any gentleman for a whole month.
O, sir, alter that part, by all means, that is intolerably severe. They'll never bear it.
What is to be done with the gentlemen?
It will be enacted, that every gentleman shall at least by the thirty ninth audience kiss a lady's hand in token of respect & tell her she is agreeable—by the fortieth, that she is particularly agreeable—by the forty-first that he shall declare his love in a set speech—by the forty-second, he shall profess eternal amity to her—and by the forty-third, be shall come directly to the point and canvass the subject of marriage.
And what if she does not proceed thus?
He shall be liable to all the pains and penalties of a refusal, because his suit will be out lawed.
I am afraid if liberty were given for every one to delay so long, the women would be in a worse situation than they are now.
I don't think I should like, with all sorts of women, to be confined to these rules.
Your scheme will never hold sir.
I am of the same opinion.
well then, we must have all things in courtship and marriage, which relate to forming the alliance to the parties themselves, as before, if they are to blame they [Page 67] must bear it themselves—People are always ungrateful to their rulers.
I consent to that.
And I too.
Madam Piper you do not feel interested in this matter at this time of life.
Did you ever know a woman give up the idea of gallantry while her breath was in her?
Or a man to part with his vanity till he parted with his last spark of life.
SCENE VII.—GOODMAN and TELLFAIR.
WELL neighbor Tellfair what is the news of the day.
Only that I am healthy, except what is said of Mr. Brightman and his lady.
There was never any difficulty between them.
Aye but indeed there was.
No there was not.
There was to be sure.
Certainly there was not, and I can tell you how the whole story took its rise.
Then you can tell a wonder, for it is told and believed for a truth thro the whole town—The town has even been in an uproar about it.
And about nothing—Mrs. Greetwell, wife to the bride's brother, seeing the son of her former husband, who was brought from nurse to the wedding, was overcome by the tenderness of a mother, caught him fondly in her arms and kissed him.
And how came the story to get abroad.
Only a child told it at a neighbor's house and made the common mistake of putting miss for mistress.
Well I shall never believe such reports again, when told of honest people.
I told you it was not at all probable that they wou'd quarrel when they were just going to be married. I would not answer for them, months or years after.
And you may take it for granted that in nine instances out of ten, the common scandalous stories told about people who in the general course of life are virtuous and worthy, are totally without foundation.
Well I desire the men will never say any more about women's tattling; for they have talked this whole day, and set the whole town in an uproar because a fond mother happened to kiss her own baby.
The Gamester. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
MILDNESS OF TEMPER.
Every human being has some vices. Husbands must expect to find them in their wives, and wives in their husbands—parents will find vices in their children; and children when they grow up will find them in their parents. How shall we cure, or alleviate those vices in our near relations—by mildness or severity?—is not mildness most likely to gain the heart, and consequently to give us the greatest influence?
PERSONS.
- MR. VAN KEPPEL—a merchant of Amsterdam and a gamester.
- MR. LEERKINS—brother to Mrs. Van Keppel.
- MRS. VAN KEPPEL—wife to Mr. Van Keppel.
- MADAM LEERKINS—mother to Mrs. V. Keppel.
- MRS. PAULUS—aunt to Mr. V. Keppel.
- MISS LEERKINS—sister to Mrs. V. Keppel.
The scene of action is supposed to be a merchant's house near the bank at Amsterdam.
THE GAMESTER.
ACT I.
SCENE. I.—Madam LEERKINS and Mrs. V. KEPPEL.
YOU see what has been the consequence of your obstinacy. You would not listen to my advice—You shall be an example to all daughters who marry without their parents' consent.
It might have been better for me to have followed your counsel—Yet I am not absolutely sure of it— It might have hurt me as much to have lost the object of my dearest affections, as to have had a dissipated and inattentive husband.
I cannot say that I am very sorry—You feel the curse of disobedience and shall be a warning to others.
I may feel the effect of folly. But how dear Madam can you call it disobedience? When I was eighteen you told me, I was free.
But you would have Keppel against my advice and consent; and now you feel the curse of that sin.
The curse of my folly rather. I was free at eighteen and did not marry till twenty five; If I was free I was not bound, so I cannot see how you can make either sin or disobedience of it.
You will be unhappy as long as you live.
I greatly fear it, and my sufferings persuade me, that girls would do well to listen to the advice of their elder relations more than they do—but either freedom is nothing or we may make use of it in the most interesting concern—the choice of a partner for life.
You, I see, can be wicked and justify it too. The curse is likely to rest upon you.
I am very unhappy, and I wish that you would [Page 72] reflect that you are my mother, and not increase your daughter's misery—yet miserable as I am, I am not beyond hope—I hope yet to reconcile you to me, and engage my husband to virtue.
You will have a very hard task to do either one or the other.
SCENE II.—Mr. and Mrs. KEPPEL.
O I am glad you are come home. Sit a little with me my dear; and I will get you a delightful little supper in a few moments. I have sent to the market and have got the best things for you.
I thank you my dear, but I cannot stay. I must go gack to the sign of the Leopard—I have lost about seventy pounds, I came back to get more money that I may play again and recover what I have lost.
I am rather afraid that you will lose the whole. If I dared I would advise you to leave off gaming; for I am verily afraid it will ruin you.
O bravo, fine times indeed, a woman advise her husband, why, think my girl, you live in Holland. Did you think you lived in the United States of America? I remember, that, while I was in Massachusetts; if I asked some of the most respectable men in the state, if they would do this or that, they would say I will hear what my wife says, or, I will ask my wife. But you live in Holland my dew.
I wish from what you say, that I lived in Massachusetts. I respect that people exceedingly. I would then advise you to leave off gaming, for I verily fear it will ruin you.
A fiddle's end of that. There is not a man in the universe, who can play against me.
SCENE III.—Mad. LEERKINS, Mrs. V. KEPPEL and Mrs. PAULUS.
So your husband is gone off to the tavern again, you are likely to be miserable enough.
I greatly fear the worst—But I wish, Madam, [Page 73] that you would not seek to increase my misery. It is already as great as I can bear.
You see, Mrs. Paulus, what my daughter has bro't upon herself—and I cannot pity her so much as I should—if she had not bro't her mother's curse upon her by marrying without my consent.
But you surprize me, you did not curse one of your own children!
Yes she disobeyed me, and I cursed her, and the curse has been fulfilled an [...] I never will revoke it.
O madam, I am afraid you are more to blame than she—I shall now begin to take her part.
Why, had I not a right to curse her?
Perhaps not—You had a right to think she was a silly girl. For it is a great folly in young people to reject that counsel of elder persons which is the effect of experience, and count it as nothing. But your daughter was free, and what avails liberty if we cannot use it in that concern which is dearest to the human heart? So you may say she was silly; and had a right to think so, and place the less confidence in her on that account. But how she could be so guilty as to deserve an irrevocable curse I cannot comprehend.
But she ought to have heard to me.
That is very true, and she was a silly girl that she did not. But perhaps not guilty of any real crime. There are in the human constitution remarkable and unconquerable attachments and aversions—The convictions of the mind will not always bear sway, much less take advice from others—What would you do if any person should put a cat under your table or under your pillow—What would you say?
O horrible! I can't bear a cat, I should faint away, or go into fits.
And you love dogs as much as you hate cats. —I have seen you, when a girl, carry one in your arms, from your father's house to the school, which is, at least, a mile. And I believe you always have one with you when you ride out.
Yes, to keep my feet warm. Trip always lies at my feet and keeps them warm.
What if your parents had killed your little [Page 74] dog, and had put a cat in his place, or that instead of warming your feet, you should warm your heart with a cat.
I could not have borne it, I must have died.
Well, I have seen men whose company I abhorred as much as ever you did that of a cat; who yet were esteemed by my friends and by the public—And I have seen one, else I never would have been married, for whom I had as great an attachment, as ever you had to Trip—This was my case I fully own, and might be that of your daughter. Was she then to be blamed?
You are a strange woman, and truly I do not know what to say to you—But Keppel is coming in, I will go out for I cannot bear to see him.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—KEPPEL enters with a distracted air.
WHAT a wretched man am I? I wish I had hearkened to my wife. I have not only lost my money but every thing else. I despised the counsel of the most amiable of women. What a fool!
My dear friend, who has offended you?
No one, but myself. I am the greatest fool on earth. I wish I had followed your advice.
Have you then lost the rest of the money?
Yes▪ every farthing, I never had such ill luck.
Chance governs the game. It was to be expected. I am not disappointed in the least.
I am utterly undone.
No my dear, utterly undone, no; my affection to you is the same as ever.
That is no comfort to me so long as I have made you wretched.
Made me wretched! I value not the loss of our money. It was no great sum. You may raise twice as much on the mortgage of the house, and regain what you have lost.
The house, my dear friend, is already mortgaged and lost.
There is the shop, my dear, & all the goods in it.
They are mortgaged also and all the money raised on them is lost.
The moveables, the furniture of the house— you might raise something on them.
I may as well let you know the worst as not. I have mortgaged all my household furniture, carriages, horses, &c. indeed every thing; and the money raised on them is lost.
Well, and what of that? I can work for my living. I care not for it. But you must be miserable. What, cannot I think of some way? are you sure it was only ill luck.
We may resign ourselves to our fate and die. But I know I can play a game well.
Then see, I have a little box of jewels given me by my Aunt Van Rissell; it is worth a large sum—This you could not mortgage, for it was not your property.
But I shall not touch that. It is enough that I am a fool. I will not also be a villain, and spend the last part of my wife's property.
But you need have no scruple when I give it to you.
SCENE II.—Miss LEERKINS and Mr. KEPPEL.
IT is no matter of my particular concern but I cannot bear your conduct to my sister
If she be contented what is it to you?
You treat my sister ill beyond all sufferance. You leave her alone these long winter evenings, that you may spend your time in taverns, and gaming houses. The whole care of the family rests on my sister; and you are even a stranger in your own house.
If my wife be satisfied, what business of yours is it; that you should lecture me on the occasion?
My sister is indeed a fool. She has not the spirit of a woman of sense in her, or she would manage otherwise than she does.
What would you do were you in her case.?
Instead of cooking you [...] with all manner of good things, when you come home from your midnight cabals [Page 76] —I would lay your whole conduct before you. I would sing you such a song of your crimes; that you should go to sleep, if you slept at all, with a sting in your heart.
I advise you if you ever do marry to marry some person who never wishes to sleep, for I am persuaded your tongue must be a mortal enemy to repose.
I would not bear with you, as my sister does— I would not discover the least degree of good nature towards you—And I would let you know that I never would, till such time as you would reform.
Supposing you wanted customers in your shop, would you set a dog on the first person who entered the shop door?
No, for that would drive them all away.
You would gain as little by scolding at a husband for staying our late.
Then you might go and shift for yourself if you pleased. I would not concern myself for you in the least, and account myself happy that I was rid of you.
If you were fond of me you could not do that.
Do you think that I should care for such a wretch as you—why could I not do that?
It would make your heart ache, my dear, and you would not bear it.
Make my heart ache, a fiddlestick. My heart would never ache for such a wretch as you—I almost wish you were my husband that you might see how I would manage you.
I have no thought of wishing you to be my wife at any rate—And mind this, that single women always know how to rule their husbands well—but they fail a little in two points; either they never get husbands or los [...] the faculty of ruling them the moment they are married.
SCENE III.—Mrs. KEPPEL and Mr. KEPPEL.
HERE my dear take these, and may you be more fortunate than before.
No my dear wife—no, 'tis yours, do not let me ruin you—no.
I value it not, take it, and do your best—I give it you, tis now yours.
The kindest creature that ever lives I believe.
SCENE IV.—Miss LEERKINS and Mrs. KEPPEL.
SISTER I am ashamed of you. You behave out of all sense and reason.
Why so?
You know that your husband has spent all his own estate and yours, and he treats you with the most shameful neglect. And yet you place confidence in him, and have given him the last remains of your fortune. Are you not very foolish?
Perhaps not, but if I be; how can I help it?
How can you help it. You are a disgrace to your sex—There is no spirit in you; and let him treat you as he will, you are all patience, and dare not resent it. I'd give him a good lecture upon the subject, such as he never would wish to hear again.
Then you would never see him again.
What then, I should esteem it a happy riddance. So much the better. I would have the whole house to myself and do what I pleased in it—That would not fright me at all.
You know nothing about it.
I know nothing about it—I know that a bad husband is worse than none. I will have a good one or none —What makes you think that I know nothing about it?
I won't tell you.
What? that is kind to be sure—Not tell your sister. But you shall tell me what is the reason I don't know.
Positively I will not tell you; wait till you have a husband of whom you are fond—who yet has some vices, as I suppose they all have, and then you will know.
You treat me so ill—I will not talk with you.
ACT III.
O My stars—what a wretch,—I am— ruined,—there is no help for me.
My friend, what's the matter.
Let me alone—I'm ruined.
Not unless you are unkind to your wife
O my dear, my wife—I will not be unkind; but I am distracted; I am certainly undone, I have lost all the money I had raised from your box of jewels—O that I could die with innocence; then I should be glad to die.
What, die, because you have lost your money: fie my husband, fie upon it.
I have now lost every thing, and have completely ruined you, as well as myself; we are as poor as the poorest beggars—My dear, were it not that I would live as a mere servant to you, I could wish to die.
Do you not recollect that when my mother opposed our marriage you told me, in one of your ardent raptures, nay you solemnly declared, that you could be happy even in the meanest cottage, and to live by the hardest labor, if you could only live with me—I laid that up in my heart.
That was not the effect of rapture. It was my serious sentiment, and I think so now.
Then we have lost nothing; only leave gaming, and we shall be happy.
Leave gaming, I detest it. I perfectly abhor it—I will bind myself by the most solemn engagement never to touch a card again.
Can you keep your resolution?
I am sure that I can.
Then only quit bad houses and live reputably [Page 79] with me—I will maintain you and myself—I understand many little handy matters—If my work sells cheap I will work the more, and I am sure I can maintain us both.
Excellent woman—Your excellence exceeds all the power of language to express it; I am confounded— But the idea of your virtues gives me the keenest pain, while I think I have made you wretched.
Brother, you promised me for the forty pounds I lent you yesterday to let me have all your winnings at cards for three days. This sir
is my brother, yesterday from the East Indies.
Here madam is what I have won this day, and I find I won it of your husband—But it is now yours. I scorn to violate my promise—Here is the whole in mortgages and bank notes. Take it.
Mr. Keppel this is now mine.
Certainly.
Accept the whole then as a present from me, I will not be denied.
I am so surprized I can scarcely breathe—O my excellent wife!—Have I then escaped the gulf of ruin. I do solemnly protest I will never touch a card again. For I do verily believe that gaming, drunkeness, and bad company, have destroyed more men, than the sword, pestilence, and famine.
The Triumph of Temper. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
KEEP YOUR TEMPER, AND KEEP YOUR HOUSE.
Which ought have the supremacy of a house within doors—might be a delicate question to decide between a man, and his wife; but a certain matter of fact helps us out. Whichsoever of the parties has the best command of temper and acts most rationally, will, other matters being equal, have the greatest influence in the affairs of the family.
PERSONS.
- D [...]. BIRCH—a schoolmaster.
- JOHN SLY—a peddling bookseller.
-
friends on equal condition, all new married men.
- HORATIO,
- BERNARDO,
- MARCELLO,
- ROUGHGRAIN—father of Ketura.
- ROBERT—servant of Horatio.
- WILLIAM—servant of Bernardo.
- DUNCAN—servant of Marcello.
- HOTGOOSE—a Taylor.
- KETURA—wife of Horatio.
- PORTIA—wife of Bernardo.
- JULIA—wife of Marcello.
THE TRIUMPH OF TEMPER.
ACT I.
SCENE by way of prologue—JOHN SLY & Dr. BIRCH.
SUR your servants—what, don't you know old John Sly?
I have not the least acquaintance with you, Sir.
Why that's dismal strange now—that folks don't know their old friends after they have been to college— did not you kn [...]w Tom Sly the chimney sweeper—Will Sly the Tinker, and Thoph Sly the Scowerer—up in the other end—there was a whole lane full of Slys.
It was of as much consequence to me as if it were full of crows—
Well sir you know that I pad up and down to sell little books and pamphlets—I lost one that I liked grandly— it used to make me laff. I think—I think, sir, 'twas called Turning the Screw, or some such name
You mean Taming the Shrew—we have found such a one—we have altered its name, we call it the Triumph of Temper—my scholars have learned it, and they are to act it this day.
Will you pay me for it?
I have
had lately right school masters luck not a penny in my purse; but a scholar when his purse fails must draw upon his genius—here Mr. Sly, did you ever see a play acted?
Never, please your honor.
How should you like to see one.
Grandly—sir I should like it grandly.
The house is rather full but here set your box down and see how they go on with it.
Thank you master, a thousand times—the gentlefolks there—won't take it [...]l—
No sir, keep your station, and you will not offend any body.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—HORATIO and BERNARDO.
WELCOME my friend Horatio—what are you alive?
Alive? why not?
I heard that you had been married.
What then? Does that kill folks? so have you been married too—
But I mean on account of the woman you married.
I think I married a very agreeable one.
I heard you married Ketura Roughgrain, daughter of old Robert Roughgrain the Peltmonger.
True, I married her—'twas my choice.
Did you not know what a perfect tygress she was— when at school?
I do not recollect every particular.
Many a time she has boxed my ears till they were nearly blistered—at other times she has attempted to claw my eyes out.
And served you right too—however I shall let your own conscience answer for that.
Seriously I wonder you had the courage to marry her; for, to speak my real sentiments, she was a perfect fury.
You do not act right, my friend Bernardo—you see I am married—If your sentiments made any impression it could only make me discontented with my wife. But I think she is a fine woman.
You may think as well of her as you please—the happier you, the more you esteem her.
Will you, with Marcello, and your wives, sup [Page 85] with me this evening—you shall see that we are on happy terms with each other. Come early in the afternoon.
SCENE II.—HORATIO and KETURA.
What my dear, are you going out?
Yes, I am.
I had rather you would not go out, we are to receive company this evening.
I know it, you mean to invite what company you please—and I must wait on them even to sink with faintness and fatigue; you will have it so.
We must receive company sometimes if we mean to keep a house.
Yes, I know what a scrape I have bro't myself into by being married; to keep a house, wait upon company and fatigue myself to death and get no thanks for it—I have tried it long enough, and I mean to get away.
Stay my dear, we shall be happy.
So you told me before I was married, and you deserve to be punished for telling me such lies—But that's the way of the men.
We have not been married long enough yet, to form a judgment of it—We have been married
only five days, fifteen hours, fourteen minutes, and five seconds.
You mean to turn it all into mirth; but you will find it a serious matter, I assure you.
Let it be a serious matter then. We have been married five days, fifteen hours, fourteen minutes, and five seconds—and till these last seven minutes, we have been happy. It is about a thousandth part of the time, that we have been on ill terms—Never mind it, my dear—We shall do very well.
I have tried it long enough.
No we can have no idea of the marriage state yet— Had we lived sixty years together, acquired and expended a large estate, brought up and settled in li [...]e, about a dozen children, then we might be said to know something about it.
If that is all to be done I will hear no more of it— [Page 86] I'll get away as fast as I can—
Stay my dear one moment.
O you jade! my sweet bride I mean—You'll come back again in the evening.
No I shall never darken these doors again—I am going to my father's house; from whence I came, and from whence I ought not to have come.
You will let me come in the evening and wait on you home.
No I forbid your ever coming after me again.
Then if you will not live with me I wish you may be happy without me.
I shall never be happy if you can prevent it.
Keen sponk! I vags for that.
She is gone, but I shall manage her well enough yet— It was happy for me that I was able to keep my temper— Had I lost the command of myself I might have ruined all my plan— But I shall have a good wife of her yet.
SCENE III.—ROUGHGRAIN and HORATIO.
This has been no bad day's work
—1600 wt. of skins at an advance of 2 pence on the pound, is thirteen pounds six shillings and eight pence— Not a bad day's work—How do ye do my son?
Where is Ketura?
I thank you sir, we are all well except my wife, who is gone to your house.
I tho't you were to have company to day.
Yes. but she is gone home.
Has she any of her old tricks.
Old or new ones, they are such as you see. When she is to receive company she runs home.
She means to come back again soon.
She says she never will.
Never will. I'll see to that— You've bought a wild rabbit and you shall keep her—She shan't come home [Page 87] to make such a carnal noise and racket as she used to do at our house.
Whatever you do, treat her kindly for my sake—I will go to your house in the evening and see if she will not come home.
I'd see her burnt first.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—HORATIO, BERNARDO, MARCELLO, PORTIA, JULIA, all enter in succession.
YOU are welcome my friends you are heartily welcome—my wife is gone out—But such attendance as we can make with our servants we shall give you with pleasure.
We heard sir, on our way, of the elopement of your wife, we began to congratulate you upon it.
What, are they at seperate maintenance already. They ought, in decency, to have waited till the honey moon was over.
Our friend Horatio invited us here, I believe, to see a curiosity—and his wife, I am confident is the greatest in America, of the kind—but we are likely to be deprived of the pleasure of seeing her.
Well, he was not ignorant of what he had when he took her.
I shall have a fine wife of her yet.
Then you will mould dry sand into pye crust, for I should think the order of nature must be changed before you will see a good wife of her.
You are extremely severe on my wife—but she is a woman of excellent qualities—and I will have a tender, kind, loving wife of her yet—I'm a connoisseur in women.
You have shown it by your choice, as all the world knows.
SCENE II.—ROBERT, HORATIO, BERNARDO—the rest standing silent, Robert comes in all out of breath.
WELL sir your wife is coming home again.
I expected it: but how do you know it is true.?
I followed your directions and stayed about the house to watch her motions; but kept out of her sight, at last the old gentleman came home.
What said he to her?
He was in a perfect rage, when he found she talked of staying, he swore she should return that minute—he took your horse with your wife's new hunting saddle, put them into the stable, and locked them up.
How could she come home then?
He took an old horse out of the plough, whose back was sharp as a pike; and you might have counted his ribs at twenty rods distance—then mounted your wife on an old pannel that shed feathers—with a girt of red tape and the bridle of twenty pieces of sheep's leather—the crupper, of the straps of an old knapsack thus he set her out on her journey. And the old horse could not be got out of a step all the way.
How did she proceed?
The dogs barked, the boys halloed, and the feathers flew all the way, and when the old horse got against the great tavern in the middle of the village, the horse stopped, and the mob gathered round, and huzza'd, and it was sometime before we got him started again.
What became of her after that.
When we came down the hill by the brook, the old brute stumbled, and threw your wife off—and it was a long time before we could pick her up, and tie up her strings again.
What became of her then?
She burst into tears, for every thing plagued her heart out—and desired me to go forward and ask you to come, and bring her home.
Bernardo, your chaise is ready, let me take it, and wait on her immediately.
You may take my chaise, but she should di [...] in the street before I would go after her.
I am not of your mind, I shall bring her home, in the gentlest manner possible.
That looks darn'd foolish; but he knows a sheep's-head from a carrot, I'll lay a mug on't.
SCENE III.—PORTIA, JULIA, and MARCELLO.
SO he is gone after her; I'm vexed with him that he humours her so.
She deserves to lie in the street all night—To abuse so good a husband!
He may know how to manage her. He had about 150 quarrels with her before she consented to be married. But he made her consent.
We will withdraw into the opposite room, for if he fondles and caresses her, when she comes in, I shall lose all patience.
Best withdraw, and leave them to themselves a little, when they first come in.
SCENE IV.—HORATIO and KETURA,
SEAT yourself, my dearest friend, you must be extremely fatigued.
Oh! I am just ready to faint.
Shall I bring you a glass of wine. This is soft, and pleasant, a little of it will revive you.—
You are exceeding good to wait on me home, and treat me so kindly.
I am extremely rejoiced to see you come home again.
O what a rash girl I was to leave you in so much ill humor!
Never think of it a moment. If you are come to live with me again, all is as it should be.
O sir, you are generous beyond all bounds.
Very generous to be sure to gain the heart of so fine a woman—But go my dear and wait on the company.
That's right—flatter her up—It works like wool— She'll melt like wax by and by.
SCENE V.—BERNARDO, HORATIO, WILLIAM and KETURA.
WELL you have brought her home then?
Yes I knew I had as good a wife as any of you.
So you have broke my chaise you villain.
Only I was going to the ale house sir.
And got drunk before you went, and drove my chaise into a ditch, and broke it.
Bernardo, there must be no noisy passions in my house. Chide your servant else where. This house is sacred to peace.
If one were to see you in this trim only, he would think you were an angel.
SCENE VI.—HORATIO and ROBERT.
ROBERT I understand you have been speaking disrespectful [...]y [...] my wi [...]e—Tell me your wages, let me pay you, and [...].
So I beg you would not send me away, to a distance from my wife a [...] children.
No man sh [...]ll live with me who abuses my wife —You have sinned bey [...]nd pardon so you must go.
Spare him for my sake—He is a good man, do not send him away from his wife, and children.
See what a good waman you have offended.
I ask a thousand pardons, and will serve you to the last moment of my life.
Go then to your work, and know that he who insults my wife, more than insults me.
SCENE VII.—HORATIO and HOTCOOS [...].
I HAVE bro't the riding coat I was making for your wife.
It is too broad acros the shoulders. It is big enough for a Porter.
A woman should have broad shoulders who supers [...]des her husband. Pardon a joke sir.
What pardon a joke, I'll break your back Do you mean to insult my wife. If I hear such a thing from you again, I'll be measure your back, you cabbage eater, till you never shall think of joking again while you live.
Spare, sir, the good man for my sake.
Here take it in about so much, and it will do very well.
SCENE VIII.—KETURA and HORATIO.
SIT still my dear. I wish to talk with you, we must find some way to restrain these angry passions.
He insulted you, had he insulted me, it would not have moved me in the least.
But I wish we might agree and make is a habit to live in perfect amity with each other.
There is nothing I more ardently desire.
I wish for it more as I have been erroneous: I need you for my example and guide.
You can guide yourself—I am not afraid to trust your own discretion for fifty years to come. Do just as you please in every respect.
I do not chuse it. You shall be my friend, protector and guide—how happy your goodness makes me.
What think you now, my bride, cannot persons be happy in the marriage state?
O yes, indeed I have enjoyed more happiness, more heartfelt felicity in one half hour, since I returned to you, than in all the rest of my life, you shall this moment accept me as a pupil, and teach me how to live.
I will be your friend unchangeably. But we must see our company.
Now madam your'e gone for't, after this you may set up your Ebenezer if you can.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—MARCELLO, BERNARDO and HORATIO.
THE ladies wish to be by themselves, what say you my friend to taking a hand of cards.
Horatio will not play, his wife will come and whip him if he does,
Yes, I will—but a different game from any you imagine. I will bet—tho I'm an enemy in principle to games of hazard. I will—bet—twelve dozen bottles of the best Madeira wine that upon any trial you please, my wife will be more obedient to me than either of yours to you.
I'll stand with twenty four dozen against twelve.
So will I, for my sweet girl, and you are taken in, old gentleman, you may depend on it.
What shall be the proof?
The ladies are very busy by themselves, and will be loth to come away —let each send for his wife to come to him immediately.
That's a good proof—yes—yes—
Duncan, go and tell my wife to come to me immediately.
William, tell my wife to come to me immediately.
Robert, tell my wife to come to me immediately.
What says my wife?
She says she'll come presently, as soon as she has played out her hand of cards.
And what does my wife say?
She says she is very busy, and she wonders why you cannot have the complaisance to come to her.
What would you have of me?
My dear, you are indeed come yourself. Sit, my sweet girl. Well, what do you say now, gentlemen?
You've won, you have won.
I wonder my wife would serve me so?
I'll know the reason, why my wife did not come.
Patience gentleman—No man shall say any ill-natured thing to a wife in my house—I should deem it a profanation—The great secret of managing a wife is always to treat her kindly; and keep your temper; then if she be not a perfect fury she will do very much as you please to have her—But a man of harsh temper may kill a woman, [Page 93] but he cannot govern her—You might as well set a blacksmith to making watches.
Well ladies! Ketura has won the prize on the trial of kindness to her husband. She came first of the three—we have lost only twenty four dozen of Mad [...]ria each.
Never mind the wine. I'll give twenty four dozen, and we will form ourselves into a society for promoting matrimonial happiness—the wine shall serve us when we meet.
We all say amen to that.
Well then, our supper is ready, we will pass the evening in the true stile of festivity and joy.
SCENE by way of Epilogue.
A PERSON has put a shilling or two into my hands, I will pay you now for your pamphlet.
No matter no, your play has put me into pure good humor—Nothing at all master.
Yes take it, and this too. There's your pay.
There's interest for the delay of your money.
Thank you sir a thousand times—But master, your play makes me think—master it makes me think.—
Think of what Mr. Sly?
My Jane and I had a snapshort this morning and we have not said a good natured thing to each other all day long—But I have a great mind, not to go to a tavern, and swill away alone like a beast—but to buy something good to eat with this,
and something good to drink with this,
and go home, and take a sweet little supper with Jane, and set every thing to rights before we sleep a wink.
The Mother of a Family. A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.
PATIENCE.
One of the most useful of human virtues is patience. To bear afflictions and every event which tends to disturb the mind, with calmness, denotes a highly improved understanding. There is no condition of human life which cherishes this virtue so much as marriage. It is easy, and promotes the highest degree of self approbation, to bear distress for the sake of those whom we love.
PERSONS.
- COL. RIVERS—suitor to Miss Keensight.
- GEORGE—son of Mrs. Goodheart.
- PLAINFIELD—one of Mrs Goodheart's neighbors.
- MRS. GOODHEART—a farmer's wife with a large family.
- MISS KEENSIGHT—her younger sister, a manhater.
- LETITIA—a brother's daughter.
- LAURA—Mrs. Goodhearts eldest daughter, aged 18.
- SOPHIA — second daughter, aged 16.
- NELLY — a romp, the third daughter, aged 14.
- SALLY — fourth daughter, aged 8.
- SOFTLY—woman assistant to Mrs. Goodheart, in the care of the family.
THE MOTHER OF A FAMILY.
ACT I.
SCENE I —Col. RIVERS and Miss KEENSIGHT.
YOU must know, Miss Keensight, that I have long paid my diligent respects to you.
If you have been agreeably employed they may still continue.
But I am tired of uncertainties, I wish we could understand one another.
Well sir what would you please to have?
Sometime within the limits of duration, I hope you will be mine.
How yours?
I mean by marriage, I wish not for equivocation.
We may wait a little longer.
I am tired of waiting and wish to have my fate decided.
There is no need of that.
I think there is, I will be resolved, and not pay my respects in vain.
Then withdraw them, if you please.
Why then have you detained me so long?
It is well enough to have a gentleman to conduct one to balls, assemblies &c. But as for marriage, I detest it—It is of all things the most odious to me.
This is the most generous speech you ever made to me. Now I know what to depend on. I thank you most heartily and wish you a good evening.
SCENE II.—GOODHEARY and KEENSIGHT.
Where is Col. Rivers, does he not stay to tea?
No, and I hope he never will pass much of his time in this house.
And have you taken offence all at once?
No, I never felt myse [...]f interested enough, with respect to him, to do that.
Have you taken a sudden dislike?
No, for I never liked him or any other man.
But tell me plainly why does he not stay to tea? I hoped for the pleasure of his company.
The plain truth must be known, I have given him his final dismission.
You astonish me. What reason had you to discard him? Is he not an accomplished gentleman? Has he not an excellent moral character? Does be not make offers of fortune far beyond any just claim of yours?
More than that, I own that be is one of the most agreeable of men; which you may think a simple confession.
I should not think that a good reason for dismissing him.
That was my reason, I found that if I did not dismiss him soon, I never should.
You are too prudent; and may hereafter repent your discretion.
My name is Keensight you know.
So was mine once but I changed it for Goodheart; & have ever since been glad of the exchange—I found that was the way to be happy.
You happy! Bless my stars▪ you happy! I would not live the life you do for the wealth of the United States, and that is the reason why I will not marry. I would not marry the finest gentleman who treads this earth.
So you say now, when you may marry if you please; when you cannot marry you will think otherwise. I have seen maidens of fif [...]y setting their caps at young gentlemen of twenty five and rendering themselves perfectly ridiculous.
That you will never see in me, so you may set your heart at rest.
Why not in you as well as in others, and why [Page 99] should my situation afright you—Why do I not appear to be happy?
Why should I not think you happy? I wonder you do not die outright with vexation—You work extremely hard, and have to pay the severest attention from night to day, and from day to night—Your children are the most disorderly crew that ever were hatched, when they are out of humor they are always a bawling—There will be half a dozen of them tuning up at once—They are ever fighting and clawing one another—When they are in good humor they play with execessive noise and violence as if the house were going out at the windows—Then they are upsetting every thing thro the whole house—They are ever breaking their own shins or one anothers noses—They are ever losing their hats and their shoes—One falls down stairs and is taken up half dead—One is burnt and another is scalded— Another cuts his leg, or his hand, and is bleeding to death. Then you are all in tears—and—
And can you think of nothing farther? You have not told me half of the truth yet. I have seen and suffered ten times as much as you have any idea of; and yet I am not unhappy—I have a very kind husband.
O, yes, I suppose that kind husband makes up for all—He pretends to be fond of you, and flatters you—He is cunning enough for himself. You place entire confidence in him. Were he to tell you that a bedlam was a palace, you would believe him. After your children had worried you all day, on seeing your husband come home at night I have seen you shed tears of joy—and you had to wait on him two hours. I really felt ashamed for you.
What a simplicity you are sister, with all your boasted sense.
Simplicity I will be then—your husband by being so obstinate has brought a lawsuit upon himself, which many people say will ruin him. I expect in a few days to see you turned out of house and home. I see plainly that all this is in consequence of your marriage, and if any man ever sees me catched in that trap he shall bless his eyes for the sight.
SCENE III.—GOODHEART and SOFTLY.
O DEAR, I am extremely fatigued [Page 100] But I must attend to the business of the family. I should like to take some rest for a few moments, but my children, poor little rog [...]es, they must be taken care of.
I am glad to find you at home, Mrs. Goodheart, I have a little [...] with you.
And I am no less gla [...] to see you. I had thought of sending for you.
I wished to know whether I could live with you— you need some person, you are so taken up with the children—I will do the work of the family; but I will be treated as a housekeeper, not as a maid.
You shall be treated as a friend. I will give you more than maid's wages, because being a relation. I hope you will be kind to the children.
Then I will begin as soon as may be—I am out of business, and am perfectly tired of idleness.
It is nearly time for tea; go and set the tea table, and get tea soon.
I will go then in a moment, for I am happy to have something to do
I am glad of this girl's coming; she is good natured, and will have patience with the children. Very few of the maids we hire have any discretion to manage the little ones.
SCENE IV.—GOODHEART and LETITIA.
LETITIA, I am happy to see you; take a seat, my dear.
I have long wished for an opportunity to visit you, and am extremely gratified that at last I have found one. Where's Nelly?
She is traipsing about some where. Poor girl— I wish she had a little more steadiness.
Does she not go to school?
She is utterly averse to it. She says that she is so big, and so awkward, that she is ashamed to go.
But it is a great pity; as she is naturally agreeable; her genius is good, and her natural disposition excellent.
Poor girl, she has no advantages. When she is at home she is always busy in some family care; and there [Page 101] is always so much music at our house, that one might as well study in a tavern.
I doubt not that she might be persuaded to [...]o to school, and were she once placed there she would make good progress in her learning.
I wish you would try, for she is so awkward now that I am quite ashamed of her and she is ashamed of herself. Her manners are rough—her words are course and her knowledge of grammar is nothing — her pronunciation is extremely vulgar—she writes very ill—and as to arithmetic and music she knows nothing of either.
You ought to say she is a monstrous romp and that she spends half her time in company with Jack Lounger. She has no idea of a proper choice of company.
You need not make my girl worse than she is. She is bad enough in her present state. But it is not so much her fault, as of her situation in life.
O yes, she is a precious child to be sure, and one of the solid comforts of matrimony, if it were only the mere possibility of having one such child it would forever deter me from marriage.
SCENE V.—LAURA, SOPHIA, LETITIA and GOODHEART.
I DESIRE Ma'am that you would let me look of some of your work—I wish to imitate it.
I have none here my child—I will go out and look for some—But if I do not find any, Letitia will furnish you.
I wish you would let me see yours, I have a great desire to go to your house, on purpose to see how you work.
I can show you here.
O how beautiful this is. It is elegant. I never saw any thing of the sort so pretty. I will try to do something like it. We seldom have opportunity to do any thing elegant—We have to tend the dairy and make coarse clothes for the younger children.
And I will see what I can do.
SCENE VI.—SOPHIA, LETITIA and GOODHEART.
DON'T say any thing to my aunt Keensight about the young gentlemen's coming here this evening.
Why not to her?
She says she will drive away the whole tribe of fops from the house while she stays. She won't have her nieces turn fools, and be married as their mother was.
Now which had you rather be, such a woman as your mother; or your aunt Keensight?
That is easily an [...]wered—I know my mother suffers extreme fatigue and [...]a [...] ▪ Yet she is forever pleasant, and good humored My aunt does very little, but consult her own ease. Yet she f [...]ets a hundred times to where my ma'am does on [...]. They are sisters.
What can make the difference?
When ma'am means to divert us, she says it is being married that makes the difference, and advises us all to be married, that we may be kept in good humor.
It is likely enough to be a serious truth. People who love only themselves will always be fretful; but they who feel kind to other persons will certainly be otherwise.
I cannot find any work of mine; but Letitia can answer all your demands. Where is Laura?
She went out sometime ago, and is not returned.
I wonder what makes her stay.
We will go out and see.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—PLAINFIELD and GOODHEART.
IS not Mr. Goodheart returned?
He has not certainly.
I hoped to have seen him before his suit should be determined.
Why before that time?
Because he stands indebted to me for a small sum, and I wish for good security.
Why for security now, when I have often heard you say his word was sufficient?
He will do as well as he can, but he may not be very able when he has done with his suit.
Why, do you think he will lose?
I am really afraid he will, I advised him not to go on with it—but he never would hear to me—Let me know when he comes home.
I will.
Be sure you do it. What a pity it was he did not hear to me.
I am sure I did not desire it, unless you had more sense.
SCENE II.—GOODHEART and GEORGE.
WHAT my son have you come home to tarry. Is it vacation?
No—but I am like to get into a b [...]d scrape at College—I was in company with a set of fellows, who did mischief in the night—and am called to account.
I am afraid that your father and I are never to have any comfort of you George—you are so irregular— and—
Why Ma'am tho I was in their company, when I saw them about to do mischief, I was gone so quick that I could now bring a man to swear I was in another place; and I want to know your advice whether I shall bring the man to swear or not.
Not certainly, unless to swear to the truth. Tho I cannot wish you to be punished—Yet I do not wish you to escape by any thing which has even the appearance of falshood.
But I am certainly innocent.
Let truth have its course then and it will appear— and you may yet be a comfort to your mother—Go and stand trial and tell no lies.
SCENE III.—SOFTLY, GOODHEART and SALLY.
Madam, I am very much concerned for Laura— [Page 104] She has a pain under her left arm near her heart, very sharp and severe.
And does that alarm you?
Mr. Woodru [...] had just such a pain about three hours defore he died of the appolexy.
O dear ma'am, I'm af [...]aid Billy has broke his arm. He has fallen down stairs—and hurt him dreadfully—He can scarcely move his arm one inch.
SCENE IV.—KEENSIGHT, LETITIA and SOPHIA.
Now girls let me give you one piece of advice. Above all do you avoid being married. It is the worst of all evils. You see what a deplorable situation your mother is in. Her eldest son is going to be expelled from the college—There is one child dying of the apoplexy. Another has broke his arm, one girl so awkward and so vicious that she plagues her heart out. Her husband absent, and must lose his estate before he comes back. Now young ladies fix the matter in your own minds that you never will be married. Then let the men coax and teaze, and plead, and flatter, and caress you ever so much, be steady, let them know you won't, and that's enough.
I am rather too old for counsel. I have made up my mind upon that matter sometime ago.
And what do you say Sophia?
I am fully determined what to do if I have the opportunity of choice.
And which way are you determined ladies?
That must remain a secret. If I say I will refuse, that will offend my mother. If I say I will accept, that will offend you. If I say I will—not▪ at any event, that is insulting the young gentlemen— [...] I say I will, it is like setting up myself for sale like a cheap [...]r [...]ic [...] in the market. So I believe madam it is best for young ladies never to answer that question till it be suitably proposed.
You are very prudent young ladies, but I understand the matter. It is all done to vex me, done on purpose [Page 105] I know.
SCENE V.—GOODHEART, SOFTLY, SOPHIA▪ LETITIA, and KEENSIGHT.
Here Miss Softly take this and bruise it very fine—moisten it with spirits and warm it over the fire, and lay it on a soft bandage, to put on Billy's arm.
I will do it immediately.
Stay, take this and dissolve it in warm water—then put to it half a glass of wine, a tea spoonful of paregoric— let it remain in a tea cup till I come out.
How does uncle Goodheart now? One of our neighbors writ home the other day to his wife, that he was likely to lose his cause; and if he did it would ruin him entirely.
I hope not, I am sure: what will become of me and my poor children?
And did you know ma'am of brother George. It is said he has got into a very bad scrape at college—and is in great danger of public punishment.
Oh dear! I tho't I had trouble enough before.
Oh ma'am, see, only see what a piece of work here is. The tea table is turned over, and every thing is broken to pieces.
There is half the ware we had in the house broken to pieces—There's that beautiful china bowl, which we made punch in, the evening I was married—and that curious mug, which we used to call the enchanted mug—with all the tea furniture. How came every thing on the tea-table?
I got some drink for Laura in the enchanted mug—and was going to get some in the china bowl for the ladies.
How came the table overset?
The children were not to blame. Nabby climbed the back of a chair; and was going to fall, Tommy flew to save her, touched the tea table, and overset it. He is dreadful sorry ma'am.
I could be sorry at another time, but I have so [Page 106] much greater troubles now.—Sister come and help me about the children; and Sophia—you come—I will send Nelly to wait on Letitia.
Little mischievous brats, I am glad I have none of my own to wait on, I know.
SCENE VI.—LETITIA and NELLY.
WHAT was the reason, Miss Nelly, that you did not go with us to school▪
Really now what do you think of these times? Every body is going to school, do you think they gets any good by it?
Your every body is a small number—There are but thirty persons in the town, who have any education more than in the common schools, and there are a thousand inhabitants—Divide 1000 by 30 and it will give you the proportion.
I could not do that any more than I could fly.
See 1000 by 30 quotes 33—that is even more than the number that pay any uncommon attention to learning.
Why the jingo! I tho't it was more. I wondered what we should do for girls to make butter—Uncle Tristram says he hates to have girls go to school, it makes them so darn'd uppish and so deuced proud that they won't work—Mawther want's I should go.
I believe your mother is right and your uncle is wrong—Good scholars are no more idle at school, than at home.
But why do you need so much larning; you study religion, d'ye mean to preach? No I see the trick, you mean to marry parsons, and make us poor farmers girls call you madams.
Would it grieve you to marry a person, whose principle, practice, and profession, all lead him to treat you well.
No fags! that it woud'n't—When I hear a clean looking young preacher hold forth upon love—I cannot help thinking that he would make a jim husband. It is fir'd pretty to be talked to nicely—But one should not think so a sabbadays.
You correct your improper thoughts I dare say— But eloquence is very pleasing.
And you study ratterick at school; the art of talking —now to women it seems to me quite natural—You studies Phlosophy natural and mortal.
You mean moral I suppose.
It it all one to me—Brother George says Phlosophers used to wear long beards—He makes fun of you, and calls you the smooth chin'd Phlosophers.
George shall treat one with more decency than he commonly does, or he shall one day dread to hear the name of the smooth chin'd Philosophers.
Sometimes he is rather too jolly with the ladies— Fawther says 'tis not worth while to send him to college to larn mischief—But dont you think there are clever men at college?
Yes, many of genuine learning, and refined merit, and some otherwise.
But there is one of your studies which I see no use for 'mongst plain working folks—must a farmer learn politeness to talk genteelly to his oxen?
He must sometimes talk to his children, his friends, his wife. He says to his oxen— Haw and Jee—and " twig up Whiteface." Would you have him say so to you?
No—I'd make him know with a vengeance that he should talk handsomer to me.
You would wish to have your husband, if he were a farmer, possess a tolerable share of politeness—do you not remember our going up into the further part of the town— called mud-puddle corner, to what they called a frolic?
A frolic! 'Twas a right down jamm. The fellors were as drunk as wheelbarrows. The girls were all dashed into nothing and were as dumb and dismal as all nature. Had I known afore how I should have felt I would not have gone any more than I'd have flewed.
And do you not remember our going to Fairside— did you not like the entertainment?
Yes that was nice at any thing. 'Twas as 'cute as a jewel. They did not say: came along Nell—and here it goes Nell—but shall I have the pleasure to dance with you Miss Nelly. Shall I help you to a slice of orange, Miss Nelly—They would not laugh at, and mortify one, that did [Page 108] not talk so coupee. They treated me so well that it really made me feel purely.
The men in Fairside are in the same employments as those in mud-puddle corner. Then education makes an agreeable difference. Did any of the gentlemen visit you since?
Yes several times Mr.—N—
and he bro't me a fine pair of verses all writ out in prose.
In prose! you mean in verse. Poems are always written in verse.
That's the way I always come off, when I try to talk genteel, sometimes I think I never will try again.
But were you properly instructed, you might try; and meet with success.
But don't you think the folks in the right down genteel, nipping way, are more deceitful than others?
Not always; but some think it genteel to treat people handsomely when present, and when absent to render them ridiculous.
Law! mercy on us—I'll never be genteel then▪
But could you gain esteem by a suitable behavior?
That I should like desperately.
And that is real gentility.
But how will the young fellows take it if we shine away and don't like their humdrum ways—Won't they be as mad as vengeance—and ashociate with the girls who don't go to school?
Let the ill bred women and the ill bred men go together—if they leave the well bred men to us we will thank them—Do you not think I am right my dear?
I obsarves since you went to school that you often calls me my dear, and my friend. Do you really think so, or do you only mean to palaver—some folks says it is all a [...]am, and that you mean nothing by it.
I mean what I say, and always shall be really happy to have you for my friend.
Well now if I really tho't I could get a nice husband I don't know but I should try to larn—what likelihoods do you think there is that I shall be married.
In the country—it is calculated that of 78 women who live to 18 years, 72 are married under thirty—then
as 72: 6: [...] 12—1—twelve for being married to one against it—well bred women have a fairer prospect still.
They told me Arithmetic was a dry study. I am sure it is quite entertaining—Ma'am will be glad of it— I'll go to school with all my heart.
I advise you to maintain that resolution.
Well now this beats all, that you should tell by arithmetic the likelihoods of being married—I'll learn arithmetic, I vum I will. Good-Nighty.
Let one, if you be going out, walk with you.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—GOODHEART, NELLY, SALLY and KEENSIGHT.
IT is said that if troubles come fast they will soon be over—Mine come fast indeed—I am determined not to lose patience, for then I shall be truly miserable.
O ma'am I'm willing, I'm willing to go to school.
I am very glad to hear it; I have been very much mortified that you were so averse to learning—I hope you will make up lost time—you shall go to school next week.
See ma'am what beautiful fruit; I pick out the best for you, because you are so good to me. Are all mothers so good to their children?
I believe they are generally well disposed.
Then I guess they are quite happy, for it makes me feel nicely when I do things that are good.
Then you feel nicely now I believe.
O yes ma'am—I am always very glad when I have done any thing to please you.
You are a very good child my dear.
I hope I shall make papa say the same when he comes home. I will gather a fine basket of fruit for him —William has given me a fine melon—It is yellow as gold, I will save that for pà. The men are very good to work for us, and raise fruit and almost every thing we have.
Yes, and ladies may respect them in a proper manner—at least they may respect their own fathers.
And if your girls don't worship the men I shall think they have not the least spark of their mother's genius.
But if pa loved us as much as we do him, would he go away and stay from us so long?
I do not knew when he will return, nor in what situation of his affairs.
SCENE II.—SOFTLY, GOODHEART and LAURA.
Madam, Billy's arm gets better very fast, he can move it now very easily—It is only bruised and will get well soon, I am glad for the poor child's sake.
You may take off the bandage then and bathe it in spirits and it will do.
Why Laura, my good child, are you come? I was afraid I never should see you well again.
Yes ma'am I am quite easy now—I hurt myself by drinking cold water—I dared not to tell while I was ill for fear of increasing your concern—But I am very sure that I have suffered enough to make me careful for the future.
I hope you will be, for many persons have died by such imprudence.
I have just received a letter from George. He is acquitted, and says he is resolved to live a sober, steady life.
That is great joy to me if he resolves he will do so—for never was a person more fixed in his purpose.
There is a person knocking; shall I go and wait?
Yes.
SCENE III.—SOPHIA, GOODHEART, LETITIA, and LAURA.
What do you think of this ma'am?
You did not do this?
Yes, she did ma'am.
It is certainly very elegant.
It was almost the first work of the kind that I ever [Page 111] did; but I paid great attention.
If I know by what means I could reward you for such a piece of work; I would certainly do it, for it is indeed very fine.
I will do as good a piece as she has done when I get entirely well, and then you may reward us both, for here is a letter of my father, which says that he has got his cause with damages and costs, and uncle Trueman, whose will was not to be opened till six months after his death, has left us two thousand pounds. And here is a bundle too.
So here's a letter too, and what a beautiful silk, well I believe he has met with good success, a fine silk and a great deal of it too.
There is enough to make you a gown.
There is enough for a number of gowns, But—
—But haste, get tea, your father writes that he shall be at home on Thursday at six o'clock, that will be in half an hour.
Bring me a clean cap, Sophia.
That is curious, I have not seen you look in your glass till now for three weeks.
True my husband was gone, and I felt very little ambition to shine, now he is coming home after so long absence—I own—I should be happy to be agreeable to him.
O yes, and we must all worsh [...]p him to please you and we shall have sweets and dears and fond questions till we be perfectly sick.
Now sister that is quite wrong. We ought to rejoice in mutual good-will, for the sudden happy change in our prospects—I shall give my sincerest thanks to heaven— for our prospects, from the most dark, are al [...]ered to the most joyful, in one half hour—And thus it often is in the affairs of a family—and generally, there is an endless variety of events—and if we trust divine providence all turns out happily.
Pà is coming; Pà is coming.
I will wait on him myself; no one shall deprive me of that happiness.
Before I'd be so fond of a man, I'd live an old maid till I pin'd all away to breath and bones.
That will no doubt be your fate▪ Aunt, and to bones without breath you must pine, madam. But girls I commend your mamma's attention; soft arts and kind allurements are the only ways for wom [...]n to carry their points—They never get any thing by angry co [...]ests.
The Captive. A DRAMATIC PIECE, IN FIVE ACTS.
COMPASSION TO THE MISERABLE.
This may justly be ranked amongst the brightest of human virtues. Nor is it any part of superstition to believe, that he who is kind to persons really in distress will be paid in the kindness of Heaven. ‘The liberal soul shall be made fat, and he that watereth shall be watered also himself.’ —And when our Savior describes the kindness of the good Samaritan, he says to each of his auditors— ‘go thou, and do likewise.’
PERSONS.
- PHILANDER—son of Tryphena.
- ARTAMON—son of Damartis.
- DAMARTIS—the woman who buys the captive.
- TRYPHENA—the woman who sells the captive.
- MELISSA—the captive.
- CLIMENE—a neighbor of Damartis.
- PHILOMEDE—daughter of Tryphena.
- LEMONÊ—Niece of Damartis.
- LASYRA—the other captive living with Tryphena.
SCENE.—A citizen's house in Elis, a city of Peloponesus, subject to the Spartans.
THE CAPTIVE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—CLIMENE and DAMARTIS.
MELANCHOLY, my dear friend, seems to have taken entire possession of you.
And why not—I lost my husband in the bloom of life, three of my sons fell in battle—and in the last siege of this town I lost my only daughter.
Why, of all valuable things, did you not secure your daughter! An only daughter too?
The town was taken in the night. The inhabitants fled every way—I missed my daughter in the crowd, and saw her no more.
Do you think she was killed?
I cannot think so—The learned and polite Athenians our conquerers, invited all to return to our homes the next morning. No carcases, no stain of blood, was seen in the streets, no house was damaged, mine was just as I left it. But my little daughter I saw no more.
I am very sorry for your distress, and should feel it more if I had experience.
Bitter indeed to a mother is the loss of her children—I often run like a distracted creature, and search for my little darling thro the whole house—rummage her caskets and boxes. And finding no relief from my pain, throw myself down on the bed, where [...]he little jewel used to lie; and resign myself to all the agonies of grief.
Perhaps your daughter may yet be alive.
I fear that more than her death, that she is alive, and a slave—Good heaven!
You must miss her in your household affairs.
That I do. One's own children are worth twice as much as strangers. They feel for the interest of the family. And we are, naturally, inclined to be pleased with them.
How can you perform your household work?
What happens to be done is done, the rest is left undone—Hired servants have vexed me to death—I have none of them▪
But you cannot hold out to do all your necessary work.
My health by sorrow and extreme labor is on the decline—I have tho't of purchasing a captive for myself.
Would you deal in that inhuman traffic.
Not to make any one miserable but to make one happy—I would treat her as mine own child. Then I would pray to the Gods for mine own poor child in captivity.
I know a lady who has two very likely captives— She needs but one, I will speak to her on your behalf.
SCENE II.—DAMARTIS and LEMONE.
MY deared Niece, If fortune sent you to me, I am obliged to her.
It was not fortune but pleasure—The pleasure of seeing and talking with you.
I thank you. Do you know any thing of a captive, which Tryphena has to sell?
Yes. But you would not like the reason she has for selling her.
What is that?
Tryphena's son is in love with her.
I will not buy her, I will have none of their base amours at my house.
He would be angry if you tho't him base. He courts her in form like any fine lady.
Then I think I would buy her, tho I should ask an abatement in the price.
Would you run such a risk?
She might prove to be good for nothing, and she might be an excellent girl.
I have heard many house keepers say that girls are good for nothing after they are courted.
It is according as their natural temper may be— It alters them certainly—It makes good girls better, and bad girls worse. But my car is ready, I will go and see the woman who has the captive to sell.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—MELISSA and PHILANDER.
I'M afraid, sir, you mean to deceive me.
No my girl, no, not for my life, see here. Do not I always treat you with as much respect as any lady whatever?
You do, and I wonder how you can.
It is because I know you to be a fine girl, you was certainly born of very good parents and your early education was virtuous and genteel—Can you remember nothing of your parents?
Yes, they lived very well—But they have changed my name so often, and sold me backward and forward —that I hardly recollect where they lived.
No matter, I will leave no means untried to discover them—Till then, I will do every thing for you and ask no reward—only—Remember that lad that loves you.
What a fine young gentleman—How kind he is to me, and treats me with as much respect as if I were a goddess. Now if I were not a captive how happy I could be.
SCENE II—PHILOMEDE and MELISSA.
MELISSA what makes you cry?
Your mother means to sell me, what have I done?
It is not because she dislikes you.
Does she know of your brother's kindness to me?
I believe she understands that matter.
Then I am undone indeed. I do not wonder she resolves to sell me.
You are not to blame, you never sought his addresses.
I never did, but I was born to be wretched. I was taken from my mother in the night, sold for a slave, have had my name changed a number of times, have been sold this way and that way. Here your brother, by his kindness, softened the rigor of my captivity Now I am to be sold, all my hope is lost, my life ends in wretchedness.
I do not believe my brother will ever forsake you.
Then I shall ruin him—I shall destroy the youth whose happiness should rather be bought with my life.
Shall not I then tell him whither you are gone.
I ought to say no. I ought to say, Philander you must see me no more—But O Philomede you know nothing what pain this heart has felt. Yes Philomede tell him where I am to live—His wisdom may save him, tho my folly would destroy him.—But I am called, and must go to your mother.
SCENE III.—DAMARTIS, TRYPHENA and MELISSA.
YOU may stay where you are, Melissa; we may as well do it here as any where—this is the girl whom I propose to sell, she is a healthy strong girl, I believe.
I am principally concerned to know whether she be a good girl. For I mean to treat her as if she were mine own daughter.
I thank you madam.
What do you ask for her?
She is worth at least twenty five Attic talents.
I shall not give that for her, for a reason that has been told to me,
and for which you want to get rid of her—I will give you twenty, and no more.
Were it not for the circumstance you mention—you should not have her for thirty, and ten more.
But you must keep your son at home.
I shall find means to do that.
You may send her this very afternoon, with her [Page 119] little property that must come with her, and the money shall be ready.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
WHAT a miserable life is allotted to me— born to an easy life, but hurled by war from my peaceful habitation—I could almost wish eternal perdition' on tyrants and ambitious men. How many sweet maidens, the hope of prosperous families, are sold into slavery—how many widows mourn the loss of their husbands, cut off, in the very bloom of life. The blood of the finest youth fattens the fields of Arcadia. As for me, wretched I am, and wretched I must be. Since I became sensible of the loss of liberty—every thing looks dark about me. Earth is a dungeon, and the sky frowns on me from above—bo't and sold like a beast— O wretched, bitter slavery—Is there no remedy but death—the generous Philander only makes me wish to live. But now I lose him—O welcome, most welcome would be the sleep of death, to a poor captive who has lost her liberty—lost her fortune, lost her poor broken heart and is weary of the world▪—
—Captivity itself has some good in it, it teaches invention—my new mistress' niece comes to appoint me my employment. What if I tempt her to let Philander have access to me with the offer of favoring her on like occasions.
SCENE II.—MELISSA and LEMONE.
MY sweet lady I was waiting for your orders.
Well I can tell you what will please you, my aunt if you please her, means to treat you as her own daughter.
I have been told so a great many times, and had to work extremely hard after it.—
You will not be deceived here.
There was a young gentleman who treated me as a brother at Tryphene's house—will he be permitted to see me here?
I have heard that he was more than a brother to you.
Perhaps you know what it is—if you can give him liberty to see me, perhaps I can requite the favor in kind.
No, Melissa, I can do nothing in that matter.
But if I should let him come, would you expose me to the family?
Perhaps not—people of our age do not commonly think so bad of those matters as older people do—but come with me, I must show you your work in the family.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—ARTAMON and DAMARTIS.
MY good madam will grant me one very small favor?
Not till I know what it is.
That my friend Philander may come to this house.
He shall not come, I know what he wants, to indulge himself with Melissa.
No madam upon his honor he only wants to speak with you—he will say nothing to any other person unless you please.
He shall never have access to Melissa, I can promise him.
That shall be as you please.
SCENE II.—PHILANDER and DAMARTIS.
MADAM, your most obedient servant.
Sir, I know what makes you so complaisant, you wish to have access to Melissa.
You mean to treat her as your own daughter. She is worthy your care.
Yes, sir, that is my determination.
And as you would have your daughter treated in captivity—Your sentiment is excellent. It is uncommon and generous.
I think it is not bad.
And I think it a mean thing for a young fellow to creep into a house unknown to the owners—I ask liberty to visit your daughter Melissa—I think of her as you do, I wish to treat her in the same stile.
You are a sly rogue—It is your maxim I believe to court the mother instead of the daughter—I won't break my word, you may come.
Madam I thank you.
That wretch! I was predetermined to refuse him, but he was so bold, and so sly, and so polite—and I being a woman, how could it be done—that I should refuse him.
SCENE III.—CLIMENE and DAMARTIS.
YOUR project appears to me quite a wild one.
So does every thing that is generous to a person of a cold heart.
Let us then hear the whole of your sweet project.
Her clothes shall be made just as if she were my own daughter, and she shall have the same education.
I fancy the little thing has moved the feelings of your compassion.
She has, and I am not ashamed of it.
Our philosophers would laugh at you for such a sentiment.
I care for our Philosophers in general as I do for a set of old broomsticks—They study four or six years in some academy or university, and come forth with all their [Page 122] paradoxes about sensation and ideal existence—Liberty and necessity—But friendship, domestic care, and tenderness of heart, are to them inexplicable mysteries.
They would think you mad, in your project concerning this girl.
Those who expect good things of the Gods must do good things themselves—By these very means the hearts of those who have my daughter may be turned to pity her, and I may discover her yet before I die.
SCENE IV.—TRYPH [...]NA, CLIMENE, DAMAKTIS, and MELISSA.
IF my son comes to your house you must send him back again immediately.
Will you not let him see this lady's daughter?— She adopts her captive as her child. I am sure every body will laugh at her.
My son shall not associate with her. He have her for his wife? I'll find other employment for him, I promise him.
I shall do what I think reasonable and proper.
That's right▪ my new mistress is better than my old one.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—DAMARTIS and LEMONE.
HAVE you dressed her up as my daughter?
I have, and she looks sweetly. She is a pretty girl, and as genteel as one of the first rank.
Introduce her then.
How the conscience feasts itself on good actions—Never did I take pleasure in doing a kindness, as I do in relieving the miseries of this girl—There is something very interesting in her appearance—How dreadful it is to think of Women, born of respectable parents, sold f [...] slaves.
Here madam is your pennyworth.
I think you have good judgment in buying girls —If I tho't you had as good a taste for boys, I would get you to buy a sweetheart for me.
O you sweet little nymph, I want to kiss you this minute—But I won't be quite a fool—Come miss, and sit down by me. You seem to look quite smiling.
It feels good to be well dressed. I have not had on a good suit of clothes these six years.
There is company, girls, go and wait on them in.
Since I concluded to treat this girl as my daughter, fancy is busy to find a resemblance of her—She feels to me like my own flesh and blood—What lively eyes, so much like my husband! Her forehead and eyebrows too are like his! But alas! it is all a delusion—Had my daughter been in all G [...]eece, by the pain, I have taken, I must have found her.
SCENE II.—LASYRA, DAMARTIS, LEMONE, and MELISSA.
So miss you have got to be a fine lady—you won't speak to a body I suppose: I wish this lady would buy me too.
My aunt does not wish for two girls.
When you come from our house you left your key, and a little casket. Madam do you not think this to be a very curious key?
This key?
is mine: where did you find it?
It belongs to the little casket she always had— I bro't the little casket too, which she left at our house.
The key is mine certainly, and I suspect you to be my own child, O heav'ns!
Well madam if I be your own child; will you not let Philander come and see me here.
O yes, if you be my daughter you shall have a sweetheart and every thing else, that is good—But we will be sure of that first; run, and fetch the casket.
This is that she always had with her.
This casket is mine certainly—But my daughter [Page 124] had the scar of a burn on her left wrist. Let me see. O how my heart beats with anxiety.
O my soul she is my own child.
O my sweet child, let me fold you in my arms, and be the happiest mother in the whole nation of Sparta.
Ronscevalles. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
SELF GOVERNMENT.
To govern one's temper, inclination, and passions, comprehends almost the whole substance of virtue. It gives any person great security against the intrigues of the vicious, and the stratagems of the artful. This self government chiefly depends on a comparative slighting of temporal concerns, when set in opposition to the solid recompence of virtue, and the rewards of another life.
PERSONS.
- XIMENES—Regent of Spain.
- LORENZO—a courtier.
- SILVANO—an officer express from the camp.
- DONNA CLARA—aunt and governess to the young Princess.
- MARIA—Princess of Spain.
- ISABELLA—rival of Maria, with regard to Alonzo.
- LOUISA—a woman of fashion.
- MARTINEZ—a court-spy.
- FIVE LITTLE GIRLS—who enter in one scene only —The action the drama celebrates is supposed to have taken place on the day of the famous battle of Ronscevalles.
SCENE—A pavilion, on a hill near the plain of Ronscevalles.
RONSCEVALLES.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—XIMENES and CLARA.
DONNA Clara, I esteem it my duty, to warn you of a danger, which threatens the princess.
What do you mean in particular? There are a thousand dangers which threaten young ladies.
I mean the attention of Alonzo to her. The presumptuous boy is heir to the Castilian government, only in the third degree.
I have observed their motions. There is scarcely any thing in this court which can escape me.
I do not deny your vigilance; but would, as a faithful servant of the public, discharge my duty.
I shall be always guarded, I assure you.
SCENE II.—DONNA CLARA and MARIA.
MY good princess, there is a certain point of discretion.
Bless me! My dear governess, have I failed in any point of discretion?
No, you never have failed, my fear is only that you may fail.
Have I not always, my dear governess, listened to your advice▪?
It is only—this. You, if any person, must one day be the first lady in Spain. Remember that. A word has been dropped about the General's son.
And can that bear any reference to me?
I hope not, and it is my duty to tell you, it must not—Because you are one day to be the first lady in Spain. You must not consult your own happiness; but love and hate only as the court directs you—Alonzo is related to the government, only in the third degree—you understand me, I hope.
Then I must have no affection for him?
That is it exactly. What a fine princess! How quick and ready you are. You will remember it.
SCENE III.—MARIA and LOUISA.
REMEMBER it! well indeed I may, from the pain it gives me—They call me princess, but— in my kindest affections, I must not consult my own happiness, but merely the interest of the state. Is it so indeed? Then I had rather be a shepherdess.
My excellent princess, why so sad to day? That mind is too delicate to bear the pangs of grief.
I hope I am not more sad than usual.
Positively, my dear princess, you are. Would I be sad to make another happy: what a fortunate boy is my Lord Alonzo.
Shame on you, Louisa, to talk such nonsense, what is my Lord Alonzo to me?
Nothing as yet, only I suppose you wish he may be.
Louisa, who has given you power to take such liberties with me? I shall not be so harsh as to order you out from my presence, but if you proceed, I shall absent myself, and leave you to your own medications.
Nay but my dear princess be not angry. I ask pardon, I only enquire why you cannot always be light, and easy like me.
How can I be light and cheerful? This day a battle is determined. In yonder plain it will be tried, in three hours, or less, whether the Christians or Moors are to be masters of Spain.
And what of that? The men love to fight. Let them have enough of it. Whoever be the conquerers, it concerns not you and me.
Why not?
Whoever be the conquerers they will pay attention to the ladies, I suppose—Pleasure is my maxim; I live to be happy.
Can you not feel the loss of your friends? Can you part with your religion, and become a slave to the slaves of Mahomet?
Much the same—Whoever governs, the fate of woman is subordination—Yet still, had I a lover in the battle, and he led the van, ah! Alonzo.
Leave me, Louisa, leave me. You are so impertinent that I must desire it.
As I cannot love, myself, I delight to plague those who do, I know.
Why all these hints at Alonzo? Have I a tenderness for him? Let me examine my own heart. It never yet deceived me. I admire his virtues. So does every one beside. Is the whole nation in love? I think his address is elegant. So do all others. I rejoice in his successes. They are useful to the public. His attentions please me. So they please my aunt, old, and grave as she is. His absence makes me uneasy—Is this owing to tenderness? No—He is valuable to the nation: and it is a pity that so fine a youth should be lost. So, Maria, this heart is sound yet, and I am glad of that.
SCENE III.—ISABELLA and MARIA.
I AM come to you with a matter, which is very serious. It is spread thro the whole court.
What affair?
I am afraid your reputation is ruined forever. I could not have tho't such a story would have spread so much.
What story?
I am ashamed to mention it; but perhaps it is the only way to prevent its spreading.
Pray, what is it?
I am ashamed to tell. But they say that you, regardless of the nation's honor, and interest, as well as your own; have married Alonzo privately; contrary to the admonitions of your friends, and every principle of right.
A likely story, I wonder who made it. Have they not something to say about Alonzo too?
It is said▪ and every body believes it, that he is a most debauched fellow and associates with the vilest women in the Court and Town.
And nothing more? That is not half scandalous enough Were I at the cost of a lie, I would tell a big one.
They say he is the meanest of all cowards: that in the last battle, he ran away from the head of his division, and hid himself under a baggage cart.
That is scandalous enough I find the matter to be very serious —Who do you think invented these lies?
That must be a secret▪ at present: But I am sure it concerns you very much, to put a stop to them.
What, in the warmth of your friendship, do you advise me to do?
Forbid Alonzo your presence entirely. That is the only way to stop every one's mouth.
Then he will be wholly at leisure to give his attentions to you. I thank you madam for your good advice.
You will do as you please. If you will not take my advice you must abide the consequence.
SCENE. V.—MARTINEZ and MARIA.
YOU did right to affront Isabella. She is the most impertinent girl that ever existed.
She has no cause to be offended.
She means to injure you.
And I had almost said, who does not?
You may depend on my secrecy.
I have no mysteries to trust to you, or any one else.
Only with regard to my lord Alonzo. That is all, my dear princess.
Not with regard to him. The public is pleased with him, so are you, and Isabella, and twenty others, and I among the rest.
So you are afraid to trust me—If so I shall attend to other matters.
So here are the pleasures of being a princess. I must love and hate only for the public good, and give up all idea of my own happiness—I am envied [Page 131] by one, rivalled by another—maligned, and teazed by them all—yet never did harm intentionally in my life—how dearly do they, who govern nations, pay for their pre-eminence.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—MARTINEZ and ISABELLA.
I HAVE done all you desired me?
And with what success?
She owned every thing so frankly, that I could discover nothing.
Do you suppose there is any concern of importance between her, and young Alonzo.
I know not: she professed the same regard for him that others had, and behaved with the utmost composure.
She is a strange girl.
And you might say, she is a good girl, she is a person of as delicate a mind, and as perfect self command, at I ever saw.
I should like her virtues better if they did not oppose my happiness. And if I can discover any intrigue of hers; I will improve it to my own advantage.
In what manner?
I will inform the court—Alonzo is only heir in the third degree to the government. Should I only know that she was attached to him, I could have her shut up in a convent.
Then perhaps Alonzo would be banished, and what would you gain by your intrigue?
I may have the satisfaction to find that he is not attached to another, and that he cannot be.
I should esteem that a very cold comfort.
Cold as it is, it is the best that I now have—but I will try this matter further.
SCENE II.—ISABELLA and LORENZO.
AH! Lorenzo—what news have you?
The battle is determined, and the troops in great spirits—young Alonzo has a great honor conferred on him this day.
What is that?
He is to lead the van, as he requested.
That is a post of honor: but is it not a post of great danger?
It certainly is, and few envy him his station.
Be sure to tell Martinez of that; she will tell Maria.
SCENE III.— LORENZO and MARTINEZ.
Martinez, you have heard of young Alonzo.
What of him?
He will make Maria's heart ache to day, for he commands the first attack, and in all probability he must be killed.
The princess shall know of that, and then we will see how madam will keep her composure.
What is the reason that all you ladies seem to be envious of the princess Maria? Is there no man about the court worthy their notice but Alonzo?
SCENE IV.—MARTINEZ and MARIA.
MOST respectable princess.
Why, Martinez, do you pursue me every where? Can you not suffer your respectable princess to enjoy herself one moment.
If my presence be in the least troublesome I withdraw.
What is this. Chilly horrors run thro my nerves, and veins; and I am cold as if dipt in the Stygian lake. What is the cause? Only that I have heared that Alonzo commands the van in this day's battle. His life [Page 133] will be the forfeit of his bravery—I have watched my heart that it might not oppose duty—The least spot of indiscretion has never tainted my imagination—Why then should I dread the fate of Alonzo—Alas Maria, thou hast thy affections too—But they are pure, and pure they shall be.
SCENE V.—ISABELLA and MARIA.
MY princess, the battle is determined and Alonzo begins the attack.
That I believe, for you look as pale as a ghost.— Are you afraid he will be killed?
He is very brave.
He is! O, I tho't the last time I saw you that he was a great coward—But he is truly brave, and he conquers, or falls this day.
Do you think he will be killed?
I expect nothing else, I depend on it.
Martinez, bring me a cordial, and some water.
So in attempting to catch me you have caught yourself. But why does the girl delay to relieve her—I will go myself.
Martinez bring me some water.
SCENE VI.—LOUISA and ISABELLA.
Take this, and it will revive your spirits.
Has any one come from the field of battle?—Have you heard any thing of Alonzo?
Not a word. But suppose he is killed—There are a thousand other coxcombs in the world.
You never lost a friend I suppose.
I never had one to lose—All that I care for is to live easy. I never loved any person in m [...] life.
That is the reason why no one ever l [...]ved you
Probably enough; bu [...] why should I entangle [...] [Page 134] with the cares of half the world. Come cheer up. One party no doubt will win the day—And they will take notice of the ladies.
There needs something more than nonsense to comfort an afflicted heart.
Come Louisa, lead her to my apartment, and let her take some rest.
Rest I fear is no more for me.
SCENE VII.—MARTINEZ and MARIA.
I heard this moment, but I did not tell Isabella, that the Spaniards have gained the victory, and that Alonzo is killed.
It is just what I expected.
Then you never had any partiality for him.
How do you know that?
Because the hearing of his death does not disturb you.
You sharp folks know nothing—You may tell whom you please that I had. And now he is dead I will show all the respect to his memory I can. You can search bad hearts; but you know nothing of good ones. Go and call my little girls.
My little girls, your Lord Alonzo is dead.
What not my Lord Alonzo!
Yes, he was killed in battle this day, while he defended us all, and beat the Moors.
Don't cry my children; it will do no good. Go, and get your little baskets, and gather red baum, meadow-pinks, marjoram and other sweet flowers— So when they bring up the corpse and lay it out in state you shall go with me, and we will dress the bed with flowers.
We will do it for we always loved my Lord Alonzo.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—MARTINEZ and ISABELLA.
NOW Alonzo is gone, Maria and you will contend no more about him.
But how does she bear it?
She says she is not uneasy that he is dead — she never could have enjoyed his society in this world, she means to enjoy it in heaven.
A saucy toast; I could tear her eyes out—I have a great mind to die first.
You will not have the courage.
True, I never could bear to think of any thing but the pleasures of this world.
These sublime characters have the advantage of us—they expect to be happy in whatever manner they exist. I have tho't so much of it that: I am almost determined to quit dissipation, and be a sober considerate girl.
So have I, but some amusement has always put it out of my head.
SCENE II.—CLARA and ISABELLA.
LADIES you know the loss of Spain this day.
Would you command us in any thing?
You must assist the mistress of the wardrobe in procuring the necessary dresses, for the court must all go into mourning.
SCENE III.—CLARA and MARIA.
WHAT have you been doing with the little girls, Maria?
I sent them into the park to gather flowers to dress the bed of the deceased young general.
It is suitable to his merit; no one will blame you now he is dead.
Blame me or not, I shall do it. Persons in public station cannot honor their friends while living— Must they be restrained from it when they are dead?
They will not be. But you have a new duty— To forget Alonzo in less than a month.
In less than a month!
It would be a disgrace to a princess to mourn longer.
I knew we were restrained in our joy, but I thought we might mourn as long as we pleased.
No you must neither love nor hate, laugh not cry, sleep nor wake, eat nor drink, but for the public good, and by leave of the nation.
What reward have we for this?
The trouble it costs them who govern except now and then to be shot at or pelted—as they ride the streets—assaulted by a mob — libelled in public bills, or burnt, or hung in effigy.
Are these the blessed effects of supremacy?
The precise fate of all the great characters I have heard or read of: tho some have obtained reputation after death.
Then I resign the succession.
Asking your pardon—that will throw the nation into a quarrel—it must not be done.
I will die then.
You must not die unless the State pleases.
I wonder you can be witty upon so dreadful a subject.
I am as serious as the subject itself. Twenty physicians may be employed to keep you alive to a certain period—then you may die by the public executioner.
I shall deceive their hopes, I am now threatened with a decline.
But the Duke of Lemos means to demand you in marriage in a few days.
The man whom of all beings I most detest—I trust I shall do as I please in that matter.
Nay you must marry him if the court pleases; and love him too, or all the nation will hate you.
Now I shall die certainly—The loss of Alonzo, and the marriage of the Duke of Lemos will soon bring me to an end.
SCENE III.—LOUISA, who enters here; CLARA and MARIA.
There is the strangest story told here that ever was heard—Alonzo is not dead. He was wounded, but has recovered his senses and they are bringing him back in triumph.
They are indeed! I will know the truth of this affair—Maria what will you say now?
I am petrified with astonishment.
It is true, an officer reports it who comes express to the court.
Alonzo had rather have died, than see me married to the Duke of Lemos.
Now you see that you had better have done as I; lived in dissipation, and loved no one but yourself,
No, I had rather suffer every moment of my life, than be of such a temper. But let us go and enquire.
SCENE IV.—SILVANO (enters) and CLARA.
TELL Silvano, how is this affair of the young General's coming to life again?
The fact is—He engaged Abdallah king of the Moors, and was by him struck down by a blow on the head, and was left on the field—But after the battle, when [Page 138] the friends came to view the slain, it was tho't he discovered signs of life. A surgeon opened a vein; he bled freely, and in a few moments recovered his senses. And they are bringing him back in triumph.
How came the Spaniards to gain the victory, after the young General was dead?
His father, knowing his son was struck down, and supposing him dead, enraged to the utmost degree, encountered Abdallah, king of the Moors, killed him; and took Alonzo, his second in command, prisoner This is all I can tell you, madam, I must inform the rest of the court.
SCENE V.—CLARA, ISABELLA, LOUISA, MARIA, and MARTINEZ.
WHAT Louisa said is the truth. They are bringing him back in triumph.
Then I must be hurried back to misery again.
No; the heads of the nation assembled, immediately after the victory, and the recovery of Alonzo; first agreed to a thanksgiving. Then finding that the prince of Asturias and Duke of Lemos had been both killed in the battle; and that Alonzo is heir to the government, it is proposed that he be married to the princess Maria the evening after the feast.
Well madam I hope you will be contented with life now. I see you are gratified in every thing.
I should wish that I had some affection besides the love of myself, if I could be so fortunate.
To receive my honors by the loss of the great heroes of Spain is no great consolation to me.
But it is as much your duty to be happy for the nation's sake, as to be miserable—Come, my dear girl, it is now your duty to be happy.
I shall yield to the call of duty. Yet truly I am disappointed to be a queen on earth: I had much rather be a saint in Heaven.
Panthea. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN A SUIT OF SCENES.
THE EXCELLENCE OF MODESTY AND OF VIRTUOUS LOVE.
The antients wrote that there were two loves. One the son of Jupiter, by the Goddess of Beauty. This was the cause of modest amours, of love which terminated happily. He was perfectly harmless; his darts were headed with gold, and dipt in balm and honey. The other, the son of Erebus, by the Queen of Night. His darts were headed with lead, and dipt in gall and poison. The moral of these allegories is very useful to young persons of both sexes.
PERSONS.
- CYRUS—General of the Persians.
- ARASPAS—a Persian officer.
- MITHRAS—a counsellor and secretary.
-
Prisoners taken from the Babylonians.
- ABRADATAS—a Babylonian officer.
- GADATAS—a governor of a province.
- KADMIEL—a Jew.
- SACAS—armourer to Cyrus.
- MANDANE—wife of Cyrus.
- PANTHEA—wife of Abradatas.
- ARZINA—servant to Panthea.
SCENE—The camp of Cyrus on the borders of Babylonia—immediately after the first battle with the Babylonians.
PANTHEA.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—CYRUS and MITHRAS.
I WILL immediately give orders to the Priests to instute to Eternal O [...]omasd [...]s, the source of light, of being and happiness, a solemn Thanksgiving for the victory of this day.
Long live my brave counsellor.
Most excellent Cyrus, live forever. This victory will give splendor to the Persian Commonwealth, and immortalize your name.
I regret this destructive war. But the Babylonians will be content with nothing but making mankind the slave of their luxury and avarice.
The sword of Cyrus will bring them to reason.
Do not flatter me, Mithras—Rather freely tell me of my faults, and point out those vices of which I am in danger.
It would be a hard task to find out your faults.
I do not wish to think myself sure of success. Many causes may ruin a young man of twenty three at the head of a great army. I tremble when my friends call me great. What is your opinion, Mithras, of a great man?
It is not surely he, who eats and drinks and sleeps more than others—or who lives in idleness on other men's labors.
No, such men are rather objects of contempt.
Nor he, who is learned without usefulness, rich without profit, liberal without judg [...]ment, courageous without caution, or witty without prudence.
No, reason must govern. The manner and use of every thing must be considered.
On these principles might not one describe a great man.
He must be a great man who is ever doing the best things in the best manner.
There is one point more to be considered.
I cannot conceive of it.
Not conceive of it!
No, you must tell me.
Must he not do all from a sense of duty, from a free choice, and disposition to do good?
My good old friend, you are perfectly right. The will to do good makes a man resemble the great God— There is an advantage in age, it brings experience.
You will grow old too soon.
My worthy friend you shall not go yet.
Some private affairs call me.
Private affairs must submit to the public—You shall not go, till you have told me, how I may escape the odium which commonly falls on princes and rulers of states—You may tell me briefly, but tell me.
The first point it to avoid indolence and luxury —Chuse to labor for others rather than that they should labor for you. And excell all others in those things in which they most excell.
I never could bear to be outdone in any thing. I can live without sleep. I watched three whole days and nights with my grandfather, when he was sick in Media. I can endure the want of food—I have hunted often from break of day till evening and ate nothing but a piece of dry bread, and a bunch of cresses pulled out of a brook.
These are true signs of future greatness. But chastity in love affairs is very necessary—If you would be happy you must [...]ave but one wife.
Why so? Most of our eastern princes have from a hundred to a thousand.
Yes and that is their ruin—nature makes for one man only one woman. The sexes are almost precisely equal in numbers.
But might not one man engross more to his own advantage?
A poor man can maintain but one; and it is still more necessary that a rich man should have but one.
Why so?
If he have more it will be the interest of each to plunder her husband the most.
Princes regard themselves more than their families.
It is not good for themselves. Love is most happy, when directed to a single object—as a river flowing compact is noble, and dispenses a thousand blessings; divided, it sinks in mean rivulets, and dirty puddles—divided love has ruined most of the princes of the east.
I thank you, kind Mithras, attend now your private affairs—but I shall often send for you, and you must not be sparing of your advice.
SCENE II.—ARASPAS and CYRUS.
NOBLE Cyrus, live forever—I can tell you something which will please you.
Speak then Araspas if you please.
I have taken a most beautiful woman. I found her among the slain, on the field of battle, sitting on the ground, in obstinate silence, and her eyes streaming with tears. I with another officer raised her by the arms, and bore her to my tent.
Alas! how war tears asunder the dearest bands, and breaks those ties which are twisted with the fibres of the heart. It is some woman, probably, who lost her husband in the battle. The story does not please me, but gives me pain.
It was her beauty which I expected would please you. Her complexion is fine; her features soft and regular—Her eyes are lively blue—Her brown hair waves over her neck, which is white as snow. She has a delicate shape and easy manners; and the finest expression in her countenance—Her motions are like those of a goddess, and the graces attend all her steps.
Do you think she is handsomer than my wife?
She is very handsome, and I expected would be an agreeable present to you.
I thank you, I wish but for one woman. But are you not afraid to have her near you, if she be so beautiful?
Not I—You see I am growing old.
Keep her then; you are the most proper person— I do not wish to see her.
Your temperance, illustrious prince, is astonishing—May your success be equal to your virtues.
SCENE III.—CYRUS and SACAS.
Have you, Sacas, seen the lady taken by Araspas, in this days's battle?
I have; every body went to see her.
Is she handsome?
Yes indeed—That she is.
Is she as handsome as your mistress? I mean Mandanè my wife.
Why—ay—as to that—if she is not, she is the next handsomest woman in the world.
Did you talk with her?
Yes, she speaks very good Persian—She is the wife of Abradatas, Prince of Shushan, a brave officer: her name is Panthea. She wishes to send to their army to enquire for her husband. She says she is afraid, living only with the men—enemies too—and that Araspas does not always behave becoming.
I will call Araspas to an account, and protect her; but do not bring her here; I do not wish to see her.
What shall I do then?
Pitch a tent for her behind the armoury. Let two of our best maids wait on her. Then enquire for her husband—if he be killed, is a prisoner, or with the Babylonians.
I shall gladly do it, for I want to see her again.
SCENE IV.—MITHRAS, CYRUS, SACAS, and KADMIEL.
Illustrious general—I have brought you a curious old man, a captive, who complains of your soldiers—His name, he tells me, is Kadmiel.
Kadmiel, I wish you health and happiness.
Kadmiel, fear not to approach me— The [...]n [...]med soldier is my brother.
You were taken in this day [...]s battle.
I was.
Have my soldiers used you ill?
They have neither killed nor wounded me.
Did they offer you any indecency?
They refused me water to wash; they said it was scarce in the camp. They offered me vinegar—But that's not the law.
Did they injure you otherwise?
I told them I was hungry—They bro't me the legs of fowls dished with parsly sauce—My blood ran cold at the sight!
And were you hungry too—strange!
That was not the worst—They offered me half of a roast pig, dished with gravy and sweet herbs. What an abomination!
Excuse me Cyrus, this is certainly a mad man.
Peace, Sacas, peace. I'll ask your advice when I want it—Mithras, what shall I do with this man?
Let me examine him a little. Kadmiel, what injury was there in offering you the legs of a fowl dished in butter; or a piece of a roasted pig?
I have kept the law from my youth. I have never eaten of the sinew that shrank, of swine's flesh or creeping things, the abomination, or the mouse, or drank the breath of abomination.
If this be not a crazy fellow there never was one.
Peace, Sacas, peace, or you shall feel my displeasure.
Of what nation are you Kadmiel?
I am a Hebrew.
The same whom we call Jews?
Yes, the Lord's people.
As they say. Have they not a most singular law, which forbids the eating of swine's flesh, commands you to wash often, and so on.
That is all true.
Be comforted my old friend. Your religion makes you singular. I love a man who is firm to his principles of religion—You are no longer a captive—You are my friend.
May I be sure of your protection?
You shall have water to wash—You shall go to the [Page 148] ordinary and prepare your food in your own way.
SCENE V.—CYRUS and MANDANE.
WHAT my dear wife brought you here so suddenly?
Have you seen the beautiful captive?
I have not, nor do I mean to see her.
But you can do as you please in that matter.
I trust I shall always do as I ought with regard to my wife—My vows are sacred.
It was reported that you had received her with great attention.
Be assured I will receive no woman but yourself— The wife of my choice is the sole object of my love.
Thanks to my excellent husband—The great are apt to neglect such obligations. But why I know not, unless there is more dignity in vice, than in virtue.
SCENE VI.—ABRADA [...]AS (entering) CYRUS.
Permit the most unfortunate of men to lay himself at your feet.
Relate your misfortunes.
I fled to the army to save my wife, the most beautiful of women, from the impious views of Belshazzar the Babylonish King—In the late battle she followed me, thro affection, to the field. Since which time I cannot find her.
What would you do here?
I will unite my forces with yours. My estate shall be my pledge. At the end of war if I be faithful, they shall be mine. If I be unfaithful they shall be yours.
Well then if I receive you as an ally, I must provide for your comfort—There is a widow who lives behind the Armory, who lost her husband in the battle. Your mutual sorrows may console each other. For, regard my words, they are true, there you will find the beautiful Panthea.
Panthea! O heavens, Panthea! I fly to my sweetest life, O Panthea!
That fellow left your noble presence with very little ceremony
I can forgive him, I have a young and handsome wife as well as he.
SCENE VII.—SACAS, CYRUS and GADATAS.
THERE is a centinel at the door, with a prisoner. Shall I bring him in?
Immediately.
The fame of your clemency, illustrious Cyrus, has reached our ears.
May fame never say any thing of me but what is true.
I come not illustrious Cyrus to aggravate the picture of my injuries—I am governor of the fertile province of Gaditana—The impious Belshazzar has stolen from me, my most delightful wife, within a year of our marriage— He took her by force of arms, and armed men. I followed the ravishers to Babylon, and petitioned the king to restore her. But he ordered his servants to take, and abuse me, in the most infamous manner, and then dismiss me—I live, Cyrus, for revenge, for justice. And my sword is impatient to employ itself against the king of Babylon.
What kind of man must this Belshazzar be?
The most voluptuous of men. Wine and women employ him forever, the women have him as the gates of hell—He is drunk every evening, and his guards are drunk quite to the city gates.
Stay, you shall serve me—This Belshazzar is raising recruits for me last out of his own dominions.
SCENE VIII.—ABRADATAS, CYRUS and PANTHEA.
ILLUSTRIOUS Cyrus—The enemy are in motion —It is now a good time to bring off the Su [...]i [...]n Charioteers.
You shall take the command of the chariots yourself—I retire to give other orders.
My noble husband—What, i [...] armor already?
I am impatient to perform some noble s [...]ice for our deliverer.
But you may fall in battle.
True, yet that is no argument against my duty.
Certainly you are right. Go, and be virtuous— regard not the tears of Panthea.
If anything could make me value life above glory; it must be the possession of so amiable a woman.
I shall not detain you from the field of fame—Go, and if you die, I will die with you.
I go without reluctance—Let the incense of your prayers ascend to the Gods and I am sure of victory.
SCENE IX.—SACAS and ARZINA.
WHAT did Cyrus intend by sending for Araspas?
To punish him I suppose, for being rude to my mistress.
How queer that is, that my master should think of punishing him for that?
Why not punish him for that?
Because if a woman defends herself, no harm is done—if she does otherwise, two cheats make an even bargain.
Do you mean to abide by that principle?
Yes, that I do.
Very well, abide by it—But I hear that Araspas has sent for your pretty sister, as you call her, to come and live with him.
A dog—I'll horsewhip him, he's a vicious old rogue as ever lived.
What makes you angry?
A sister is one's own flesh and blood. If she gets disgraced, the infamy comes to me.
Suppose he should attempt any thing against her interests?
I'll stab him.
Suppose he should utterly ruin the happiness of her life?
I'd kill him—I could not bear it.
O, I thought that two cheats made an even bargain. Upon your own sentiments you ought to be horsewhipt, stabbed and killed. Well, I suppose it is no more than you deserve.
SCENE X.—CIRUS, (entering) and SACAS
Go, Sacas—Araspas is in waiting—tell him to come to me now.
I obey your orders, sire.
Well, Araspas, how does your philosophy bear it; you was not afraid to be with Panthea, tho she was so beautiful?
O Cyrus, illustrious general, I have been faulty— but did you know my case you would pity me. I plainly perceive that I have two souls—one good, one bad. When the good soul prevails, then I treat this woman well; when the bad soul prevails [...]hen I use her very ill. Did you know my case you would pity me.
Other men, I believe have as many souls as you. But you must follow t [...] dictates of the better soul. All honest people do; and because the bad soul is apt to be most mischievous when people have least to do, I order you to go on duty every day for six months together.
I should suppose that six months hard employ, would make any k [...]nd of soul peaceable.
Go then and make the experience.
SCENE XI.—MITHRAS, CYRUS and KADMIEL.
I find my old friend Kadmiel a curious man. He pretends he has a book which [...]old of you, one hundred and seventy years before you was born.
Where did you find that, Kadmiel?
In the writings of Isaiah.
Isaiah, who is Isaiah?
The greatest of our prophets next to Moses, a man of fortune and family—But the best of him was that he was a good man, and a prophet.
How could he know any thing of me?
Aye that's the point—But he writes thus.
"Thus saith the Lord to Cyrus, to his anointed, to Cyrus—Whose right hand I have holden to subdue nations before him, and I will give him the hidden treasures."
M [...]ght not this be said of another Cyrus?
What other has there been. Besides, do not you [Page 152] worship towards the sun, consider light as the divin [...] presence and darkness as the influence of the devil?
Yes, these are parts of the Persian religion.
To these our prophet a [...]des—That they may respect me more than the rising of the sun; because there is none beside me—"I form the light and create darkness— I make peace and create evil. I the Lord do all these things."
What says your prophet of me in particular?
In the name of the Lord he says. ‘Cyrus is my shepherd, he shall perform all my pleasure; saying to Jerusalem—Thou shalt be built, and to the temple, Thy foundation shall be laid.’ Jerusalem was our Capital, destroyed by the Babylonians, the temple, our chief place of worship.
Well, Kadmiel, this is a fair trial of prophesy, to see if it will come to pass. If I take Babylon, and get the hidden treasures, then I will build your temple again, and restore your city and nation.
The Lord of the Hebrews bless and prosper you.
SCENE XII.—GADATAS (enters with looks of deep sorrow) and CYRUS.
NEVER did my eyes before see so wretched a sight —The fair Panthea followed her husband, at a small distance to the field of battle.
Surprizing how love will overcome fear.
Her husband by a preconcerted sign brought off the S [...]sian charioteers. The Babylonians irritated at this, poured all their archers upon him—an arrow pierced his breast—Panthea, seeing him wounded, flew thro the ranks and supported him in her arms—till in another shower of arrows, one pierced her side—Both then fell together, and the streams of their blood were mingled in their f [...]ll—The Babylonians by our swordmen were soon dispersed, and when we came to look for our friends among the slain, we found Abradatas and Panthea, the husband dead, and the wife just expiring, fast locked in each others arms, and their bosoms filled with their mingled blood.
These then are my orders. Let Abradatas and Panthea be buried on the very spot where they died—Let a monument of the most durable marble be erected on the spot, bearing this inscription, THE MARRIED LOVERS. [Page 153] There [...] to the latest posterity, [...] the respect which Cyrus, and the Persian Commonwealth, have for virtuous [...], and the sacred compact of marriage —and of their detestation of those unmanly vices which have not only ruined families, but nations. And for which the vengeance of heaven, now remains, scarcely suspended, over the devoted city of Babylon.
The Foundling. A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.
THE CONTEMPT AND MISERY WHICH FOLLOWS A LIFE OF PLEASURE.
From the scenes of gross voluptuousness nothing is to be expected but misery, infamy, and baseness—And the man of pleasure, often less scrupulous than any honest man should be, sows the seeds of the bitterest remorse, when he imagines himself gathering the fairest flowers of delight.
PERSONS.
- FIELDFARE—a rich man, a man of pleasure.
- MELVILL—an honest reputable farmer.
- DR. MOORE—a physician.
- * PUFFPASTE—a singular man a baker.
- YOUNG MELVILL—son of the farmer.
- DICK—son of Puffpaste.
- SAM. MOORE—reputed son of Dr. Moore.
- MADAM MOORE—wife of Dr. Moore.
- MRS. PUFFPASTE—wife of Mr. Puffpaste.
THE FOUNDLING.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—MELVIL and FIELDFARE.
I DO not know how you relish our domestic scene—I love to live with my children.
It is a pleasing sight to see a number of spruce young fellows sitting together, and the [...] is one of these boys whom I fancy very much.
People have often smiled when they have seen you give him apples, and gingerbread.
Is he no [...] your son?
No, nor my wife's son.
You have a very pretty company, and I have tho't more of late than I used to do of the amusement of an agreeable family.
I have often wondered that a man of your genius should not wish to marry. You Bachelors form wild ideas of domestic life.
I always tho't it a state of confinement.
It gives just as much sense of confinement as the soul has in being confined to the body—or as a man has in having an estate of his own, or living in a house, or on a farm, of his own.
What is the drift of all that?
Should you esteem yourself free, because you had nothing to eat at home, but must buy a meal at an extravagant [Page 158] price, at a tavern? If you had no house, but must hire a wretched lodging in a garret—If you had no money but what you borrowed or stole, kept no table, but dined where you could, or went without a dinner.
No, but a wretched dependent.
Yes, such is exactly the freedom which a man enjoys who refuses marriage, except that it is neither so innocent, nor so reputable.
Then you think the acquisition of valuable property makes no man the less free.
Much less does the acquisition of valuable friends. All that liberty is worth is that we may gain such possessions, and serve them; but the evil of want of principle, is great. It hurts many persons who ought to be happy.
If women would take care of themselves, no person would hurt them.
Simplicity will not justify roguery—Suppose a merchant should take of a child dollars instead of shillings.
You'll beat me perhaps in the argument, I never was much of a reasoner.
I never knew a man of pleasure that was.
Let that be as it may—I seem to like that boy. But that he is not your son puzzles me.
He is not my son, nor my wife's son. He was brought up by Dr. Moore, and is an apprentice to Mr. Puffpaste the baker—I can enquire concerning him.
SCENE II.—Dr. MOORE and FIELDFARE.
DOCTOR, your servant, I hope you are well.
I thank you and am surprized to see you alive.
Why not alive?
Because I know nothing more likely to shorten a man's days, than such a life as you lead.
Doctors can give advice and physic but take neither of them, themselves—But can you tell me who that boy is who is apprentice to Mr. Puffpaste the baker?
I do not know, his birth is a secret to every body but Mrs. Moore.
Do you not conjecture whose child he is?
All that I know of him is that Mrs. Moore, [Page 159] after an evening visit brought home a beautiful child in a basket; we bro't him up and bound him out apprentice to a baker.
Whose child does he pass for in your family?
For mine, and were I conscious that he were my son, I have not a child who would give me more pleasure.
Then he is a likely lad.
Very likely?
Does he not, thinking himself your son, complain that you bound him apprentice to a baker?
He said he tho't it was odd—But he quieted his mind in thinking that he was our own child.
He must be a good tempered boy.
He is! The more is the pity, that he cannot have a suitable education—and certainly, I think his father, whoever he be, must feel as much remorse on that account, as for any injury done to another person.
Ah, there is no doubt of that!—But do you ask Mrs. Moore, perhaps she may tell—I will enquire of Mr. Puffpaste; and find out the truth if possible.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—YOUNG MELVILL and DICK.
DICK where's Sam Moore?
He is gone to get his new skates.
He will be so proud now, there will be no touching him with a boat hook.
Sam is quite ambitious. But he is a good-natured fellow.
Somehow I feel saucy to day, I suspect I shall affront him.
What makes you saucy. Have you been drinking hard?
I don't love rum. But the girls like Sam Moore better than they do me.
How do you know that they like him better than you?
Because I walked home with Miss Mincer, because it was dark and slippery, and you would have been affronted had you been in my place.
Why affronted?
Because when I was walking, she would say—shame don't be rough—Sam Moore would not behave so. Nothing is right, but what is done like Sam Moore.
You must not blame girls for being quite nice— You know if they are not pretty exact we are very apt to laugh at them when we are alone.
I do not know that Sam Moore is better than every body else neither.
Nor are you quite right, you appear to be a little envious.
He will be here in a minute, and you will see enough of his self importance.
SCENE II.—YOUNG MELVILL, DICK and SAM MOORE.
WILL you go a skating with us to day?
Yes, I long to try my new skates—if they perform as well as they look I shall go like the wind.
You always can beat every body—we shall be nothing to you. I suppose.
I never said I could beat every body, but if my skates were well fixed, I believe I should try to beat you.
I suppose you think you could do as well with me, as with Miss Mincer.
I do not know what you mean by doing well with Miss Mincer. I always meant to treat her decently.
Is that the way to make the girls like one. I tho't the way was to be very bold and smart.
It is according as how bold, and how smart you are—girls of no delicacy are as mean as the dirt in the streets.
It is a hard task I believe to please them.
If you think so, you will not please them—most certainly.
Tell me then how it is done.
Why if there be any thing kind or good to be done for them, do it quick and make no excuses—never do [Page 161] or say what they dislike, or speak bad of them—and they will soon find out one that likes them.
Then you think I don't treat them well I suppose.
I said no such thing, your jealousy must have told you so.
My jealousy! that's well for you, a poor basket bird.
Who's a basket bird?
You sir, if you please.
You villain! I'll tear your heart out.
You shan't punish him for saying truth.
What do you mean, gentlemen? I was as well born as any of you—and whoever maintains the contrary I'll fight him.
Who was your father, sir?
Dr. Moore, and I am prouder of his blood, than I should be of the blood of the twelve Caesars.
There you are mistaken, sir.
And who do you think your mother was?
Mrs. Moore—whom, because she appears so grand, all the people call Madam Moore. I am prouder to be born of her than to be born of an empress.
There you are mistaken again.
Who were my parents then?
No body knows—you was made a present of to Madam Moore in a basket; that's fact and disprove it if you can.
Let me alone and I'll whip him well—I'll teach you to talk of baskets in presence of gentlemen.
He has told no more than the truth, you shall not punish him.
You insult me beyond all patience, I will throw off some of my clothes and then I will whip you both well.
SCENE III.—Dr. MOORE and S. MOORE.
SILENCE!—Boys what is this rout here? what stripping to fight, for shame Sam! I could not have [...]ho't this of you.
Why sir, any man would fight to be insulted so. He says I am not my own father's son; and that my mother never bore me—He lies, I know he does.
I should have been more disposed to have laughed at him than to have beat him for that.
He said it in malice, sir, and it is more than flesh and blood can bear.
He said it in malice! I will enquire into that▪ Do you stay, the other young gentlemen will withdraw.
SCENE IV.—DR. MOORE and SAM. MOORE.
NOW tell me Samuel, tell me, what has been the cause of this quarrel.
They began to talk about skating and about Miss Mincer—They took offence at what I said—called me basket bird—and said that you was not my father, and that Mrs. Moore was not my mother.
Well you must not beat them for that.
It is not true I hope.
Not far from truth. But you must not be kept ignorant—You are not my son, nor is my wife your mother—And I know not whose child you are.
O my grief—you not my father, Mrs Moore not my mother—O my heart will burst!
I shall die, I shall die.
SCENE V.—FIELDFARE, DR. MOORE and MELVILL.
That boy went out in extreme anguish—I always fancy he resembles me. I always love to see and observe him—I feel very much for him now.
He may be very near to you. But I know nothing of the matter
Go after him Doctor, and take care of him; I will pay you well.
You heart, my friend Fieldfare, is not half hard enough [...] a [...]ake—You ought to be insensible to the groans [...] fathers, the sighs of tender mothers, the tears and ago [...]s of distresse [...] [...] sufferings and cries of deserted [Page 163] infancy, the undeserved infamy of deserted children— nay his heart, that he may not feel remorse, should be harder than the Baltic steel.
Good heavens! what a description! Such a man must be unfit to live.
A proper rake is I suppose always unfit to live.
This lad is dangerously ill—His symptoms are very bad—The fits are violent, and the spasms cen [...]re about the pericardium—I wish you would look out for a good nurse for him
I suspect this lad is my son—would to heaven I could find out his mother; she must be the properest nurse for him.
I cannot tell you. I would not for ten thousand pounds undertake to track you in all your ways.
That is true, but I have extreme anxiety for this boy—Should he die, I find I must suffer extremely—would to heaven I knew who his mother was.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—Mr. and Mrs. PUFFPASTE, (entering together.)
CAN you tell, my woman, any thing about this boy. I find there is likely to be a noise about him.
Ye [...], I could if I tho't it safe and proper.
You would not conceal any thing now from old spark ▪ that's as true as a die—I won't tell tales; burn my whiskers if I do.
I will tell you if you will undertake to plague Fieldfare a little—I'd make him feel with a witness—He has used the mother of this boy very ill—And men who use women so ill ought to suffer.
That's right, I like to see a woman good sponk to stand up for her sex, burn my whiskers if I think there is a man in a thousand who blames them for that.
Well I know who she is well enough, you [Page 164] remember that woman in a Bengal gown who was here yesterday to buy biscuit—you observed how melancholy she looked. That was the very woman.
Shave me up, if I ever tho't of that; I've got my clue now. I'll plague him well.
SCENE II.—Mad. MOORE and PUFFPASTE.
MR. PUFFPASTE, has Mr. Fieldfare been enquiring of you about Sam's mother?
Yes.
Well, tell him not a word—we will contrive the matter so as to do her justice yet.
Madam I do not mean to tell any tales out of council—but I mean to give him a hearty sweat—Trust old Spunky for that.
Swea [...] him well with all my heart. If it were in my power I would sweat such fellows one half of an eternity at least.
Leave that to me—I'll plague him well; people say I'm a queer fellow; but I like the women right well. There's my wife now, fat, easy, and contented—As plump a Joan as there is in town.
She does credit to your good nature Mr. Puffpaste.
Aye that she does, and I'll keep her yet as fat as buttered bunns, trust me for that.
SCENE III.—FIELDFARE (entering) and PUFFPASTE.
WHAT excessive pain it gave me to see this boy sick—I wonder if I should feel the same degree of joy on his recovery? It is possible—this boy then, if it be in the li [...]e of possibilities, shall be raised up again—till I suspected this boy to be my son, I did not know what feelings my heart was capable of—Mr. Puffpaste—I am on the rack of anxiety till I can discover the truth concerning this boy.
Why there it is now—I'll wager you fifteen to a quarter—that a married man can learn more in one year, than a rake can in ten.
Why? you take me up drily—and what can he learn?
Why that it is better to do right than to do wrong, by a large slice—and to be married to a good wife is better [Page 165] than to be single—that a wise man is b [...]tter than a fool —and to be a father is better than to be nothing.
Don't any man know such things, who has common sense?
Then you have not common sense, you are ignorant of every notch in the paste; you don't know a mince pie from a sea biscuit.
Do not I know tis easier to do right than to do wrong?
Naw—that ye dânt—you've been this whole day looking after your boy, and you don't know you've found him now, s [...]ttin. Naw you come to me to ask for your wife—I'll be buttered if I ever come after you to ask for my wife. Let a man only use his wife well, and he can find her the darkest [...]ght that ever was.
Finish, since you've begun. Any man knows that it is better to do right than to do wrong.
Na ye don't know it neither. You dined once at a nasty tavern, you said, and was drea-a-dful sick after it. Keep a table of your own, and then you may dine nice—and you'll find it better by a large slice.
A fiddles end of your observations. I want to find out Sam's mother, and set her to nurse him.
There 'tis again—What a carnal fool you are; ask me what you should know yourself. I know Sam's mother, I believe I do; but I will not tell you unless I please. Think'd I come to you to ask for my wife? If your wife was where she should be, you could find her.
I have no wife.
Burn me if I don't think you lie now, honored sir. Suppose you and I take a biscuit—You hold one side and I t'other, and we break it right in the middle—Don't we hold equal halves? Burn my whiskers if I don't think your son's mother is your proper wife.
A truce with your nonsense then, and tell me where to find her.
I should have a great mind to tell you if I thought proper—No I wont—It will get abroad that I told tal [...]— It will be for her benefit—Now I'm a good mind to tell you—But I may make mistakes—Now I wont tell you.
Come old friend, tell me without any roundabouts, where she is—I'm all impatience to know.
All impatience. Then I won't tell you—I long to [Page 166] punish you—cruel to your wife—I saw her the other day— so thin!—so pale!—eyes so red!—cries so much!—Now my wife you see—folks say I hav'nt half the wit that you have—fags, I would't swap heads with you for a pistareen to boot. See my wife, how fat she is in the face, and as fresh as a four penny cake. A wise man knows more than a fool. A wife man keeps his wife, and a fool forsakes her, d'ye see!
You are the most impertinent rascal that breathes —There!
tell me, or I'll cudg [...] you well, you old shepherd.
There sir, I can outrun you; or if you do knock my brains out, I'll never tell you where your wife is, smoke me if I do—I won't be forced to do as I please, so good night, sir.
Now I'm as far from my purpose as ever. I have abused the women, and lost respect among the men—Old squaretoes, to treat me so—How low I must be sunk! How the wretch tormented me! What I feel for this boy! I love him—I should have loved his mother. Could I have lost my liberty by living with those whom I loved—Could I find her she must be more ugly than sin, or I would have her—My son live with old Puffpaste! Sam is made for better things. I'll find her out yet and do her justice.
SCENE II.—Dr. MOORE (entering) and FIELDFARE.
Your son, sir, is in a fair way of recovery.
He is? I thank you sir—Never did the speech of man give me such sincere raptures. I thank you for this happy news.
His sickness has brought out the whole secret. The mother, hearing he was on the point of death, came half distracted to my house—
Let me see her, let me see her; for heaven's sake, let me see her!
She will not be seen, unless you first engage to marry her.
What, marry and never see her? She may be the most disagreeable hag in the world.
I am sorry if you have had such connections. But [...]he lady positively will not be seen, unless you will first engage to marry her, and take her into immediate maintenance.
Why so secret about it?
She says she has tried your word and she cannot trust you upon that; then if every body knows what is hitherto a secret, her character is utterly ruined.
How does she mean to hold me?
You must sign a bond to forfeit ten thousand dollars, if after you have seen her you do not have her. She will also secrete her son that you shall never have him.
I cannot blame her. Yet to what a wretched dilemma I am reduced. She may be some low dirty slut.
True.
Or an abominable scold; and one might as well marry a thunder cloud.
Very true.
A notorious liar.
Likely enough.
A thief.
So much the better, she will steal enough to maintain you both.
She may be bad as—the furies!
I know that.
I am very—very miserable, and can blame no one but myself.
I ask you but this once whether you will sign—if not I put up my papers, and you neither see the woman nor the boy forever.
Alas! what shall I do? I may ruin myself at one stroke— But better outward misery than inward remorse. Thus we, in our riper years, atone in deep remorse and anxiety for the follies of youth. Thus I sign perhaps my own death warrant.
There, tell me now, have I cut my own throat or not. If I have, let me lie down and die on the spot.
Rise sir, and know your destiny—no sir you are pledged to a very worthy woman—the moment a [...]
The Female Gamesters. A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS.
DANGER AND CURE OF VICIOUS HABITS.
EVERY vicious habit subjects the mind to a real slavery. The most sacred relations of life, with the duties annexed to them, are contravened by a vicious propension which has once mastered the reasoning faculty—This in no instance is more evident than in that of women, otherwise delicate and well bred —addicting themselves to GAMING—Few vicious habits are cured but by some very powerful cause, such as extreme sickness, or fear of present death— we should not therefore complain of life on account of frequent dangers and fears. They are medicines of providence to cure us of our vices.
PERSONS.
- MR. OMBRE—a merchant, and a very indulgent husband.
- SMART—a high spirited citizen.
- ALLWORTHY—a very methodical, but very genteel man.
- MRS. OMBRE—a female gamester, conductress of a party.
- MEACHUM—a wife in slavish fear of her husband.
- SMART—a high spirited wife, counterpart to her husband.
- ALLWORTHY—a prudent sensible woman.
- ARTFULL—a wife who values herself on her canning.
- MISS EIGHTEEN—a proud handsome girl.
- PINCH'EM—a housekeeper to Mrs. Ombre.
SCENE.—A merchant's house in the city of Bristol in England.
THE FEMALE GAMESTERS.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—Mr. and Mrs. SMART.
WELL, I hope you have no objection to my going to Miss Bridget's this evening.
Certainly I have; and must tell you that you positively must not go.
Very pretty indeed! so as soon as we be married we must be laid under positive commands.
Posi [...]ive, or not, I mean to be master in my own house, and you go at your peril.
Lordly indeed, Mr. tyrant—But why may not one see a little company?
Company is not your only object, it is well known that Miss Bridget keeps a gaming table for ladies. You might as well be unfaithful to my love as addicted to gaming.
I guess you will find that I shall go where I please nevertheless.
You shall go where I please, so prepare yourself to go in a chaise with me to Gloucester.
SCENE II.—Mrs. SMART and Mrs. ARTFUL.
I protest I won't bear this—To be led by the nose by a husband—I scorn it.
Can you not flatter him into good humor?
There never was such an obstinate despot as my husband. There is no bearing with him.
Poh! The least said is soonest mended: you cannot disgrace your husband without discracing yourself.
I wanted to go and see cousin Bridget, but my saucebox says that he has engaged me, and I must go with him to Gloucester.
And why not? The journey is pleasant, with an agreeable friend too—I always delight to ride abroad with my husband.
But they are to have a card party at Miss Bridget's this evening—And my tyrant refuses, and I am determined I won't bear it.
SCENE III.—ARTFUL and MEACHUM.
THIS woman is out in her politics, an obstinate husband is never reclaimed by raving.
'Happy to meet you, my good friend, I wish to know of you, how you manage your husband.
Why do you need such counsel—I tho't you and your sweetheart lived in the promised land of matrimony flowing with honey, and all sweets imaginable.
We never quarrel, but it is all owing to me. If he frowns upon me I tremble—I am afraid of him as of a lion—He is very sovereign I assure you.
I believe you are a piece of a fool for that.
How would you prevent it?
Prevent it! a woman may have her due influence with her husband if she acts right.
That is just what I wish to know.
For a general rule, never seek any thing but to make your husband happy.
What shall I gain by that?
When you wish to carry a particular point, you will have great influence.
And is that alone sufficient?
When he is in good humor never put him out of it.
But I crossed him a good deal when I was first married to let him know I would not obey.
There you was not cunning. You put him on his defence, and he was obliged to carry his point, or be your slave.
Now I wish to go to Bridget's, but he says positively he will not live with a gamester.
Does that affright you?
I am but a child to take care of myself: were he to leave me, I should be the wretchedest woman in the world.
So he has found out that—But what arts have you ever used with him?
I was determined once to scold him well; but he always left me to enjoy my own music.
What did you do then?
They told me that a husband of feeling could not resist my tears—I cried for every thing I wanted, and it answered very well for a while.
But did not last I suppose.
I sometimes feigned it, and so when I cried for trifles he would not regard me.
Then you did wrong; you should never cry but in matters of consequence, as for example, for a new gown, or to go out against your husband's will. There is great art in crying properly.
You do nothing but blame me—But they say your husband indulges his wife more than any other.
What if he do?
I wish to go to Bridget's but my husband will not consent; and without that I might as well die as go.
Tell him he is the best husband in the world, and that you will be the goodest, and the kindest, and the sweetest, wife to him that ever was, if he will let you go.
Will such silly coaxing have any effect?
Try it and see: and remember never to scold at your husband at all; and never cry, but when there is reason for it—and not often when there is.
SCENE IV.—MEACHUM and SMART.
WELL if coaxing will do I'll coax him to perfection—I have some talents for that—
Coax him. I would choke him first; I suppose you mean your husband. What brutes these creatures are!
Yes.
And do you coax him? I'd let him know I would do as I please.
And how can you do that?
I never enquire how I can do it; but do it without enquiring of my sauce box—To day he was as high as my lord because I talked of going to the card-party.
And how did you get away?
I told him I would go to the card-party and would not stir to Gloucester—And I went out of the room, topping high—went up stairs—He looked very angry and rose to follow me—I went up stairs very fast—he went up a few steps and stopt, then went up again, then stopt; I watched him; at last he came up slowly, I slipt down another pair of stairs, stept into the carriage and drove away.
And what will be the consequence?
I care not, he may go to Gloucester on foot or hire a carriage if he pleases.
SCENE V.—ALLWORTHY, MEACHUM, and SMART.
Ladies, you seem all to be engaged on some adventure, pray, what is it?
Yes, Mrs. Allworthy you will go with us to the card-party.
No▪ indeed I shall not.
Why not, madam?
I will not dissemble my sentiments, I do not think it proper.
Not think it proper?
No, I do not for a woman to leave the company of her husband, and the care of her children; to go to some public house, and pass the evening at cards—where, if successful she stays late—if unfortunate she comes home peevish—and the worst company imaginable to her family.
You are an old fashioned creature.
Good fashions ought to last forever, and I think it a very good fashion in a lady to refuse gaming.
Well that is clever now. You are just like your old grandmother. I remember how she used to put her spectacles on, and sing it out, ‘Cards and dice, are the Devil's device. If you'd enjoy your day, abstain from play.’ So you think too.
You have given a ridiculous turn to the sentiment. But let me express it and see if it can be despised. It is dangerous for a woman to be a gamester. She will lose her character, her husband's affections, and the respect of her children, and then she cannot be happy.
You are the most old fashioned creature that ever was, so, I say no more to you.
If these woman be not rushing on their own perdition I have no reason—It is full bad enough for men to game at public houses, and keep late hours—If women do the same they appear divested of the proper delicacy of the sex.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—Mr. and Mrs. ALLWORTHY.
I WAS sorry this moment to meet my friend Smart very angry at his wife.
His wife may have given him just provocation. But I observe that in cases of this kind, you always favor the women.
The cause may be that I have ever been acquainted with women who are virtuous and reasonable.
Your extreme complaisance almost makes me suspect you of flattery.
Think, my lovely friend, that when [...] man trusts his honor, his interest, the keeping of his heart and happiness to a woman, this is something more than flattery.
It certainly is, and the surest mark of confidence. I esteem it a great honor to be entrusted with such a precious charge. But supposing I should wish to go to the card party?
You may if you think proper—I leave you to your own reason and discretion.
One thing I am certain of. No woman can be happier than I, with respect to her husband.
SCENE II.—Mis EIGHTEEN and Mrs. ALLWORTHY.
You say your life has been more agreeable since you married than before—Yet I am determined never to be married.
You may alter your resolution.
No, never, you may depend upon it.
Bravely resolved. But such resolutions have often failed.
Mine shall not—shall not—unless I could have such a husband as yours, I admire him.
Why that is frank indeed, to confess a particular regard for my husband.
I did not say that neither, but it might be the case if it were not a crime.
Worse and worse—But what qualities have you discovered in my husband, to attract your notice?
Because he is always so generously complaisant. My mamma says, that you behave together not like old married folks, but like a couple just going to be married.
True, I know no difference but on the best side.— Mr. Allworthy has ever been more kind and more attentive to me since we were married than before. The truth is, he always was a proper gentleman.
It is said that he always lets you do just as you please.
He does—I never knew him, in any case, to give me a direct refusal.
Would he let you go to the card party?
He never forbad it.
Now I wish to know how a woman can make a complete gentleman so attached to her.
That is needless, as you never intend to be married.
Why, perhaps I might, could I be as happy as you, and have such a husband as one chuses.
Certainly I would chuse only such as I have.
But how could you make him like you so? that is the thing I want to know.
It was not my beauty, certainly.
No, it is not extreme, but well enough.
Nor my gaiety, or frequenting public places.
No, for people say you go about much more since you married than before.
Yes; you see then it was none of these matters.
Well, you torment me, I want to know what it was.
To be serious then, all I know of it is this, that I first considered whether Mr. Allworthy were a reasonable man. I found that he was—Then I made it my constant aim, to perform whatever was agreeable to him, and avoid whatever was disagreeable to him, both before ma [...] age and since.
But they say a rose is no rose without its thorns— and that all sweet, and no sour spoils the appetite.
Human life has thorns enough without making any artificial ones—And is it not a fact, that both men and women are most attached where they feel most happy? They are most easy in their minds where they are best treated, and enjoy the pleasure of self esteem. I consider vice and folly as out of the question.
But it is not delicate to take such pains to please a man.
It is as delicate as to torment him. A dove is at least as delicate a creature as a snake—Besides, who needs to know your views, you simple sense?—You may find out what a man likes or dislikes, by himself or his neighbors— say nothing of your designs, but avoid the offence, and perform what is agreeable. In that consists the whole secret —and tho you do it by design, a man who loves you, will always think you do it from the native goodness of your heart.
If that be the way I shall let him pass, I am determined they shall love me for my beauty and my fine accomplishments: and if ever I be married I will do as I please, that is positive.
That is no more than I do, who never was positive about it.
But I won't have it in that way; and to be sure I will not be restrained in gaming—I intend to begin before I am married, so that my husband shall have no face to find fault with me.
Husband! Husband! I thought you never meant to be married.
O I forgot myself; I do not intend to be married [Page 178] —but I can have a husband if I please, I would have you to know; so I will dress myself for the card-party this minute.
SCENE III.—SMART and ALLWORTHY.
SO I am going you see, and my husband, poor to [...]d, may go to Gloucester on foot like a saucy wretch; think to restrain me!
What if he should take a coach and go with some other woman.
He is too honest for that.
That is a very curious reason for using him ill. But honesty may sometimes meet with his match. Nothing is more likely than ill treatment, to make him seek the graces of another.
You are a wretch for starting such a thought. Heav'ns how it pains me here!
I will haste to the card-table and forget it as fast as I can.
You will have enough to do to forget it even there.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—Mr. and Mrs. OMBRE.
HERE my good girl, see how I leave matters. There is money with the housekeeper to buy provissions for the family, and to purchase you a suit for your wedding day; I give this to you.
I know it, and there is money left here by Mr. Oldfield for you.
I do not need it, I have enough to answer the demands of the day.
I hope you will not forbid me to go to the card-party.
Forbid you, no, tho I do not love cards—and should be very well contented if you did not. It is a very insipid game to me—but you will be robbed if it be known that you go—you have money.
That is only to terrify me from going to the party.
But I will escort you for fear of harm.
You may save yourself the trouble: the men are very fond of showing how necessary they are to the women—I shall be as well without you.
SCENE II.—Mrs. OMBRE and Miss PINCH'E [...].
WHERE is the money which my husband left to buy provisions?
It is here; but why does not Mr. Ombre buy provisions himself.
because he trades remote from the market in the further part of the city—so he leaves the money with me.
I would help myself out of the money very freely —I should love a careless husband.
O I shall not forget that, you may depend on it. But how much may we venture to take?
Well if I help you to this money you must keep me safe from harm, for there is no way but to pinch it out of the family.
It grieves me for the poor children, but then it must be done. It is genteel you know.
Well here are thirty guineas which we may save —your husband left sixty to buy flour, but brown bread will do for the children, and it will not cost more than half so much.
Well, and to make it pass, we will eat the same—so if Mr. Ombre should enquire, we can tell him that the children eat as good as we.
No madam I am not going to eat brown bread neither—while I do the work, I will live upon the best.
Then set brown bread on always for the children, and for me, when my husband is absent. But there is no other way that a saving can be made?
We might mix the strong beer with water half and half, and by that means raise a considerable [...]um.
There is the money which my husband left me to purchase a suit of clothes to celebrate my wedding day— I will borrow a suit of your clothes and wear it that day, my husband will never mind it—so do you give me what [Page 180] you have saved at present, it may pay this day's debt—but there is another thing which I have thought of.
What is that?
There is the sum which Mr. Oldfield left for my husband. I will take that to save the chance of being out of cash by a bad run. I shall win in my turn enough to make it up. Go, for the present, to the business of the family, and see what further savings may be made.
Now many persons would have made these savings to increase their own private estate. But I to pay my debts of honor, mine is the noblest motive. Indeed it went against my conscience a little to shorten the allowance of my poor children. But what is to be done—one had better be out of the world than be singular in good company.
SCENE III.—EIGHTEEN, ALLWORTHY and OMBRE.
WELL I am determined to go—I won't have my husband say after marriage that I cheated him. I'll bring him up to cards.
The husband you are resolved never to have.
I will not be insulted any more with that Mrs. Allworthy—I can have a husband if I please, but I won't
unless I please.
Your husband is very kind, he loves not cards; but he never troubles you about it.
He is very kind and he loves not cards, but who that has learnt the fashion, ever pretends to care for that— I shall go,
SCENE IV.—ALLWORTHY and EIGHTEEN.
NOW my dear girl you are not yet hardened in vice. I advise you not to go to the card party this evening. It is a dangerous practice.
I determine to go, and there is nothing that you can say which will hinder me. But I am waiting for Miss Idle, as soon as she comes I shall go. But you may say any thing in the mean time.
You are uncommonly generous for a woman who loves cards, and for that reason I tell you, that if you pursue [Page 181] this practice of gaming you may give up every prospect of a happy settlement in life.
I care not for that: I wonder what makes Miss Idle stay. I will not wait for her any longer.
What a strange infatuary vice! The most affectionate pairs are separated, and alienated from each other. Girls give up the prospects, which are dearest to the youthful heart—mothers can deprive their families of their food, and be hard hearted against their own children —nay can even give up their beloved dress, all for that wretched insipid game of cards.
SCENE V.—PINCH'EM running in to ALLWORTHY who remains.
O mercy!—what shall I do? mistress is murdered I believe.
What makes you think so?
As I came from the Grocer's shop which is at the head of Bembow street, I saw three very ugly fellows in close conversation at the corner of a coal house. I got as near to them unseen as possible, and overheard them say that they knew of a card party at Miss Bridget's, and that, the ladies would have money; and they meant to way-lay, rob and murder them. Poor mistress, I am frighted out of my wits, she is gone for it, I believe.
SCENE VI.—All the ladies rush in with noise and confusion▪ except Mrs. OMBRE.
THERE was the dreadfulest noise of quarrelling in Bembow street; and they cried out murder, murder! Somebody is killed, I believe.
I am astonished, as every one must know they had money, that they should go thro Bembow street, as they must know it is famous for robbers.
It was the shortest way to Miss Bridgets, and we were in a hurry to get there.
The love of gaming is even dearer than life.
Are you alive?
Yes, I am alive, but had it not been for my kind and generous husband, I certainly had been murdered— He knew that I must go thro that street, and tho I perversely [Page 182] refused his protection—he▪ expecting the robbers would assault me, placed himself in a proper situation to defend me.
'Twas a great chance that you was attacked near where he was placed.
It was: first two ugly fellows laid hold on me with great knives in their hands; and a third was coming up with a cutlass. My husband felled one with his cane and run another thro with a sword, he grappled with a third, and left him helpless, he received five wounds himself but none dangerous.
So Mrs. Meachum, you was there.
By Mrs. Artful's direction, I got leave.
'Twas I put her in the way of it.
But I wish I had not gone.
But if no harm is done we may take another course and go yet.
No, mischief enough has been done already. I saw your husband, Mrs. Smart, in a hackney coach, with a noted woman going to Gloucester.
O heav'ns, my husband—I shall die—
And the mischief does not end here—The gentleman who was courting Miss Eighteen, coming to her house, and learning that she was gone to the card-party▪ went and took up her rival, and is gone with her to Bath.
Confusion seize them—Oh I'm distracted, oh!—
Let us never take a step that way again. I must have perrished had it not been for my generous husband— and shall I employ my time to the utter ruin of his affairs? I had almost ruined his family before—his generous kindness saved me. I will abuse it no more.
Scanderbeg, * OR THE PRINCE OF EPIRUS. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE—IN VERSE. IN THREE ACTS.
VOLUPTUOUSNESS DANGEROUS TO YOUTH.
PERSONS.
-
CHRISTIANS.
- SCANDERBEG—Prince of Epirus.
- HELENOR—a Christian Bishop and Prophet.
- AMESA—his nephew.
- MORATH—aged General of the Foot.
- HAEMON—General of the Horse.
-
TURKS.
- ACHMET— Visier of the Turkish army.
- MUSTAPHA—Bashaw, second in command.
- EFFENDI—Secretary.
- HALY—a spy.
- ZEPHORA—Eliza's nurse, both having been captives to the Turks.
- PAULINA—a grave lady, captive, and servant to the Visier.
SCANDERBEG—OR THE PRINCE OF EPIRUS.
ACT 1.
SCENE I.—SCANDERBEG and HELENOR.
SCENE II.—SCANDERBEG and AMESA.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—HALY, a Turkish spy, enters. HALY and AMESA.
SCENE II.—HALY, VISIER, and MUSTAPHA.
SCENE III.—VISIER and EFFENDI.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—MORATH and HAEMON.
SCENE III.— (A single centinel enters with a woman prisoner) —ZEPHORA and MORATH.
SCENE IV.—SCANDERB [...] (entering with martal music.) MORATH and HAEMON.
SCENE III.—AM [...]SA reentering guarded, SCANDER [...]EG an [...] HELENOR.
The Maid of the Groyes. A DRAMA, IN FIVE ACTS.
A RESPECTABLE CHARACTER IS MORE VALUABLE THAN RICHES.
RICHES only make a person contemptible without virtue and good breeding—the man of virtue is infinitely better calculated to make his friends happy than the man of wealth—and if a person shall only be firm in the ways of virtue, there is scarcely an instance in a hundred, in which the event will not be prosperous—the arm of providence sustains the heart that is honest—virtue can acquire friends, and wealth; but mere wealth can neither procure virtue, nor friends.
PERSONS.
- CAPT. BLOOMSGROVE—an officer of the army of the United States.
- MR. TREADWELL—minister of Bloomsgrove parish.
- MR. MANLY—a subaltern, of the army, engaged in farming.
- IRONSIDE—a blacksmith in Bloomsgrove village.
- BUTTERFORD—a feeder of cattle.
- O' CONNOR—servant in pay of Manly.
- MRS. IRONSIDE—wife to Mr. Ironside, aunt to Julie [...].
- JULIET—daughter of Capt. Bloomsgrove.
- MAYFLOWER—a coquette—rival of Juliet in pretensions to beauty.
THE MAID OF THE GROVES.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—MANLY and JULIET.
WHY Miss Bloomsgrove are you so uncommonly pe [...]sive?
I sh [...]uld appear very awkward, were I to tell you my dreams.
Your dreams must be elegant as well as your waking ideas—tell me one [...] dislike it, never tell me another.
My imagination last night represented in the most lively manner my father returning and approving of my whole conduct in his absence.
That vision is my property —it decides a very important question—if you are to be mine—This heart c [...] never know tranquility till completely blessed in your love, or frozen by the blast of despair.
I can decide on no one's suit till my father returns: you must have patience or quit your pretensions.
Do you remember your father's looks?
Very faintly—when he went into the army I was but four years old—they say I look very much like my mother—I cannot remember her.
You are extremely like her, and a fine woman she was.
I was so pleased with the imaginary sight of my father—that when the pleasing vision was fled, I could not refrain from tears—How happy must child [...]en be, who daily see their parents and enjoy their protection.
How did your father appear in your sleep?
A man of middle size, a plump round face, black eyes, [Page 202] his eyebrows rather thick—his look sedate and steady— and I imagined he showed me a scar on his right arm.
That was the very look of your father; and he was wounded in the right arm in the battle of Princeton.
But it were foolish to place any dependance on dreams.
Dreams are liars—yet they may tell the truth and tell me, Juliet, who always tell the truth—whether I be disagreeable to you—If I be I will not trouble you any more with my presence.
O sir I esteem you virtuous, well bred, and a valuable acquaintance—and on this account, especially because you always let me be mistress of myself.
He must be detestable who could think of injuring so amiable a person.
Then you must withdraw—for if my aunt should see us together, I should have no peace for one fortnight.
Nothing is so delightful to me as to converse with you, my dear Bloomsgrove, but if my presence be in the least troublesome, I absent myself in a moment.
SCENE II.—Mrs. IRONSIDE and JULIET.
LET me look of your work, Jule, see here, you have sewed this on wrong. Pray what have you been thinking about? about Manly I suppose; han't you been crying and whimpering about him—hold up here—an't your eyes red?—why no, tolerably bright, brighter than common I think—he can't have been here surely.
Why should you think of his being here? you never heard me speak a word in his favor in my life.
And think the more—you are not spiteful to him, I know, for he is always tagging after you.
Why ma'am I never feel spiteful to any body.
Why can't you find some one to your liking? I only forbid you Manly.
I cannot determine soon.
I knew it; you have a notion for a man of fine taste and tip [...]top breeding—why can't they suit you.
Some are so rough with me that they break my fingers, and pull my dress all to pieces.
They are not all so rough I hope.
Some are so officious that they will not let me take care of myself—I am always [...]n picket guard with them— they are the most unsufferable coxcombs in the world.
Some girls like fellows that can talk and rattle away like any thing.
Yes the monied blades to be sure—I like the silent ones best — I love to have them sit still and say nothing; then I'm quite happy.
You are peculiar in your notion.
I love propriety, if we cannot act rationally we had better not act at all.
What do you think of Mr. Butterford?
He is very large, and fat, and rich.
Then you will not like him any better than the rest.
I never said a word against him. I have admitted his visits, and certainly would [...]o [...] betray him—He shall still be admitted if you desire it.
That's my good girl now, you will like him I dare say when you are used to him. He's grandly rich, and rides the finest horse of any man in town—He's got a coat branfire new on purpose to court you in, he's coming to day: do you prim up and look smart: he'll cut a grand flash I'll warrant you, come, go to your glass and rig up immediately.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—Mrs. and Mr. IRONSIDE
I REALLY think, husband, you have eat enough.
Why wife I hope you do not grudge your husband his victuals.
You have been eating this great while and grain, husband, is very dear.
If you could pin [...] enough [...]u [...] of me to prevent a general samine it might be worth your pains.
I know you have eat enough.
Rather saucy, fact, but a prudent wife. Rather saucy—but a very prudent saving wife
Well husband I have been talking to Jule and she seems quite willing to let Butterford come and see her.
I would not let him come, he'll eat up some of your bread and cheese.
Jule has so much company that they are likely to eat us out of house and home. I long to have her married.
Let her marry then: I suppose she is willing enough—I must beat the anvil and puff the bellows, manage within doors as you will, I cares not.
But Juliet has a great opinion of parson Treadwell, I have a great mind to get him to advise her to marry Butterford.
Much you'll get by that: you'll have to give him a dinner and break one of our best jugs of beer, and then he won't give his advice unless he has a mind to. He is the plaguiest fellow for a parson that ever was—you can't make him do any thing but what is right. Hee—e —e—m—h.
SCENE II.—Mrs. IRONSIDE and JULIET.
RUN, Jule, Mr. Butterford is coming. Put up and look as smart as you can—put on your new moroker shoes, and a clean shawl, quick, quick.
There is no cause for hurrying. He is so fat and short-breathed, that it will take him a great while to get to the house—yet.
SCENE III.—BUTTERFORD, Mrs. IRONSIDE and JULIET.
GOOD evening, Madam, How do ye do?
Well I'm glad to see you—Why I hardly know how I do do—but I'm fain to do whatever I have to do.
Where's Jule, is she to home?
Yes she is stept out, and will be in, in a minute—I don't know what makes her stay. Juley!
Coming soon ma'am.
Well how does Jule do now—I'm going to make her my offers. Do you think she'll bite sharp. No man can give a better astayte than I. —
You are well in that, Juley!
Coming ma'am very soon.
She's not quite dressed I suppose. These girls have a despot notion of rigging up—when they are to meet a spark: that's quite natural d'ye see — I told Juley you'd got a new suit—It seemed to make her quite merry. —Juley!
Coming soon ma'am.
Then she was merry to think I had got these clothes —I hope that is a good sign. If I could make Jule have me I should be possed glad—Then I'd sit in my great chair and tell her to bring this and carry that—Then I'd laugh in my sleeve to see how obedient she'd be—and when she waited on me like a little spaniel — and I'd speak sharp and make her tremble and fly—and a man would come in and say what a sweet pretty wise you have, Mr. Butterford— Then I give him a tuck in the ribs—Hah! old fellow, why you fool, way could'nt you get such a wise hoh! hoh! hoh!
Jule!
Coming ma'am—
What! crying again. Wipe up your eyes in one minute, and come here, or I'll know the reason why.
An't she willing to come, or is she only a little dash'd about being courted?
She'll come by and by.
Sarvant Miss Jule. How do you do? Jule.
Well I may as well go away. Young folks at such times don't want old folks about.
I am sure ma'am I am very willing you should stay.
SCENE IV.—BUTTERFORD and JULIET.
WELL Jule. I think now we have a fair chance to make a bargain.
Mrs. Ironside does all the trading in our family— she has bought in her stock of butter and cheese—and
Poh, I did not mean so—you're joking Miss, let us have some fun?
I do not love fun, it is the mirth of low bred people.
Whew, why won't you let me talk with you?
Yes sir, if you will not say any thing that is improper.
Well then, I tell you what miss, I expect you'll be a little shy at first just for the notion on't, tho you won't mean so—But I tell the right down truth—I come on purpose to see if we could not trade and be married; that's plain downright stuff now.
Do you expect to conclude so great an affair at once.
Why not as well as in a thousand year— I'm willing to have you, why shouldn't you be willing to have me?
I must first know if we be suitable persons to be united—I must consult my heart to know if I have a proper regard for you. I must act seriously: for marriage is one of the most important changes of human life.
O you can have no objection— I have the most [Page 207] money, the most cattle, the finest horse, and dress most costly of any man in this town, what would you have more?
A man may have all these and yet be a very bad husband.
But how the duce can that be? money makes the man, girls love rich men, who can let them have as must money as they can spend.
If I marry you for your money, I must know whether I may spend it or not—If that be the only motive I must spend the whole.
You are all upon the joke now—
hoh! hoh! hoh!
Positively, if you will not be decent I will withdraw from the room.
How shall I be decent, hoh! hoh! hoh!
Sit peaceably in your own chair, that will please me most—then answer to such questions as I ask you—or ask me such questions as I can answer with propriety.
Hoh! hoh! hoh!
What makes you so merry sir?
'Tis da [...]n'd clever, hoh! hoh! hoh!
What is that which is so clever; will you not let one partake of your mirth?
Fayther's got all the advantage of uncle Sye.
What advantage has your father got of your uncle?
Uncle Sye's land lies on the hill, and fayther's land lies all below. Uncle Sye carries out all manner of nasty truck on his land for manyure, and fayther's land gets all the wash of it. So fayther has clean the advantage of uncle Sye.
Is that of any consequence to you and me?
O yes! Fayther's on his last legs—He has had another tight snap of the gout—I don't know's he will die this whet—But he can't stand it long at this rate—Then if I have you, and he dies the estayte all comes into my hands.
Suppose I should marry you, and you could get money by it, would you not wish me to die too?
Why that must be a m [...]er of after consideration.
I think the whole had better he a matter of after consideration.
You will let me come again, won't you?
I have not the command of the house. My aunt will admit you for she is fond of you. But you must excuse me for the present I must be left to myself.
Good heav'ns! what a husband my aunt is preparing for me!—But he is rich—That is all merit with her—In all his conversation not a word of me, nor even of himself—but of his wealth. And could even please himself with the prospect of his father's death—How much virtue or humanity can he have!—I'm positive I will not have him, I will die first.
SCENE I. — Mrs. IRONSIDE and BUTTERFORD.
WELL, how do matters go on? pretty well? or will she [...]lab you off by and by?
Not very bright, tho she wan't very cross. I wanted to have touzled and slapt her about a little, but she made me sit plucky still, and was darned tort upon me now and then.
My niece is very nice in her manners.
O she's cute, I know she's cute—but if I could once get her under my thumb, I'd make her do more as I would have her, I promise her.
You must give her time to come too, and follow her up smartly. Girls will often seem quite avarse when they are courted by a little dash or so—but when they are really courted tight and hard, they'll not forbid the banns—that they won't. A woman's a strange fowl, Mr. Butterford;
a woman's a strange fowl.
Pardon a joke—If all were like you, I should think she was—Hoh! Hoh! Hoh!
ACT III.
SCENE I.—Mr. TREADWELL enters and speaks alone.
I HAVE read of the trial of fire ordial—A [Page 209] lady whose character was suspected, walked barefoot among red hot ploughshares, with scarcely room to set her feet to the ground; and if she burned her feet in the least, it was concluded that she was guilty. Such is the life of a Minister of a parish. Manly is a person whom I truly like, tho his estate is but moderate. Butterford is a proper clown, and a vicious fellow. The families both treat me well. The blacksmith and his wife are singular, but they are kind to me—They wish me to advise Juliet, my amiable pupil, to marry Butterford. Can I in justice do it? Certainly not. This is an ugly affair—Let me think— won't this do? Mother Ironside loves to talk morals and have all the talk to herself—Suppose I let her go her own length, till she his confuted herself—Will any call that priestcraft? Let then if they will—Nothing is more honest than to let those, who are in the wrong, confute themselves.
SCENE II.—TREADWELL and JULIET.
Juliet! my good girl, how ready you always are to meet me.
I have read the books you sent me—They are extremely pleasing, I am confident I shall be the wiser for them.
If they be useful I shall be happy. My pupils always keep their rank in my affections next to my own children. But there is a particular reason for my attentions to you.
I never knew any reason but that you wish to see every person happy.
There is a very particular reason. Your excellent mother, that bright example of all the virtues, in the last moments of her life, affectionately grasped my hand— [...] am, said she, on the confines of the world of spirits—My husband must serve the states in this necessary war—Juliet is left and extremely exposed—look after her; direct her; keep her, if possible, from error and vice. This is my dying request. Could I fail to regard it? This is the cause of all the attentions which I have given to your affairs.
My uncle and aunt are very anxious that I should [Page 210] he married. I have had several offers. I wish to live single till my father comes home, that I may be disposed according to his pleasure.
I think it best for you to be married at a proper time. That kind of life has its thorns and its cares—but it is better than lonely, dismal celibacy—And if you do marry a sensible man, a man of good sound judgment, all other virtues will follow. You do right not to marry, as you are under age, till your father returns. It will be a particular pleasure to him to have the disposal of you himself.
Your approbation gives me the sincerest pleasure, as it exactly agrees with my own ideas.
Proceed my worthy girl in your virtuous course, I will support you to my utmost ability.
Will you speak to my uncle and aunt? I am anxious to know how they will relish your sentiments.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—IRONSIDE, TREADWELL and Mrs. IRONSIDE.
SARVANT sir, I am glad to see you.
How do you do my friend Ironside. Are you well madam? you are all well I hope.
Pretty well sir, and we ought to be thankful, we are apt to think very little of what we enjoy, as you told us that was a fine sarmon, you said that if we had no more than we desarve, we should have but little.
You talk too much, wife—Mr. Treadwell has been here but a moment and you are rattling away and one can't put a word in edgeways.
Do I talk? I will talk—I can talk better than you any day—If we had no more than we desarved we should have but little, yet we are always craving, tho riches are but vanity, young folks think it is grand to make a show, but it is all vexation—Handsome is that handsome does. Let virtue shine and you'll be fine. The best thing in the world is peace of conscience, and to be rich [Page 211] in good work [...]—An't I right Mr. Treadwell? When we die we carry nothing away and our works will follow. I want you should give me your opinion about our Juliet. I think it is high time she was married—It is quite a charge to keep her and all her company. Mr. Butterford is rich, and can maintain her well, and would be glad to have her.
Yes madam, but riches are but vanity.
But he can maintain her well, and they can make a decent show.
Very true, but it is all vexation. Let virtue shine and you'll be fine—Your plain maxims contain excellent truth.
Now she has a notion for Manly, who is not half so rich; tho we know he is virtuous and industrious and all that.
And is she not right? The best thing in the world is peace of conscience, and to be rich in good works —What signifies it to be always craving—When we die we can carry nothing away, but our good works will follow.
I would not give a farthing for a minister if he could not give better advice, and such advice as one wants to have.
Mr. Treadwell has given you no advice but your own, that's fact wife, say what you will—I wish you would hear him further, and then you would not pinch us all so about our victuals.
There is Manly's servant coming in this moment.
Excuse me sir, neighbor Speedwell is at the shop and wants his mare shod this minute.
SCENE II.—TREADWELL and CONNOR.
CONNOR, is it you, how does your master?
Very well zur, only sick to death of love. Love zur has got the grap of him—Bad thing, that love, it has made many a clever fellow's heart ache before yet, master.
And who is he in love with?
Oh dear zur, that Julie, all our young fellows have lost their fine senses at her, they are as thick about her as [Page 212] flies round a flop of molawses—they will be sipping and tasting you see, if they die for't
And would he consult me on that m [...]ter? Is it any thing about Juliet? I hope not—These cases of love are even worse than cases of conscience.
You hit the right nail [...]maister—see what a thing it is to be a minister, we sweak at them when the liquors gets here,
but we can't be sick, nor well, be in love, nor be married, be christened, nor die, without a minister—By my showl were I to grow young again, I'd go to College whether I could get there or no, and when I was out, the first thing▪ I'd do would be to live and die a minister, you see.
Well, and what does Manly desire of me?
He would have you come till his house—he wants a—a—master's poorly, tis love, I guess, he's as thin as a shad in reeping time, sir.
Let him come to my house? I have something, of importance to communicate to him.
I hope sir, I pray you come, Master's a clever soul, he's quite poorly, and if he should die with love, it would be a disgrace to him, as long as he lives.
SCENE III.—TREADWELL and JULIET.
MISS Juliet will you come to my house in half an hour, to see the letters which I have received from your father?
Were there none for me?
There were not?
That is very strange. But I should be glad to see the letters which [...]y [...] wrote to you.
SCENE IV—MAYFLOWER and JULIET.
SERVANT M [...] Jul [...]
Miss May [...], my friend, I am happy to see you.
I might be happy too if you could clear yourself of the charge of treachery against me.
Charge of treachery. When did I ever [...] [Page 213] with any of your affairs more than you desired me to do?
I suppose you mean to make me believe that you know nothing of it.
It is absolutely true that I know not what you mean.
I meant to have asked advice how to proceed with you. But since you are here I will confront you myself—and you may answer if you can—Who wrote this letter to slander my character?
Not [...] certainly.
How can you deny it—it is your own signing.
It is not my hand, I should be ashamed of such a scrawl.
I have suffered severely, but Mr. Daffodil, whose attentions I own were pleasing, has left me with disgust; an [...] is gone to the town with Fidelia. If you have not done it, it i [...] beyond my comprehension.
It was not I however—but let me think, yes it is the hand writing of that villain, who writes letters for Butterford—who is such an ideo [...] that he cannot write himself.
ACT V.
SCENE I—MANLY and JULIET.
MY amiable friend, how happy to meet you in person, when the mere idea of you ever give me delight.
Your sentiments Mr. Manly are even [...] obliging —but to urge a declaration can only give me pain—I shall give no one a decided preference till my father's return, or while the hope of it remains.
Are you not at least my friend?
Certain I know how to esteem you as a man of merit—But my determination is sacred.
You are perfectly reasonable, nor can I deny it, these hours of suspense are almost insupportable.
SCENE II.—TREADWELL and JULIET.— (All the party except Ironside and his wife.)
MY amiable pupil almost as dear to me as a daughter —I have received a letter, from your father that he shall not soon return. He has received a letter which states that you died the 12th of July last—On which he orders me to sell his estate, and he is about to embark for the East-Indies.
O my worthy good friend—I was made to be wretched—I never saw my mother that I remember—nor my father since I was a child, except in my dreams. My relations here would throw me into the arms of a contemptible wr [...]tch—O sir, can you not interpose to save me?
Amiable girl, I regret your distress. But can I be concerned [...]n making, or breaking of matches—or incroach on the rights of families, my character would be lost —very soon.
Now my beautiful, my charming friend consent to be mine—I will protect you tho you may see your father no more—Let me be father, friend, brother, and every thing else to you.
I have sent letters several ways informing that you are still alive—I may bring him back for I have written to Canton in China—But after all, his return is uncertain.
My heart forbodes that I shall never see him again, my anguish is almost insupportable, I respect you Mr. Manly. But can I think of any thing that is pleasant when I must no more see my father—I live a wretched life with Mrs. Ironside, confined, and almost starved at times. This last stroke is Butterford's work. I am confident, he hires a base fellow to write for him. He forged a letter yesterday to Mr. Daffodil, to slander Miss Mayflower and signed it with my name to involve me in a quarrel with Miss Mayflower and her family. He means to get me into his power, I had rather suffer death. He is a dreadful instance of the power of an unprincipled rich man over the poor—pity me, most respected sir, assist a poor girl in extremity.
Alas! what would the world say of me, should I take yo [...] from your relations and guardian into my own custody. It would give rise to scandal. Many would resent such an intrusion on the rights of families.
Once more, my dear girl, listen to a faithful friend. I will take you under my own protection, and defend you with my life
But can I [...] in such distress, on my father's account—or can I live with a bachelor. Should my father return, could I ever look him in the face?
We are all right and yet are all in extreme distress—Yet my dear young friends, let us do nothing wrong —Here is a trial of our trust in Divine Providence. Be obstinate. Virtue must triumph, tho we know not how.— I will think for you, and do you
retire, my good girl, whose heart is sorely burdened, and pour out your tears to him who numbers the tears of the afflicted.
O my father! my father!
O my daughter—how like my wife—a little girl when I left you—now a grown woman—and how beautiful—my sweet Juliet, alive and well—and O how much like her mother.
Her father is come—Capt. Bloomsgrove is come▪ as you live 'tis he, I know him.
'Tis he; I know him by his voice; but restrain your curiosity—give a parent and child a few tender moments at their meeting—Their transports are too sacred for common observation.
Come my dear, wipe your eyes, and let us see the rest of the company—Sweet girl; I left you at four years old, and you are now a grown woman—you look just like your mother when I was married.
O Captain, my worthy friend, how happy to see you again.
Next to my little daughter here you are the dearest person to me on earth—and who is this?
It is miss Mayflower.
She was about three years old—when I went away, a little proud Sylph—I remember how she would [...]per when she was dressed up.
This good man has done a thousand good things for me, will you not reward him?
I will find a time for that my dear child. And what friend is this, Manly? Yes it is Manly; my brave Lieutenant, who selled the Hessian to the ground— who wounded me in the battle of Princeton—He preserved my life. If there be any thing in this world whereby I can reward him, it must be his.
He has been generous to me and—and—honest.
I knew him my girl in the army, he is as fine a soul as lives—what shall I give you Manly?
Will you take Juliet.
Will you let me have her?
Yes if she be willing—what say you my girl—
Her tongue says nothing, but her eyes say yes—take her—
Now I'm the happiest man on this earth and the richest—but I will be happier in a few days by your assistance.
Any time when you please, shall I delight to contribute to your felicity.
O my friends how sweet is domestic pleasure. Riches, victory, and glory are nothing in comparison. It is a pleasure which I have not tasted till now for fourteen years.
Come captain you shall tarry with me this night. Manly after supper will conduct Juliet home—and let it be known that you are come—all her enemies will be silent now. Miss Mayflower tarry till after supper, and my girls, shall go home with you—come be seated—I will call my wife and daughters, and while supper is preparing we will have a song.
There is no crime in decent joy. It is practical Thanksgiving to the Author of all our mercies.
The Coquette. A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.
THE FOLLY OF A CAPRICIOUS TEMPER, AND THE DISADVANTAGE OF COQUETRY TO THE GENERAL INTERESTS OF WOMEN.
IT is a very good instance of policy in a woman, if she has engaged the affections of any man, with a view to marriage, to avoid the smallest danger of losing them. A woman deserted by a man once engaged to her, is subject to many censures, and dangerous suspicions. Were it not universally known, that there are women, who use men extremely ill, in consequence of gaining their affections; the desertion of a woman, after indications of love, would ruin a man's character. Coquettes injure not themselves only—but their sex in general.
PERSONS.
- MR. BOOTHBY—an honest householder; Guardian to the two young ladies, Marcella and Daphne.
- MR. HENRY MALCOLM—engaged to Marcella.
- MARCELLA—promised to Malcolm.
- DAPHNE—niece of Mr. Boothby.
- MRS. MALCOLM—Henry Malcolm's mother.
- MISS SEAFAIR—common friend to Marcella and Daphne.
- LAURELLA—particular friend to Daphne.
- NEMESIA—rival of Marcella.
THE COQUETTE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—BOOTHBY, MARCELLA and DAPHNE.
MY wards, the time approaches when I must act the part of a father to you no more. This evening I must give up my charge. Tomorrow morning you will be at your own disposal—It was so ordered that I should give up the guardianship when the youngest was of lawful age.
I regret indeed that I must be left to myself, your kind care left me nothing to wish for, but the continuance of it. If we must be left to ourselves, can we not have some kind of advice from you; some of your maxims which contain much wisdom in a few words?
I choose to say but little▪ Long discourses are not apt to be remembered—Let the foundation of your character be plain honesty and good nature. Depend principally on your virtue for your happiness—As you both are sufficiently genteel, affect no uncommon character, but be what nature and common sense have made you. If you have a good offer, I advise you to marry; but not suddenly—let a polite acquaintance with the person whom you are to marry, remain for some time, that you may acquire the habit of pleasing, & being pleased with the person who is to be yours for life. Never trifle with a man who seriously addresses you; but by all means marry a man of sense, and think of no earthly things so much as pleasing him, so long as you live.
You need not have told my sister of that—She never had any company of the gentlemen.
My niece, I hope you do not perversely exclude them—If you do▪ I shall almost think you lost to society.
Sir I never affected gallantry. Marcella outshines me so much in that, that they pass by me, and pay all their attention to her, but perhaps I shall have my turn, and in the best time too.
You have a great faculty at hoping, and I advise you, for your comfort, to keep it up.
I must retire to my own affairs—Good bye, my amiable wards. Remember what I have told you.
SCENE II.—MARCELLA and DAPHNE.
WHAT do you think of the advice the old gentleman has been giving us?
I cannot perfectly understand it, for want of experience in such matters—but as our uncle has experienced all these things himself; and is certainly a man of sense, and honesty; I am apt to think he has told us right.
I mean to do as I please. I am glad that tomorrow morning I shall be at my own disposal—And as to the gentlemen who pay their addresses to me—I mean to trifle with them as much as I please.
I suppose it, for every person who speaks of it, thinks you treat Mr. Malcolm in a very absurd manner; for they say he is a gentleman of real merit, virtuous, honest, polite, and of decent fortune, a man of good sense in every thing but his attachment to you.
His attachment to me. I think that this is all that discovers his good sense! Mark this, that what nature has denied us in courage, and natural strength she has made up in the power, which she has given us, of affecting the hearts of men.
And if we have that power, ought we not to use it to a good purpose?
That I shall, I promise you. There is nothing which affords me so much amusement, as to see how I can play with their sensations. When they come trembling to me to ask for some trifling attention, which I am already more than willing to grant—when they hesitate, and stammer, with excessive anxie [...]y. To see how elate they will be, when they are successful; how dismal and forlorn▪ [Page 221] when they are rejected, it makes me as proud as a queen.
Possibly one might carry that vanity too far.
You know nothing of the matter. The men never pay much attention to you. I consider a suitor as worth nothing, unless you can treat him in as many different ways, as you can dress a fish; and still find him humble and passive—A fish you know may be baked, broiled, roasted, boiled, smoked and dryed—may be dressed with sauce, or without, and every way makes a good dish. So a lover suitable to my taste, must broil with resentment, must be roasted with anger, must be baked by the heat of constant affection, must boil with jealousy, must be smoked with contempt—and his very marrow must be dried up with anxious expectation. If I afford him any attention he must be elated to the highest degree of joy. If I deny him, he must sink into the grave of disappointment—Such a man, always passive as the lamb, is the man to my taste.
There are other women of the same taste, but they are not always so happy as to realize their ideas.
I shall take care of myself for that▪
SCENE III.—MRS. MALCOLM and BOOTHBY.
I WISH you would interpose your authority in this affair.
When I was young I always did my own work, in respect of the ladies—I do not love to meddle with that of others.
But as you are guardian to the young lady I can apply to no one else.
My charge expires this evening, and I have given her my last advice. But what do you complain of?
She has perfectly bewitched my son. I compare it to nothing but a serpent's charming a bird—I have seen a snake raise his neck to a lofty spire, his seal [...] glisten, and his eyes sparkle. Then he fixes his eyes on some harmless bird, who appears to be in extreme distress; and to make efforts to get away; but the more he endeavors to escape, the nearer he gets to the serpent till he is destroyed.
Is that the condition of your son?
You may judge, as well as I, of the state of [Page 222] his mind, when I shall mention a few facts—He associated himself with her—and has been constantly unhappy—He is agitated to that degree that I fear the loss of his reason —Not long since she sent him home, on a rainy evening without a grea [...] coat; tho he met her on appointment. He caught a severe cold, and was confined a fortnight—Another time she pretended that she took a new beaver hat from him, and burnt it—but she kept it and changed it for an umbrella. She frequently makes him do the meanest errands for her—send him all over town, to buy a penny-worth of needles, half a knot of thread, and half a yard of tape. Every way she tries to injure him, and make him ridiculous—by his attachment to her. A woman who treats a man so deserves to be punished.
She commonly is. The husband having such no one in his power commonly pays the old debt, with interest upon interest; but if a young man will be a fool, he must answer for it himself.
My son Harry is as sensible man as any of his age, and as virtuous.
I doubt it not. But he would resent it, should I attempt his liberty. None can free him; but himself.
I hoped that you would use your authority in the case. And that you would endeavor to make her behave better▪ You ought to consider my extreme anxie [...]y for my s [...]n.
I pity you, and him sincerely. But a woman who has that preverse temper is of all beings the hardest to cure: I have given her my last advice; you must excuse me.
Alas my only remedy is patience; but I do think that a woman who makes use of the art of charming▪ to such a purpose, is the most mischievous serpent in the universe.
Your own sex too, I am glad I did not say that.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—HENRY MALCOLM and MARCELLA.
IT gives me great pleasure to see you so well, you look delightful.
I am very much out of health however, how ca [...] you to think of seeing me to-day?
It was by your appointment; but if you say the word I withdraw; I come to invite you to Mr. Sprightly's ball—but if you do not chuse to go—
Who told you that I did not mean to go? I shall dress, but stay, I have not a pin to dress myself with.
I will step over the street and get you some at the next shop.
They have none fit to dress a d [...]ll with, you must go to Mrs. Mer [...]ers.
That is two miles & an half at least▪ we shall lose the time▪ perhaps the others may do for the present.
That's like a gentleman to be sure, to make a difficulty of obliging his lady—if you will get me pins to dress me, I will go—otherwise I shall not.
SCENE II.—MARCELLA and DAPHNE.
SO you see, I teach him his duty. A woman who means to have a good husband, must bring him up to her hand.
You are not certain of his being your husband.—
Will he brake his word—I did not treat him so till I got him fast.
Perhaps not so fast as you imagine—If he be a man of honor, your treatment of him is very improper.
How do you understand these matters. When did a man ever speak to you—how would you treat a gentleman?
Common sense tells me I should treat a real gentleman kindly—if that be right—before he is engaged to me—much more so after, else I should be guil [...]y of falshood. The caprice of Coquettes is well known, which is the very reason why men do not become infamous by deserting a woman.
You would be all honey and no vinegar. I love to torment them for variety's sake—Let us hear your curious theory of conversation.
Female honor demands its proper reserve. Yet my promised lover should certainly have my confidence above any man in the world, he should be my inviolable [Page 224] friend, and confident—I would study to please him—we would advise and correct each other—our virtues should be mutual, our joys and sorrows united; I would mourn his disappointments and encourage his virtues, I would imitate his virtues, and improve by his learning, I would find an endless variety of kind offices, and never be forced to torment him for variety's sa [...]e.
And for what purpose?
He should reward me, by being my constant patron, defender and friend, and by doing every kind office in his power. Previous acquaintance is the school in which nature trains us up for marriage. It is observed by some reputable authors, that they who quit this school too soon, are often unhappy; that they who torment each other will continue to do so after marriage—they who act rationally will not alter—they who deceive in their previous acquaintance, will after marriage be openly vicious. I have treasured many of these maxims in my mind —to me if it ever fall to my lot, I intend it shall be the school of wisdom—and prepare my mind for the various duties of domestic life.
This is queer stuff—think to manage love by reason—do sometime tell this in the circle of our acquaintance, that we may have an infinite fund of ridicule and laughter.
SCENE III.—MALCOLM and DAPHNE.
TELL me, Daphne, what humor is your sister in now?
She adheres to her own system—I do not see that she relents at all.
I procured the pins for her at the next shop—who had the best, you will not tell her.
No, for I do not like her ways.
I wish she had your ideas of those matters. They are excellent, or that it had been so ordered that I had been attached to you. But do one thing for me, and trust me upon my word, for once. Dress yourself for the ball, and trust me for the event.
I will.
SCENE IV.—MARCELLA reenters with SEAFAIR and DAPHNE.
WHAT fools the men are—I love dearly to plague them—I have sent my spark two miles and an half only to get some pins to dress with, and I have more than a year's stock-by me now,
My friend Marcella, notwithstanding the keenness of your wit—I suspect you are very erroneous on this subject.
I see you are going into our Daphne's notions, I supposed that no other person in the world thought as she does.
My sentiment is, that to treat others rationally, is the likeliest way to be treated well ourselves.
That idea is certainly a just one Why need human beings be ignorant of their own happiness? I know by happy experiment that the season in which young persons are acquainted, previously to their marriage, may not only be rendered very agreeable, but extremely useful.
There you have it again morals, morals, morals, forever, and upon every subject. Do give me volatiles for I shall certainly faint.
And why not moral forever? Does not our whole happiness depend on them? To conduct well and successfully—i [...] certainly the knowledge we most need—you have lost time enough in quarrelling with your humble swain, to have made you a very prudent woman, if you had conducted yourself property.
Well, what do Malcolm and I fail in? Tell me, perhaps I may reform.
Instead of quarrelling and uniting, contention and reconciliation again, which have [...]pt you both uneasy and unhappy for three years past; you might both have been improving your minds, tempers, and manners, more than in the best school in America.
How does that appear?
A constant tendency to any object, will have its effect in all cases, but that of impossibility. The desire of pleasing, directed to a constantly alluring object—wil [...] make a person social, and polite. Hence persons, attached to virtuous, and sensible partners, almost immediately discover in their general conversation, a better temper, and a more sociable disposition, than before.
What can they find to talk of in so many long interviews?
You quarrel then, to pass away the time, do you? Are there not other topics, even if you omit fashions, and the scandal of the day? Human passions, and human characters, politeness of manners, and principles of humanity. The polite, and elegant arts; the qualities of books, and friends; and the interesting views, which piety and morality exhibit—might claim some attention. And friends may make any subject interesting by considering it in the relation which it bears to themselves.
I have long believed, that two friends may always make each other happy if they have only the necessaries of life. If happiness comes so cheap, human beings owe their miseries chiefly to their own follies.
For heaven's sake away with this dull stuff—I hope some person will come in, and give a change to this ridiculous conversation.
My conversation if it be disagreeable ceases in a moment—madam I wish you a good night.
SCENE V.— MALCOLM, MARCELLA, and DAPHNE.
Madam I am ready to conduct you to the ball.
I will be ready in a moment,
Now sir, I will go with you.
Will you? but you will not go with that apron.
Why not—It is proper to dress according to our company.
My company, you mean—well, I do not object; will the company at the ball think that they are well treated? However that is none of my concern. I will go with you as you are.
No, I will not neither, the company will be affronted▪
You may change your dress.
That is too much trouble.
Then keep it and go with me.
I shall be laughed at.
Then stay if you please—But I mean to go. [...]I'll [Page 227] wait on another lady; and I would pay no more attention to you, but that I do not love to break my word.
That's brave! Let not that be any hindrance.
Then if you will discharge me, I quit you forever.
The difficulty is to get rid of you. I have heard you say so several times before; but you did not keep your resolution. I shall have you tormenting me again in a few days.
I was not provided with another lady then; but I am now. Come my sweet Daphne, you are now the mistress of my heart; will you go with me?
If my sister refuses; but she shall speak first.
I will not.
Then I will.
What a droll figure you will make. You scarcely ever saw a ball in your life. I will dress myself this moment, and go with my uncle, that I may be there to laugh at you.
Well now she is gone, why may we not tarry? I have no great desire to go to the ball; I had much rather remain here with you.
I certainly have no great desire to dance. It is what I am very little acquainted with—But let us go, and see that she is gone.
ACT III.
SCENE I—MALCOLM and LAURELLA.
MISS Laurella, is Marcella gone to the ball?
She is going with her uncle—she thought you and Daphne were gone.
No, and I believe we shall not go. I had rather remain with Daphne.
Then Marcella will be extremely disappointed.
She must thank herself for it; she might have ordered it otherwise.
I know it; but she thought she had you so secure, that she might treat [...]ou any way; and you would not dare to resent it.
She is not the first woman who has found herself mistaken in such a matter; and perhaps will not be the last.
I believe it, and am sensible that the conduct of Marcella was extremely ungrateful to you.
She thinks now that I shall return to her, but she will soon perceive her error.
Yet she was really attached to you, and will severely feel the loss of you▪
Why then did she treat me in that manner?
Nature made her a coquette, and she could make herself otherwise.
Is Daphne of the same disposition?
Certainly she is not. There is so great a difference between them, that I could hardly suppose them sisters.
Let who will take Marcella, I have long wished for an opportunity to break my chain. She has given me a fair one, and hence forward the mild, the sweet Daphne shall be the object of my attention.
SCENE II.—DAPHNE, LAURELLA and MALCOLM.
WHAT has Marcella done with herself?
She is gone to the ball with her uncle in full expectation of seeing you there, and laughing at you.
She is welcome to her all felicity, I have borne her tyranny long enough.
No body will blame you, I am confident. Every person said you bore with her too long.
The point of honor was the thing, I had given my word, she says that need not hinder me from leaving her, so I have a purlough at all points.
Certainly you have.
Many another poor slave has, I dare say, been glad of his dismission, but I am no sooner free than I am a captive again. I have long noticed your virtues; and now wish to give my permanent homage to you.
You must allow me time to consider of that— but if I finally conclude to detain you, I shall not keep you in perpetual torments; as Marcella did.
My acquaintance with your sister gave me an opportunity to observe your virtues; and it was the kind [Page 229] relief of my mind, by your gentle and rational conversation, which made me think of breaking the fetters of the imperious Coquettè.
Time, and acquaintance, only, can show whether we be suited to each others manners. But I shall endeavor to conduct myself properly.
SCENE III. — NEMESIA and MARCELLA.
SOME business with Mr. Boothby occasioned my calling this evening.
He is in the opposite room.
Just returned from the ball; you did not tarry so long as you commonly did with Malcolm.
I only went to see them a little while.
It is droll enough. You and Malcolm have had a breaking off this evening; and he went with your sister Daphne; you may give him up for lost—the sweet, and delightful manners of your sister will detain him forever.
What a blockhead he was to break his word with me? I am pursuaded he never will prosper.
After you had released him from it?
I did it in a pet. I am extremely mortified, and see that you enjoy it—Enjoy it you may; for I am quite in the humor to punish myself. But that he should attach himself to that honest, good natured, awkward thing, my sister Daphne.
She is no sister of your's—you was indeed bro't up with her—but your parents are unknown to us—Nor have you any portion out of the estate, which you have supposed to belong in common, to you▪ and Daphne—you have only £. 120 to purchase furniture for a house. The whole estate is Daphne's— She being the only child.
Then I have lost a happy opportunity of establishing myself in life. Was ever girl so unfortunate? I will ask Mr. Boothby. I do not believe it.
I thank you for disputing my word, and wish you a good night.
SCENE IV.—BOOTHBY and MARCELLA.
I AM most unfortunate, my dear uncle, pray comfort me a little. Is not Malcolm a villain?
I cannot blame him—You treated him very ill; and challenged him to leave you.
Nemesia always hates me. She has told me I am not your niece, and that the whole estate is Daphne's.
All that is true; but it is a mystery that she should know it— You ruined yourself by losing Malcolm. But you would take no advice.
When I have once caught a man in the toils of love, I must plague him—It is my nature, and I should do it again if I died for it.
I believe it, I never knew a woman of that perverse temper to reform—But they may not begin it, if duly warned—It is certainly the ruin of the woman who is so inclined, and a great damage to the interest of the s [...]x. For what is the very reason, why a man does not lose his character in deserting a woman, to whom he stands engaged—but this; that the caprice of coquettes, is so generally known.
The Insol
[...]able Question. A DRAMA, OF ONE ACT.
PRUDERY AND FORWARDNESS ARE EQUALLY PERNICIOUS TO WOMEN.
IT is altogether absurd for women to think of captivating the men—by throwing themselves forever in their way. This mode of conduct will only create disgust—and there is as little of charm or attraction in the behavior of a Prude.
PERSONS.
- DR. BURGO—a grave, learned man.
- MR. DILEMMA—a S [...]ph of the college, and a Pedan [...].
- MR. PALEFACE—an author.
- MR. TIPTOE—a coxcomb.
- MR. THINKMUCH—Preceptor of an Academy.
- MR. DOMORE—his assistant.
-
—Two young ladies of twenty friends.
- LEMIRA
- LUCINDA
- MISS WINDFALL—a jealous girl, young and gay.
- MISS BRIDGET CROWBAR—a prudish lady.
- MADAM SENSIBLE—a Matron.
THE INSOLVABLE QUESTION.
SENE I.—LEMIRA and LUCINDA.
MY dear Lucinda, what a happy girl you are, your company is desired by all people old and young— and every person speaks of you with pleasure.
I am sorry for that, the view of too many will be directed to me—It would cost me much trouble—I ever tho't it an unhappiness to be too much the object of admiration.
Why, how can any person be loved and admired too much? I should like to be admired by every body.
Your ambition then must descend very low sometimes.
I did not mean exactly so neither. But there is a certain class whom I should wish to be in raptures with me, whenever they saw me—I should not care much about old people.
There you differ from me — The sentiments of people who are not of our own age may be of great use to us. They can give us credit and a good name—But I doubt whether it is right to seek the particular admiration of many persons of our own age at once.
You, it seems, are very scrupulous.
Were the persons, from whom attention to young ladies might be expected, distributed among us all, there would scarcely be one apiece—Were it then possible, I should suppose it unjust, to engross a number. I had rather enjoy the beneficial society of one true friend, than be the dupe of twenty flatterers — To flatter a lady that is really deserving, is very much like painting a diamond to make it shine.
I am not very fond of flattery; but it may do [Page 234] when one can get nothing else. It is more pleasing to hear good sense, or what we call good sense; but I had rather men would flatter me than say nothing.
The whole business is commonly artificial. A man uses flattery as musicians do the fa, sol, la, me, of their gamut, to put their voices into tune. When one knows the artifice, it soon becomes tiresome. But tell me, my friend, if you be so fond of admiration, by what means you have attempted to secure it.
I have in various ways tried to accomplish my purpose. They may all be reduced to one principle—that of doing things extraordinary But my friends seem to be growing more & more indifferent to me every day—I should be glad, if by conversing with you I could set my ideas right.
Why so much anxiety on the subject?
Because you know one wishes to be acceptable, let matters, other wise, be as they may.
I am sorry that you have been so much mortified. It must be bitterness to a woman of spirit. But before I give my sentiments, let me know the method you have hitherto practised. The physician always examines his patient, before he prescribes a cure.
Well, to make the matter clear, I will introduce to you my illustrious cousin, Miss Bridget Crowbar.
SCENE II.—BRIDGET, LEMIRA and LUCINDA.
I AM really ashamed of the ladies of these times—They marry as if they were made [...]ly for the happiness of the men—I'm out of all patience.
No madam, you must not be affronted; thay will some of them take notice of you yet—The men, I mean.
That's none of my meaning—I'll have you to know—modesty wins the love of all our acquaintance. I love to drive a principle quite to a violent extreme.
That I have thought of, and I have been modest: I have been violently modest, have I not?
I thought modesty always avoided violence and extremes, and brought every action to the test of reason and discretion.
I profess to be the white rose of modesty.
And beset, I believe, with a double portion of [Page 235] thorns—You will keep the men at a distance, I dare say.
That I will—I will not be courted but adored— My lovers shall worship me at an immense distance.
How do you think a young lady ought to behave in presence of gentlemen?
She ought to be as cross as vengeance, and not say a word to them.
Not if they ask her questions?
Then she must answer, no—in a faint mincing voice—and lisp a little—A woman should never say yes to a man—That's very immodest.
Suppose a man should ask her, whether she made a point of being virtuous—what? must she say no then?
There may be extraordinary [...]ases; in these one may say yes.
I take it the most extraordinary question a woman is ever asked is, whether she will consent to be married— she must always say yes—in such a [...]ase then.
You are a wicked creature. I do not know what will become of you —I suspect if you were courted you would be married in less than eight years—It seems as if modesty was banished from the earth—I have tried to keep it up. But all my sex is sunk into degeneracy—woful degeneracy.
Propose yourself then as a pattern to all the world.
I am lo [...]h to propose myself as an example—But I can find no other—Now I have meant to let the young gentleman see how much I avoided them.
How did you do this?
Mr. Tiptoe is coming, I will show how it is done.
SCENE III.—Mr. TIPTOE (entering) and Miss BRIDGET.
MADAM your most obedient humble servant.
Sir?—
Madam if my conversation could be tho't agreeable
Sir?
I could wish madam—
There sir.
O you beast—I meant to say that you was too severe, I ask pardon—But I shall trouble you with my company no more.
There! I have served many a one so in my life time—I have shed more blood in my life-time, than has been shed in twenty duels, such are told of in our newspapers—A fellow went to seat himself by me, the other day; he was intoxicated by my beauty.
That was extraordinary, what did you do in that case?
It was a dreadful trial for me.
But I overcame.
He spake, I knit my brow into frowns, he turned to me his face, I immediately turned mine from him; he came so near to me that I [...] his breath.
What did you do then?
I boxed his cars well: and I have done greater exploits than that.
What? I am sure I never heard of any more extraordinary.
One particular piece of conduct I can't help bragging of a little.
What is that?
A few evenings ago, Mr. Complaisant, finding me a mile and half from home, in a very dark and slippery night, very handsomely (to do the creature justice) conducted me home.
I should suppose you would have thanked him for it.
Fye and I am ashamed of you.
What did you do?
What did I do, why when I got home he said I should allow some little decent complaisance, for waiting on me so carefully.
You tho't it reasonable I suppose.
Not I—As he came a little too near me, I put my ten claws right into his face, I warrant I pealed it well.
Then you do not wish the men to respect you.
Don't I, that I do—They admire me—They'll break thro every obstacle and marry me by and by, whether I will or not.
They will do otherwise than I expect; certainly, if they do as you say.
I am afraid I shall not convince you, ladies; so I go where my advice is more desired—But I can tell you, ladies, that Diana of the Ephesians, who was worshipped as a goddess, was the perfect tigress of her sex.
The men, I imagine, are not so fond of worshipping tigresses in these times.
If I take up a principle, I never give it up. What is right will come to right at last.
SCENE IV.—LEMIRA and LUCINDA.
Now to know how Miss Crowbar's principles relate to success in life; we must see whether they made her happy.
They have not, the men hate her beyond all bounds—Tho she expects that some one among them will very soon be so enamoured of her superlative excellence, as to break thro all bounds; and insist on marrying her—But there is no appearance of it at present.
What counsel do you propose to take next?
I am resolved upon nothing—I just mention Miss Jemima Toogood—She advises to the opposite extremes— to change the tables with the swains, and pursue them in turn—If you make direct advances to the men, write letters, billetdoux &c, unasked—or let them take a good deal of liberty—there is no harm in it; if the interest of virtue be secure—these are her maxims.
If the interests of virtue be secure—That is a great i [...] indeed—now if this same IF can preserve us from folly, after we have parted with discretion—it shall forever after be printed in capitals, I shall never admit her proposition while I have my senses.
These ladies are a curious-contrast: their reading is as singular as their conduct. A book which was owned by Miss Crowbar, represented in the burlesque, a man who was in pursuit of a prude—kissing the shadow of her glove on the wall; while she held her hand near a candle —Miss Crowbar gravely observed, that she wondered why [Page 238] that should be tho't burlesque, for it was being quite to [...] familiar with the lady; considering he had paid her only two years attendance; and she banished the book from her library.
If such was the reading of Miss Bridget, it would be curious to know that of Miss Toogood.
It was chiefly of Anecdotes, and SECRET HISTORIES, with a small addition of very amorous plays—Her books were all of the cast which melt rather than warm the heart; and confound rather than enliven the imagination. She is not at all to my taste; and you need not fear my following her example or advice—But now it is your turn, you should introduce somebody—or dismiss our conference.
There is a man of my acquaintance in the college, a very good man in the main—Indeed he is a little too apt not to hear readily, when one speaks to him; to talk to ladies with his back turned to them; to pair his nails in company, or so—but he is reputed a scholar nevertheless, and is I believe, a very good man.
How shall we obtain his opinion?
He was to have called here to day—The time is passed that he should have come—heigh—he is knocking now.
SCENE V.—DILEMMA and LEMIRA.
LADIES your servant! your servant!
Will you please to take a seat?
It is as hot as mount Vesuvius to day. You have heard of the volcanoes, ladies, I suppose—Virgil describes one in a very grand manner.
We have heard of volcanoes—But we were talking of something very different; of the most pleasing mode of conversation for—Ladies.
How to mix the jucundum cum dulci.
No 'tis not about jumping or mull'd cider. Something more curious than that.
Of what the Greeks, to pronounce the finale a broad, kalo cagathâ.
Oh no sir, it is not about kale, nor cabbage slaw; but—
I believe I understand you madam—There is something about it in Aristotle.
I did not know that sir.
Xenophon abounds with it, more than any other author.
Sir,
let me tell you my desire if you please.
O yes, madam, with all my heart.
It is a question of the greatest importance—And it is this: which is the greatest disadvantage to a lady— to be too forward or too prudish.
Aye, that is a great matter—it is a subject not unknown to the ancients—much was said of it between the Pithagoreans and Peripatetics—The Lyceum and Academus were divided about it.
Well sir, we should be glad to hear you discuss the subject.
I must take it up, pro and con, according to mode and form—We must handle it in our own way.
As methodically as you please, if we can only only understand it.
For the first general proposition. It is thus— whether that which is generally called forwardness in a woman, can ever be for her advantage. Now upon this question there are thirteen good reasons against it—and Firstly, that if a woman be too forward, the men will always hold her in contempt—Secondly—
O dear sir, you have said enough on that point— you may pass to another. Pray tell us the reasons why a woman should not be a prude.
They are reckoned fourteen—but the thirteen against forwardness, tho less in number, are thought to be strongest.
Will you please to recite them?
Firstly—if a woman keep a man at a mile's distance, he never can be sociable with her—
O sir! your propositions are quite decisive—I fancy you are a great scholar.
Why ladies, it has been tho't at college, that, tho prudery & forwardness are opposite causes in the order of nature; yet the effect of them comes to the same thing in Greek.
SCENE VI.— Miss WIND [...]ALL and LEMIRA.
LADIES you mean me, I know you do?
Mean you, I did not know that you was within a mile of us.
It is not true that I held Tom Longshanks a whole evening in my lap.
I did not say you did.
And it is as great a lie which was told about me, that I sent a letter to Joe Moonshine—with our hearts united, for the first salutation.
I never said any such word that you or any body else did.
I'm glad, ladies, if you are clear: but as you was talking about forwardness among the ladies, I thought you meant me.
Not I, by any means, if you have any thing of that kind to settle with your own conscience, you may settle it alone if you please.
I am obliged to you ladies, but if I did as bad as they tell of me, it was not so bad as Miss Crowbar; who, when a young gentleman came near, wounded him so with the points of her scissors, that the blood spouted to a yard's distance, and they were obliged to send for a surgeon to take care of him.
No, no Miss Windfall, we meant nothing of this kind—but we were only enquiring what was the surest method of behaving acceptably; we found that the forward woman and the prude were equally unsuccessful we wished to know the right way.
I believe that madam Sensible can tell you.
SCENE VII.—Mad. SENSIBLE, LUCINDA and LEMIRA.
MADAM we have enquired of many sensible persons, how a woman may be acceptable to the other sex—She that is too fond of them, in the first instance, sails, and she that is too shy—We should wish for your opinion on just conduct.
I do not imagine myself qualified to decide such important questions.
O madam, you, if any person can.
You are the only person in the world; teach me how I may be agreeable.
I am not a professor of gallantry—But all the arts which I believe to be necessary, are comprehended within a very small compass. Young ladies should have honest [Page 241] hearts, virtuous principles, and should be educated to decent manners, before they see much company of young gentlemen. These being granted they need not affect, any extraordinary character. They will please most by avoiding all affectation, and appearing just what they are—They are best to appear what nature, illustrated by a good education, has made them—They who are never rude in their behavior, will seldom be treated with rudeness—women may even be grateful to men, for their generous attentions, if they converse with them sensibly, and with proper, and decent manners—And if men will not converse in this manner, there is no need of quarrelling with them, or offering them any personal abuse. The severest and most effectual punistment, is to leave them to their own society—These are not artifices, but comprehend the simple, just conduct, of a virtuous woman—I would not have any woman affect the extremes of behavior—the medium in my opinion is the safest, because it is the rightest.
Madam we thank you.
SCENE VIII.—THINKMUCH & DOMORE (entering hastily.)
WELL, there never was such a wretched author, I believe, as he who wrote this Dialogue.
Why the sentiment is bro't to a point and yet there is no change of fortune or sign of a catastrophe in the piece—It ends with a tame moral sentiment—good enough 'tis true but no remarkable event to set it off I am worried prodigiously. I am afraid I shall never make it take. Pray were is the author of it.
SCENE IX.—PALEFACE, (Entering) THINKMUCH and DOMORE.
WHAT is your will gentlemen?
Only see, what a piece of work you have made— here my scholars you see are all at a stand—cannot move on with the Drama. You have bro't them into the most shocking hobble—I expect we shall be obliged to break off short; and go off the stage with lopt ears—for there is not a sign of a catastrophe to the piece—what put it into your head to leave the Drama without a catastrope?
Why, suppose you had played it off without a catastrophe, what ill consequence would have come of it?
Why the critic [...] would maul it unmercifully.
The people would clamour against it.
The democrats will say, it was done on purpose to introduce monarchy.
The aristocrats, will say 'twas meant against the Federal government.
It will get to the university, and the scholars will declaim against it.
The Government will rusticate it.
The metaphysicians will say you are non compo [...].
The astronomers will say you are excentric.
The lawyers will say you ought to be nonsuited.
The physicians will detest it as a pestilence.
That's a mistake, pestilence is all in their favor.
The Clergy —
Hold sir you shan't say a word about the clergy; they have reproaches enough from other quarters. But here you blame me unmercifully. What? do you think all subjects can be treated exactly alike—There is Dr. Burgo, who is as great a critic as any—I'll leave it to him, if you dare; to say, whether I have done right or not.
SCENE X.— PALEFACE and BURGO.
SIR I am most unmercifully accused by these people for not giving this Drama a regular catastrophe—The subject sir, is whether Prudery or Forwardness be most prejudicial to women—I wish you to inform me, whether this subject be capable of a regular conclusion.
Ladies and Gentlemen. It is my opinion that this author is excus [...]able—Solomon himself could not desire acceptability in love matters—All that we can say, is, that all affectation, and extremes of character, ought to be avoided. But which is the most pernicious to women, that which is called Forwardness or Prudery— will forever remain an Insolvable Question. Between these two large extremes—there is a wide field for the exercise of discretion— So pardon neighbor Paleface, let him give his hand to which lady he pleases, and lead off the stage.
The Match Dissolved. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
THE MEANNESS OF FORTUNE HUNTING.
THERE can be no greater instance of insincerity; than to pretend love for the sake of getting money. Consequently there is no character among men, more properly the object of contempt, than a fortune hunter. Disproportionate matches, in point of estate, bring insult on the part of the monied party; contempt and disgust on the other—And why should not the woman be contemptible too, who sets her cap at a man of fortune, when once she has learned to write her name, and is able to buy her a silk gown?
PERSONS.
- MR. HONEYCOMB—a good natured householder.
- MR. SEMIBREVE—a young music master.
- TARTANA HONEYCOMB—wife to Mr. Honeycomb.
- MARIA—Mr. Honeycomb's daughter.
- AUNT GRISSEL—an old maid, sister to Mrs. Honeycomb.
- LEVINA—a friend and confident of Maria.
THE MATCH DISSOLVED.
ACT I.
SCENE I—Mr. HONEYCOMB and TARTANA.
MY dearest wife, the condition of our marriage has been extremely pleasing to me; tho it is not wholly without its cares—I believe there is no perfectly unmixed happiness in this world.
I have often told you so, and there are troubles now I find—cheese and butter are likely to be very dear, and we have not laid in our win [...]er's stock of pickles.
That is a matter of very small consequence—but the young man whom we hired to teach our Maria music, is paying his addresses to her most sincerely.
A blockhead, a little impudent coxcomb. He court our Maria! 'Tis impossible.
You will find it but too true, I am afraid her affections are so engaged to him, that I never shall be able to disengage her▪
Do punish him well, husband; I'd be revenged on him, I would break his back.
What, break his back for being fond of an agreeable girl—My own back on that principle would have been broken before this day.
But I can't bear it, that such a fop as he should have our Maria.
I will prevent it, if possible, without breaking his back, or his head; but I am very much afraid that the affair is past remedy.
This comes of her learning music.
Let us not have any words, my dear, on that matter—you was as fond of her learning music as I, but we were both much to blame.
Why I have always told her she must not pretend to like any of the young fellows without my leave; and I have never given her any leave about it.
Girls do not always wait for their mothers leave in those matters. But we were more to blame than she, to hire him into the house and let him have access to her at all hours.
But girls need not throw themselves away neither, if their parents do give them liberties.
It is possible they may be affected with kind, and tender attentions as well as men. I have no disposition to quarrel with her.
I'd quarrel with him then, and I say again, if I could not make him leave her otherwise, I'd break his back.
It is my serious opinion that the parents who take a gay young man into the family as an instructor to their daughters, are more to blame than their daughters, if consequences should not be agreeable—But I shall use my best endeavor, to remove the evil, and in the easiest manner possible.
SCENE II.—TARTANA and GRISSEL.
GRISSEL, do you know any thing of any peculiar friendship between our Maria, and Mr. Semibreve?
There is, so far as I can guess, every sign, that she is fond of him. I said nothing about it because you often blame me, for intermeddling in the affairs of the family.
But when you saw any thing likely to take place, which must hurt the family extremely, you ought to mention it.
How should I know how it would turn? perhaps you would have said, in one minute, that I meddled, because I was envious; and the whole family would have pointed at me because I was the old maid.
Hem! we may have carried that matter too far.
I find married people in general have a d [...]sgust against old maids. But why should they be treated as the worst of criminals. You never would have married a man, [Page 247] who was disagreeable to you — would you?
Most certainly I would not, I should rather have died.
So I think, and tho you urged me so much to marry Mr. Landworth; he was so disagreeable to me; that I am persuaded, if I had married him, I should have died within three months.
Then I don't know why you should be blamed— but have you never advised Maria better?
Yes, but she never would take any notice of me.
Then I wish you would talk with her again—and school her well.
Why would you not do it yourself?
Because I am apt to get into a passion, and if I should, and abuse her, I should be sorry for it afterwards.
Well now, since I know you will approve of it—I will talk with her upon the subject—and I shall give it to her well—I wish to punish her—I shall do it with a goodwill—because she is often vexing me about being an old maid.
SCENE III.—GRISSEL and MARIA.
WELL, Miss, where's your Butterfly? Shall we not expect him fl [...]ttering about here to day?
If you wan't him for your amusement—perhaps he may be.
Want him for my amusement! I care not for him the value of his own fiddlestick; and I wonder you can be fond of such a coxcomb.
A coxcomb do you call him? Truly he is fond of ornament, which shows him to be a neat, and cleanly man; and attentive to our sex—and you know that kind of attention, is agreeable to all women.
I wish to know whether you expect to live upon love, and music; without any solid estate? Fa, sol, la, twedle dum and twedle-dee, must be poor consolations in an empty house and starving family.
So you must deal in your dismals. That's always the way with a woman, when she's fit for nothing else.— But I dare say, he'll provide for every thing that is necessary.
Let him pretend what he will, he never should trouble me with his addresses.
He would not, I am confident for they would be to you the greatest consolation imaginable▪
I'd settle the matter quick. He should not court me long.
I suppose not, for you would comply so easily, and promptly; that there would be no occasion for a long courtship.
No he should not so much as darken my doors.
No for his presence in your fancy would be much brighter than the day.
You know, you saucy, impudent creature, what I mean, well enough. I mean, that I would not let him come after me at all.
No, for you would meet him more than half way— and follow him to the ends of the earth.
You are so saucy, there is no bearing with you: and were it not that it is a shame for ladies to quarrel; I would give you a good thumping, that I would.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—LEVINA and MARIA.
MY friend, I cannot think it safe to trust to a future maintenance, unless he is engaged in some business.
It has often given me the most serious concern— for I perceive that I cannot resign him without pain—yet I have had many serious hours of reflection, if he does not apply himself to any steady business how we shall be able to live in any credit, or reputation—and indeed, how we shall be able to live at all—for my fortune is not so great as to last forever, without any further income.
How strange we young folks manage between ourselves. The idleness of a young man, who is agreeable, always gives us great pain—yet we treat them as if it were well that they were always idle—by affecting to be above the laborious employments of life ourselves.
And the young gentlemen have the same absurdity in their treatment, of us. They expect every thing of us, of delicacy and propriety of conduct. And yet often [Page 249] behave towards us, as if they would have us be the reverse.
That is very true. But in both cases reason should bear rule, in spite of custom. And, were I in your case— I certainly, before I bro't myself into any engagement—I would know whether he meant to follow any serious business—for the mere profession of music, will never support any person with reputation; unless it brings more profit, than it does among us.
I am of your opinion, and shall have the discretion to see to that point myself.
And, (I must leave you for a moment) I would not pass over that matter slightily.
SCENE II.—SEMIBREVE and MARIA.
MARIA, my dear delight, happy, and cheerful, I hope as you always are.
You would make me happy were it in the power of complaisance to do it.
Complaisance, my dear Maria! Is the affection of my heart no more than complaisance? Is the most refined, most intense and exalted passion, no more than complaisance? My sweet angel, you undervalue the heart, which is devoted to you.
I should be happy to find all your assertions true. But you know, that by listening to your addresses, I have affronted my relations. And it is necessary for us, to have something to live upon, in case they should not be kind to us.
Depend on it, my divine Maria, depend on it, that I shall see to that, I shall live nobly with you, Maria, depend on it, we shall be happy as possible.
Women, you may say, are apt to be more anxious than men; but I must own that I fear the profession of music will not maintain us. I could wish that you would engage in some other business.
All in due time, my sweet girl, depend on it, if I marry you, I will maintain you well, and leave no scheme or business untried, that I may gain a happy living.
Well, sir, I wish you will bear it in mind, for it has really given me uneasiness. For I am sensible of your merit, tho I cannot see how you will establish a living.
All in good time, never fear me my sweet girl▪ you shall find me a man of the strictest honor.
SCENE III.—LEVINA and MARIA.
WHAT does he say? will he do as you wish to have him?
He promises fair and upon the strictest honor what other assurances can I have from him?
Nothing; unless he actually engage in business— but if he promises upon honor, he must be a perfect villain if he breaks his word.
I can have no firmer ground of truth.
True; but I would not be married to him, till he was settled in some good business.
I do not intend it, but it will come to much the same thing—I must promise in order to secure him—and if I promise I shall marry him at all events.
Heaven direct my good girl, I know not what to advise you to.
SCENE IV.—HONEYCOME and MARIA.
WHY my dear girl should you appear to avoid me? I wish to converse with you, on a subject interesting to both of us.
If I were sure, I had nothing of severity to fear; you would see no disposition in me to avoid you.
Severity, my girl, you have no severity to expect. What made you think of it? I wish, however, to enquire in a manner, the least disagreeable to you, if Mr. Semibreve has any prospect of settling in any permanent business.
I cannot say positively; but I believe he intends it.
This business, in teaching music, will hardly be sufficient for the maintenance of a family.
I suppose it cannot be, but I believe him to be a man of the strictest honor. He says he means to go into business soon.
Have you no apprehension, Maria, that he is one of those idle fellows that cheat girls, who only pretend, to have a regard for you, that he may be maintained in [Page 251] idleness and dissipation? —he perhaps imagine [...]u have a fortu [...]e.
He is always very decent in his conduct to me, and certainly pretends to be very sincere; whatever his real views may be.
And you have no suspicions of him?
Not in the least. I believe him to be a man of the strictest honor.
If you believe him to be such a man; then you will have no objection to my bringing him to the test; and it will only set his virtues in the strongest [...]ight.
I would not wish any thing rude, or uncivil to be offered to him.
No, that is [...] my nature; I will only converse with him concerning you and let him talk as he pleases — You know that fr [...] our parlor to my study, every word which one speaks in the common pitch of conversation, may be heard distinctly.
And what, sir, would you propose?
That you take your place in my study, while I converse with him, and hear our conversation.
That I will do most willingly; for I am not in the least apprehensive, that I shall hear any thing; but that which is most agreeable, and which will tend to make you and me respect him more than we do.
You will be ready when he comes.
SCENE V.—TAR [...]ANA HONEYCOME and GRISSEL.
HUSBAND, I am out of my wits about Maria— I have been thinking of it, and the more I think, the more I am uneasy. I shall go crazy, if there be not something done about it.
I talked with the little jade about it today; and she was so saucy, I could hardly keep my hands from her. I never had so good an appetite to my dinner, as I had to give her a beating.
If she would not give him up, I'd turn her out of doors.
That is, to save her, we must destroy her at once— Shall we ruin her, because her affection mortifies us? That's acting on a selfish motive.
That's just like you, you never can resent any thing.
Never mind it, my wife. If I do not gro [...] mistake, they'll settle the matter between themselves yet.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—HONEYCOMB and SEMIBREVE.
MR. SEMIBREVE, it has been represented to me; that you have sought an alliance with our family.
That is, as things may prove to be. I believe Maria has a regard for me.
I suspect that she has, and truly, I believe you have taken some pains to gain her affections.
It always was my fortune, by some means, or other, to attract the notice of the ladies. I hope they don't blame me for the manner in which they are affected, when they see me.
Perhaps not, but if you be in pursuit of Maria, or [...] you seem rather to insinuate, she is in pursuit of you; the effect comes to the same thing. You must have a maintainance, in order to live comfortably together.
There is no doubt of that.
Well, it becomes an interesting matter to me; do you intend to pursue any steady business for the purpose of supporting yourself?
Sir, I mean to live like a gentleman—I teach music occasionally—As for our maintenance, in case I marry your daughter, I suppose you will give her enough to maintain us.
If she marries agreeably to my mind I shall do my best for her.
You can give her a hansome estate, and permit me to say, sir, you ought to do it.
Sir, I hope you do not mean to dispose of my estate, till you have it in your hands.
No—but as I know the hold I have on Maria's affections—I mean to have something handsome with her, if I take her.
Well sir, I suppose I could give her as much as eight hundred pounds— you know I have many children.
Eight hundred pounds, sir, I shall not accept.—I [Page 253] know, you can afford to give more—I have no mind to marry without the means of living genteelly.
You do not however promise to make the best kind of a son in law; but as I mean to treat my daughter kindly— and I believe she respects you—I will make an effort to give her twelve hundred pounds.
I know the hold I have on Maria's affections—you will not wish to destroy your daughter's happiness—I shall not accept of twelve hundred.
I will give you fifteen hundred, rather than hurt my daughter, in the feelings of her heart—I have a great aversion to crossing children in their love— I am confident that Maria will prove a very kind and industrious wife— and with her I will give you fifteen hundred pounds; which is as much as I can give.
No sir, I thank you. I shall not accept of any thing less than two thousand pounds—which is as little as I can think of taking, and be saddled with a wife—tho I believe with a little tutoring, she might be a tolerable family piece—tho not a fine woman, by any means.
What if I tell her what you say of her?
She never would believe it. She would credit one word of mine more than a thousand of yours.
I shall never give you two thousand pounds.
You are not sure of that; you will be glad to come to my terms yet. If you do not, you may depend on losing your daughter.
SCENE II.—HONEYCOMB and MARIA.
MY dear Maria▪ your humble servant seems to be a hard man to deal with.
Dear sir, give yourself no more trouble about him, I detest the coxcomb.
Will you admit the addresses of Mr. Plaintruth, who has long cherished a kind regard for you? I recommend him to you, my girl, as a person of approved worth.
Dear sir, I have been foolish long enough in following my own inclination—I will be governed by your advice.
Well wife, Maria has given him up.
You are the strangest man that over was; you will make all women folks do just as you please.
SCENE III.—SEMIBREVE and MARIA.
MY divine Maria—I shall make the old gentleman deal out freely to us yet.
Yes, perhaps I may marry you yet, if any body will give me two thousand pounds. But I would not for fifteen hundred pounds, tho you might make her with a little tutoring a tolerable family piece.
Ha! it seems you have overheard me. I have often heard that people always get paid for listening.
Yes, I am well paid for it. I shall get rid of an insufferable coxcomb—I shall never forgive myself the weakness of having been attached to him. Sir, instead of giving me any more of your fulsome flattery; get out of the house, and if you ever come into it again you shall meet with proper correction.
Oh! blast my ill luck, she is certainly angry, and my game is up. What a fool I was that I did not accept the fifteen hundred pounds.
The Spring for Flowers. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
YOUTH IS THE SEASON FOR LOVE AND MARRIAGE.
Few of human follies have less excuse to plead, than the neglect of marriage in youth—and the consequent anxiety for it, in later life. A quick sensibility, strength, activity, ambition and power of sustaining family cares—ability to govern and educate children—with freedom from uncouth habits; and full propension to love; all invite to early marriages. Cold prudence is all the virtue peculiar to later life; and it is generally left without the assistance of the other virtues.
PERSONS.
- MR. ALLWORTHY—a gentlemen of exce [...]lent moral [...].
- MR. GOODSORT—a methodical, sober bachelor.
- MISS HAWTHORNE—a single lady of thirty six.
- MRS. EASY—a widow.
- MISS HAZARD—a mantua maker.
- MISS EMILY—an accomplished young lady.
- MISS FORESIGHT—a cunning maiden of twenty eight.
- LUCY—servant to Miss Hawthorne.
THE SPRING FOR FLOWERS.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—GOODSORT and HAWTHORNE.
MADAM, every thing in life may be transacted acc [...]rding to rule and reason; I have a desire to invite you to the state of mariage, and see here, I have stated my proposals on this paper; that you may consider them at your le [...]sure.
Sir I shall consider them; it would be rude not to do it, considering your reputable character. But I cannot speedily come to a conclusion.
Take what time you think proper, if you will only give them due consideration. I shall perhaps see you again in an hour or two. But will not insist on a hasty determination,—take what time you please.
SCENE II.—HAWTHORNE and FORESIGHT.
NOW from my soul I wish he had less reason, then I could suppose he had more love—He is as cool in his courtship as if he were casting up a column of figures— He is a worthy man, but after all not at all to my taste.
Why, Madam you really appear melancholy.
I am so—I find I have left my morning's work to do in the afternoon, I am vexed with myself.
I do not comprehend your meaning.
The truth is, when I was young, from twenty to thirty, I had a number of very good offers for marriage, but full of the love of liberty & dissipation, I declined them, [Page 258] and now, to conceal nothing from you—I am heartily sorry for it.
Many a woman I suppose has committed the same error—But for Heaven's sake don't get into the dumps, your prospects are good yet.
Why, I am ready to look upon myself as a poor, forsaken creature.
Poh! There's Mr. Goodfort, is as fond of you, as he can be of any woman.
An odd piece of furniture truely.
Why, what's the matter with him?
Matter, I am afraid he is all matter and no spirit— His courtship it as methodical as a book of accounts— He comes just so often, stays just so long, talks just so, and just so much.
He is an exact gentleman, to be sure.
Exact! All system, method and order; I do not love to be measured by the square and compass.
He is a very virtuous man.
Yes, I esteem him, and yet after all I don't like him—He makes love by calculation,—besides he is eight years older than I.
He must be old then, with an emphasis.
You saucy—I was going to call names, but to own the truth I am on the wrong side of thirty five—But he is eight years older than I.
Has he not made his proposals?
Yes, he has made them, on paper as you live; and as formal as any bond or deed.
You had better comply with them.
I mean to, unless I have those which are more pleasing.
From whom have you any prospect of those which are more agreeable?
I have had some visits from that elegant pink of all courtesy, Mr. Allworthy.
Your hopes are delusive.
He is very complaisant to me.
He says openly, he only respects your good sense, and hopes to profit by your experience.
Experience! a saucy fellow. Experience is the result of age—Yet tho he is saucy, he is complaisant and young.
Too young I should suppose, he is eight years younger than you.
I do not think that any reasonable objection.
I suppose not—But he is very much engaged with Miss Emily Howard.
There is an easy remedy for that; I could fright her out of that fancy in five minutes.
I am not so certain of that—Those modest girls, when they once get engaged, are commonly engaged to purpose.
I can easily fright her out of the project. She is afraid of her own shadow.
She may be afraid of a shadow, and have no objection to the substance.
O I can manage the matter with her. There is Mrs. Easy,—She had a most wretched husband, and if she were to talk with Emily about the men, she would half fright her to death in ten minutes.
Much I doubt that. But I have no objection to your trying the experiment.
SCENE II. — HAWTHORNE and EMILY.
DO tell me Emily, what is that which worries your mind so, and makes you so pensive?
Pray be not so teazing; I would not tell my own mother of such a subject.
Then there is a subject —you shall tell it me, Emily.
You would only say that I was a foolish girl; and that would mortify me extremely.
P [...]haw! Emily—you don't lessen my curiosity at all; you know I am a good friend to you, Emily; you own auht too; you shall tell me.
I am [...] loth to give you pain.
You give me the more pain by this management —My curiosity puts me on the rack—Tell me, or I shall not enjoy a moment's peace.
I have a right to k [...]ep some things to myself, and I will not tell you—your servant madam.
She is cunning▪ and l [...]es right for herself; but there is one way which never [...] surprise d [...]icate minds: it is almost too wicked. It is to put them on the [Page 260] rack, in fears for their honor. Emily deserves this punishment for thinking to outwit my old head. I will accuse her and set her to justifying herself.
Emily, my dear, excuse me if I detain you one moment. You, I understand, have had a quarrel in your family.
That's a total mistake; I have the full confidence of my parents, and the happiest harmony with my brothers and sisters.
Then Miss Fidget was wrong; but Miss Coaxer might be in the right, in saying that you became melancholy in consequence of being neglected by the young gentlemen.
I have dismissed three within a month, and I have one now.
There it is; they are right; you carry on a clandestine correspondence with him.
Nobody who knows me would suspect me of such a thing. Mr. Allwor [...]hy never visited me once, but with the approbation of my parents.
They like him then.
They treat him respectfully.
Then the reason must be, that he is not so attentive as—
More attentive than I desire.
Then he's a perfect libertine, is he?
You astonish me—What did I say, which should lead you to that? He is a man of most excellent morals.
Now, you fancy girl, I have got the secret out of you—Mr. Allworthy is very attentive to you, and that grieves you.
You have been successful—I see you have not lost your faculty to do misch [...]ef.
Mr. Allwor [...]hy then addresses you—and you are all in fear lest you should lose him.
Not in the least, my fears are all the other way, lest I should be persuaded to detain him.
Aye, there you are right—this marrying is a dangerous affair—By saying yes, a woman may ruin herself forever. Never think of marrying, Emily—Never make yourself miserable for any man. Mrs. Easy will soon be here, and she will tell you all about it.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—GOOD [...]ORT and EASY.
MRS. Easy, I wait on you at the request of Miss Hawthorne, desiring that you would attend her.
What does she wish of me?
She says that she desires you would tell Emily all that is bad about marriage, and terrify her so, that she may not venture herself into that state—She says that she is afraid Emily is about to engage in a very improper match.
I can tell her all the bad which I know of it—But if she will not be terrified, I cannot help that—Do you know what Miss Hawthorne means by this?
I do not; but simply to express her desires to you.
SCENE II.—Miss HAZARD and Mrs. EASY.
THAT poor old pigeon Miss Hawthorne has commissioned me, to fright Emily Howard.
And I am to make a suit of clothes for her; to enable her to catch Mr. Allworthy.
She may as well try to catch all the larks that wing the air—I can tell her madam ship, that 'tis not for such old croakers as she, to match with the fine young gentlemen.
Somehow, I always feel a disposition to plague old maids, tho I expect to be one myself.
Tho I never was one myself; nor ever wished to be—I think them excusable when they could not be married reputably.
But Miss Hawthorne's celibacy is her own fault she owns, and by her own confession, she is proper prize for ridicule.
SCENE III.—HAWTHORNE, HAZARD and Mrs. EASY
HAVE you finished my clothes?
No, I forgot to ask you the fashion of them.
The newest fashion—such as Miss Sprightly's.
That is almost in the fashion of a young Miss▪ clothes.
I would not have you think I am so terribly old neither.
Why you look very fresh and fair for a woman of your years.
Of my years you creature you; what do you mean by that?
Have you forgot how you wished me to tell your fortune.
No Madam, no—I have kept my tea cup, prepared in due order for you to see.
It ought to have been a cup, taken in the morning fasting—the lady who is to have her fortune told, should only drink one cup in the morning and eat nothing with it —nor taste any food till four in the afternoon.
I have prepared it accordingly.
Let me see it then.
Pray look out and see if any body be coming in— I should be very much ashamed to be caught in telling fortunes.
Well this is odd.
Here's a man who intends to have you. He is about forty four—a very methodical man. He is serious—and will have you. But here's a letter.
It is a letter, as plain as it can be.
This is from a man about twenty six or twenty eight—His name begins with an A.
Well what do you think of him?
He does not seem to be quite so fond of you as the other—See he has a lady of his heart—See here—her name begins with E.— I suspect 'tis Emily Howard.
A fiddlestick. It is the silliest thing in the world to tell fortunes.
What I told you madam is true—I am sorry it has put you out of humor, and I wish you good night.
SCENE IV.—EMILY, Mrs. EASY and Miss HAWTHORNE.
MRS. Easy, I am very happy to pay my respects to you.
Hey! my young lady—so compliasant to an old creature such as I—I thank you Emily.
This young lady is troubled in her mind — some people say she is on the point of being married. Has she not reason to be afraid? Is not that a very dangerous, and a very important affair?
Yes, yes, somewhat dangerous and quite important. But a woman can manage her husband well enough, if she knows how.
Will you excuse me. Mrs. Easy!—I never wish to take one step in life but upon sure grounds. Was you happy in your marriage?
Yes, my dear girl—I frankly answer yes. Other persons complained of my husband—but to me he was truly a kind man—Yes Emily I can say truly, that I was happy.
I suppose you are always happy in whatever situation you are.
Few men are so bad, as not to be good in some respects—Yes, I was happy my dear.
Did your husband ever put on high airs of authority?
Yes.
Did he ever talk with passion, and be saucy to you?
Yes.
Was he ever cross and ill humored?
Yes.
Was he ever in a passion with you?
Yes.
Did he ever leave you, to go into company abroad?
Yes.
Was he ever suspicious of you?
Yes.
Was you ever afraid that he might leave you to distress and want?
Yes.
Had he a great many faults then?
Yes.
And could you be happy with such a man?
Yes.
O admiration. Had I such a husband I must die out-right—Do you not think I should?
No.
This is quite beyond my comprehension.
I suppose it—but all men have their faults. If you cannot be happy with a man who has faults you can be happy with none.
Then it will be best for me to remain as I am.
You are a little simplicity, Emily. Tho my husband had so many faults, and other people said he had more than ever I saw—Yet when he died I was very sorry.
Well, Mrs. Easy, will you tell me how one may manage with a husband who has faults? How shall a woman make her husband treat her with respect?
By never giving him any reason to despise her.
How shall she prevent his leaving her to want and distress.
By not wantonly spending his estate.
How prevent his being cross and ill humored.
Set him an example of good humor and pleasantness.
If he goes much into company abroad —
She must cure him by making him happiest at home.
What if he be liable to sudden passions.
Let him alone till his passion is over.
How shall she prevent his being suspicious of her.?
By telling him every thing he wants to know.
How shall she prevent his withdrawing his confidence from her?
By always telling him exact truth.
If he has many faults and she cannot but know it?
She should count her own, and see if she has not more than he.
You are a strange woman, Mrs. Easy. The women must all come to you to learn the matrimonial catechism—but all this will do me no good.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—EMILY and ALLWORTHY.
COULD Mrs. Easy be happy with such a [Page 265] husband as she had. And I not be able to find a blessing with such a man as Mr. Allworthy—I'll let him know my sentiments are altered and be will fly to me like a bird.
Miss Emily, I must know my definitive sentence— suspence is so uncomfortable to me that I shall not long be able to endure it.
I must then accept your offers, on this supposition— that we both have many faults, and each must learn to bear with them.
The best footing in the world in point of prudence —but my affection will not let me anticipate them on your part.
Well [...] am willing to contrive to be happy with as few faults as possible on either side.
Neither is that condition disagreeable—I believe we had better say nothing more against concord, and harmony, but let them take place between us if they will.
I shall not try to banish them.
SCENE II.—HAWTHORNE and EMILY.
WELL I may now resign myself to despair, unless you will give up your pretentions.
A good friend is a treasure worth keeping. I have no tho'ts of parting with such a blessing.
SCENE III.—LUCY and HAWTHORNE.
SHALL we set on a supper?
I am perfectly indifferent about it.
The ladies will want it; and they all will collect here in a few moments.
You may do what you please—I feel very disagreeably.
Madam, you are disappointed and cannot conceal it—but I would take the methodical gentleman.
I shall, but to marry when one is not perfectly satisfied with it, is not the thing—But one must do it, when they can do nothing better—I wish I had not been such a fool when I was young.
SCENE IV.—HAWTHORNE, and EMILY, and all the ladies present.
LADIES you are welcome; but pray do not expect me to be very cheerful.
My aunt, I hope will not blame me, for not resigning the best part of my fortune to her.
No ladies— I blame none of you: I have no one to blame but myself. But let me, like all other criminals, caution you not to do as I have done, youth is the season of beauty, and of attention from the men — and I believe if a woman cannot suit herself with a partner then—there is very little prospect that she ever will.
The Discontented Wife. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
THE QUARRELS OF MARRIED PERSONS ARE GENERALLY FRIVOLOUS.
IT is generally very idle for people in the vicinity, to interpose in the quarrels of married persons. Marriage obliges, and almost necessitates, a man and his wife, to be of a mind, in things of great consequence—Their quarrels arise from some trifles: a mere momentary humor, or accidental word, and counter passions, have more influence in reconciling them, than their reason. Hence this important moral arises; that married persons never make complaints of each other abroad, and that their neighbors interpose in none of their differences—lest work be made for repentance.
PERSONS.
- COL. FORTINBRASS—officer of the United States army, married in N. York.
- MR. WILLIAMSON—a wealthy citizen and good husband.
- MR. LEWISTON—a neighbor, friend to Mrs. Fortinbrass.
- MRS. FORTINBRASS—wife to Col Fortinbrass.
- MRS. WILLIAMSON—wife to Mr. Williamson.
- MRS. LYMAN—wife of a reputable citizen, friend of Mrs. Fortinbrass.
- MRS. DELANO—formerly rival of Mrs. Fortinbrass.
THE DISCONTENTED WIFE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—Mrs. WILLIAMSON and Mrs. FORTINBRASS.
O MY dear Mrs Fortinbrass, I am glad to meet you here—I am going to Philadelphia, and wished to see Mrs. Lyman before I went. But I am so happy as to see you here! I hope you and the Col enjoy good health.
Not very good, indeed I get very little rest anights—The Col. at present is from home—But how sweetly you look, what bright eyes, what rosy cheeks.
Thanks to that Great Being who gives health and cheerfulness, I enjoy both in a great degree—The peace and satisfaction of my mind have done me more good than medicine.
And how sweetly dressed too: where did you get this delightful gown?
My husband gave it me, it was his own choice.
Your husband gave it to you?
Yes. I hope you do not think that I would have accepted it from any other man.
Then your husband is good to you—Is he indeed?
I am almost angry with you—What a question! But I pardon you; for many have prophesied that I should be unhappy in my marriage—But what thanks do I owe to Heaven for my husband, whose kindness and virtues exceed my most romantic expectations.
Well, I believe you are one of the happy few—I am sick of marriage—only see how I look—this ordinary gown—But this is nothing could I enjoy peace at home—I had better been laid in my grave, than to have married Col. Fortinbrass.
Mrs. Fortinbrass, I am surprised. You unhappy—and with Col. Fortinbrass too—so fine a person, so elegant in his dress and manners—Fifty girls in this city were ready to die with envy when you married him.
Could I▪ part with him now, they might have him very cheap.
But you surprise me, my dear friend—What is the matter?
Matter enough, I think; he holds his soldier frolics abroad, despises my company at home, gets me no new cloaths. When I reprove him, he will either look as surly as a bear, or get his old flax stringed fiddle and play a tune to my reproof.
That vexes you I suppose.
It does mortally, I have tho't a number of times that I should have died with vexation—But I could only retire, and weep in floods of tears—But hush, he is coming.
I withdraw a moment to talk with Mrs. Lyman. But will see you again in half an hour.
SCENE II.—Mrs. FORTINBRASS and Col. FORTINBRASS.
Well sir, you got home very early last night. It was but one of the clock in the morning.
I hoped, madam, to have met with a kind reception from you. I do not think it was very late.
But I know it was late—and it was a pretty fancy indeed, if one must marry and expect to find a friend in a husband, and have him leave one in utter contempt, and tarry out late.
Tum tum diddle de dum dum dum.
You pretend to have your soldier frolics— who knows what you are about when you are abroad?
Tum dum, &c.
No woman of spirit can bear such treatment, I protest.
Tum dum diddle, &c.
You have not bought me a new gown this twelve month.
Tum dum, &c.
I won't bear this treatment—It is intolerable.
Tum dum diddle, &c.
If ever there was a woman so abused by her husband.
Tum dum diddle.
SCENE III.—Mrs. FORTINBRASS and Mrs. LYMAN.
O MY dear Mrs. Lyman, I am undone— Never was any person so abused by her husband. I shall die— I shall die.
Fye, fye Mrs. Fortinbrass—do not disgrace yourself and disgrace your husband, by these quarrels—but find means to make yourself and your husband easy. These proceedings are very dangerous.
I cannot bear it; I must give him my mind, if I die for it.
You may do it and see what you will get by it—but I will not stay to hear you.
SCENE IV.—COL. FORTINBRASS and Mrs. FORTINBRASS
WELL madam it is really a fine morning today.
So it seems by your music—you are quite inspired it seems by the season.
I love to sing when I feel cheerful—I have very fine success in fowling.
I saw you have a large bunch of birds strung up by their bills—I wonder how you came to kill so many starlings. They are a lean kind of birds, and of little, or no use.
No not starlings, child. They are thrushes my dear [...] delicious as marrow.
Do you think me such a fool that I do not know a thrush from a starling.
And do you think me such a sot that I don't know a starling, from a thrush?
You staid out very late, last night. Your eyes, and senses too, might be a little hurt.
What an impudent woman you are, to talk thus to your husband.
What an insolent coxcomb you are to treat a woman of spirit, and good family, in this manner.
O torment! why did I marry? Can I bear such impudence.
Yes, you insolent Dutchman—to behave with no more complaisance to a woman of spirit and good family. You are not fit for human society—Go abroad among the brutes. If you cannot behave yourself with more propriety, get out of this house, this instant, and as fast as you can.
Sylvia farewell—I have long borne with some ill qualities in you, on account of some others, which I admired and loved; but this last stroke is intolerable—Farewell Sylvia, I shall see you no more. Yet remember this house was mine—you have it but by marrying me—And now you order me from it. It is very well—I will go. And you shall have it to yourself.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—Mrs. FOTINBRASS and Mrs. LYMAN (entering here.)
O MY friend, I am the most miserable of women.
What did your husband do, when you ordered him out of the house?
He went softly away—and I said nothing. It has been three weeks that we have been much out of humour with each other. Now he has bid me a solemn farewell. O I am the most miserable of women! Why was I such a fool as to marry!
Well, and I cannot but think that you are partly to blame too—I have no desire to exculpate the colonel—why should you bluntly contradict him? That is unpolite to any body. Why insult him with his being a Dutchman▪ National reflections always wound deep. You knew that before you married him—and to order him out of a house which you acquired by marrying with him.
If I have been to blame, I have been to blame. But I will ask your advice.
Well madam, I advise you to send a polite message to the Colonel, and invite him to come home.
So give up my will, and let him gain his point, a grand lesson for a lady of fashion.
Then get some friend to mention it to him, so as to save your pride in the case.
After all, it will be a kind of submission, and that is a word which of all words I hate.
It is simply a compliance, and I trust you know what compliance is—when you trusted your life, your property, your honor, your happiness with your husband, nay your very soul—did you think after that, that you must be ceremonious?
But in that case there was no impropriety.
Neither is there here. Maids are bound to ceremony. But a married woman may do whatever she pleases, for the happiness of herself and her husband.
You will not easily pursuade me to give up my will, and resentments, I assure you.
What then do you mean to do?
To sue for a divorce, or seperate maintenance at least.
You may intend to have your own way; but I do not mean to give you up so—there is my good friend Mr. Williamson, he says his heart has bled for you, when he knew the dissensions between you, and your husband.
If that be true it is more then I have done for myself, I assure you.
Dear Mrs. Fortinbrass, say not that again, if you be insensible to the better affections of the heart, I shall despair of you entirely.
You, or any one, may say then just what you please.
SCENE III.—Mr. WILLIAMSON and Mrs. FORTINBRASS.
LADIES, I respect you all most sincerely; but I mean to pay my attention particularly to Mrs. Fortinbrass.
Just as you please, Mr. Williamson.
I mean in regard of your affair with Col. Fortinbrass—I will not mortify you afresh by telling the sad story, but if I can be of any service to you by healing the unhappy wound, and restoring happiness, I shall greatly rejoice—will you be so kind as to tell me what your intentions are?
To sue for a divorce or a separate maintenance at least.
Let me then ask you if you have not unnatural relations who hate you, and rivals who owe you a mortal grudge, and indeed enemies of various kinds?
Yes, perhaps a hundred, who would rejoice to hear of my death.
Consider then what you are about to do—will it not be the greatest gratification to your enemies, to see you abject, and miserable, worse than a widow, forsaken of all reputable company, and an object of general contempt—how will your rivals exult over you? Would you do what would gratify their malice?
No, I would sooner confound them forever.
Here is one of them coming now.—She'll torment you, you had better go out of the way.
No, let her come. I cannot be more miserable than I am.
SCENE III.—Mrs. DELAND, Mrs. FORTINBRASS and Mr. WILLIAMSON.
LADIES most welcome all of you; and in particular Mrs. Fortinbrass. Well madam how do ye do?
Indifferently madam.
Rather indifferently I suppose. The Col. they say has forsaken you. Well, this is odd that after you took so much pains to have him, you should lose him so soon.
I expect no mercy from you Mrs. Delano.
I love to show mercy as well as other persons, to those who are proper subjects of it. But that can hardly be said of you—were I to take into the account, all the scandalous reports, you spread concerning me —the letters you forged—had the Col. remained with me he might have been a worthy-man.
You love him now, I know you do? tho you have another husband—well you may have him, and welcome.
No, madam, I am better provided for, and I am afraid he has caught ill habits by acquaintance—you wounded me once, very severely, but I am now cured, and have lived to see justice.
Forbear, my good lady, forbear, tho your wrongs may have been great.
What I said was not out of malice, but to bring this lady to a sense of her duty—I will not add affliction to the afflicted; but just mention the matter and leave this lady to her own reflections.
SCENE IV.—Mr. WILLIAMSON and Mrs. FORTINBRASS.
Now Mrs. Fortinbrass—should you love to gratify this woman too, who is animated with such keen resentment against you—please your enemies, mortify your friends; and make your husband unhappy?
He should have taken care of that himself.
And what shall be done with your sweet little—son—that little cherub who bears such a lively resemblance of the Colonel. When you shall hear him sob, and cry; as he undoubtedly will; because papa does not come home—how will you bear it; Can you endure to see him an orphan, or will you give him up for ever; to a parent against whom you cherish the most implacable resentment.
O my heart, my heart.
While you have been on ill terms, he has not absented himself for nothing. He has been assembling a regiment, and he is going to the western army.
He may find himself happier there than here.
It may be, but the probability is that the Indians will take him; and torture [...]—fill his flesh full of pine splinters, and set them on fire—o [...] [...]ery way to torment him with relentless cruelty—can you bear this in respect [Page 276] of him—who once was the dearest object of your love?
It was his business to have guarded against that; as well as mine.
Well if you cannot hear any thing you must be left to the consequences. But he told me he was going to the army in three weeks—His old soldiers have all enrolled themselves and the new ones admire him—The president of the states has made him a general.
That's odd that he should be made a general.
SCENE V.—Mr. LEWISTON, Mrs. FORTINBRASS and Mrs. LYMAN.
O MRS. Fortinbrass, this is of all things most extraordinary—Col. Fortinbrass is come with his regiment, and in his new uniform of a general. He resembles with his noble airs, and fine person— the heroes described in poets who were tho't to be like the Gods.
I think it is odd enough that he should be made a general—if he would come home now, and submit and ask pardon—
You would not wish for such humiliation in your husband, would you degrade the man whom you are to love? more than this, if he can find that you will see him; he will come to see you this very day—and if he can reconcile matters at home, he means to resign his commission; if not he means to march in three days.
Go you wretch, don't go to be obstinate now, you have better clothes than these; put them on—and look as handsome as you can—receive him genteelly.
I never shall be able to bear him again—But I want to see how he looks, since he has been made a general.
Go forward, and one of the ladies shall help you to dress yourself.
I go ladies, to obey you; but it will all be in vain I can never endure him unless he will make a proper submission.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—Mr. LEWISTON and Mrs. WILLIAMSON
WHAT do you think the creature will do?
I cannot conjecture.
Nor I; but this I know that persons who have been so long tender to each other, cannot part very easily.
I believe that; and do you think that if married persons should sometimes hurt each others feelings, that, therefore, they must necessarily be miserable?
No, not by any means, persons of quick sensibility, and who have not been used to curbing their passions in their youth—may live years together before they will be perfect in matrimonial wisdom.
There is something in those things similar to what we find in other parts of nature—It is as natural for human beings occasionally to be agitated with passion—as that there should be unsettled weather in the months of April and May—Those sudden gusts which for awhile deform the beautiful face of nature, are commonly succeeded by the most serene and delightful weather.
You talk very sensibly but I long to have them meet; and then see how the creatures behave. Let us step aside when the Colonel comes in.
SCENE II —Mrs. FORTINBRASS alone.
O alas! never was a person in such confusion bafore — what a figure he makes at the head of his regiment—He looks divinely—But if I receive him—I give all up & shall be ashamed to resent his conduct in time to come—
—But O! how divinely he looks—what shall I do? I am ashamed to think how much I may be disposed to receive him.
But I must bear the test.
No, my dear girl no—no humiliations to me— Stand with me upon equal and just footing—The first thing you are to do is to go, and see my regiment—and then we will find, if we have not reason still to respect each other. Tarry till I return.
SCENE III.—Mrs. LYMAN and Mrs. WILLIAMSON.
This exceeds all my acquaintance—I'll never believe a woman again, who pretends to be affronted with her husband.
How did she behave herself?
She fretted all the time we were dressing her —and protested she would sue for a divorce, and what not. But she looked out at the window, and saw her husband at the head of his regiment—I verily tho't she would have fainted away—and when she saw him come into her presence—she was going to throw herself at his feet—But he said—No humiliation, my dear girl—and led her out to see his soldiers. But before they got to the door, the tears gushed from their eyes—The old veteran who had stood so many battles melted to the softness of a woman.
You had no trouble then to reconcile them.
No, they reconciled one another very successfully—we shall see her with a different face soon.
SCENE IV.—Mrs. WILLIAMSON, Mrs. FORTINBRASS, &c.
You may spare your observation; for she is coming now.
Mrs. Fortinbrass, I hope affairs go very well on your part.
I thank you ladies—I am well at present.
How is the Colonel? General I meant to say.
In fine health and spirits, and gives the ladies his hearty respects.
You seem much altered, madam, all at once.
Altered did you say? I know nothing of it, but that I am very happy.
But to be sick of marriage.
But to be sick of marriage. Who sick of marriage? Not I—I ever considered it as the capital blessing of my life—when does your sister intend to be married? [Page 279] —I should suppose she might know her mind in six o [...] seven years.
She is in no haste, she has been terrified by your example.
By my example, that's strange—you know I always respect matrimony. If that be an obstacle, tell her from me that I would have her think better of it, better— I say.—
But who said to-day, that she was sick of marriage?
Not I surely—I should be ashamed to have said so.
Yes, yes, yes, you did this day.
Ladies you must excuse me; I have had ill turns of late, my head is dizzy sometimes, and I do not appear to myself to be perfectly in my right mind.
So it seems that the return of an absent husband, will put a lady into a right mind.
Yes; and right spirits too—ladies, I see you are determined to vex me, but I mean to turn, and defy you.
Well, how does Mr. Fortinbrass look since he has been made a general?
Excellently madam; I wish your husband could be ma [...]e a general for your sake—I dare say you would think him better for it.
It seems too that you are more polite than when you was here before.
We ought always to be improving. And if I make such progress in half an hour, I shall soon be perfect.
Shall we wish her joy, she has a husband now as well as we?
Ladies I wish you all joy—my house is again a grateful home—you shall all sup with me this evening, and I will send for your husbands—let us devote the hours to rejoicing—I mean to annihilate the contest between me and my wife's relations about certain matters of property —& then I doubt not we shall live in peace—I shall bid abieu to the pursuit of wealth and the wars—and shall devote [Page 280] myself to that most rational and perfect of all enjoyments, the felicity of domestic life.
The Father of a Family. A COMEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
SOCIAL CONFIDENCE IS NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF FAMILIES.
IT is very pernicious to families, when parents form designs which produce mistrust among their children —or children pursue schemes of their own, without the intelligence of their parents. It is commonmonly the case, that persons devoted to celibacy, know not the social principles of a family—and from that cause become troublesome inmates. Of maidens we say nothing accusatively —but if old bachelors say our charge is grievous, let them marry, and that will confute it—and let the maids all say—amen.
PERSONS.
- MR. ROBERTSON—the Father of a family.
- MAJOR ROBERTSON—an old bachelor.
- ALBIN ROBERTSON—son of Mr. Robertson.
- AIMWELL—a brother's son, brought up with Mr. Robertson.
- CECILIA—Mr. Robertson's daughter.
- SOPHIA—daughter of the widow Clifford.
- WIDOW HERBERT—a woman, who boards Sophia.
SCENE.—A merchant's house in the city of New-Haven.
THE FATHER OF A FAMILY.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—The MAYOR and ALBIN.
I CAN beat you, Albin, two rubbers out of three all day long.
Why did you not beat me then just now?
Because that fellow
always looks over my shoulder, and talks about the game.
He did the same to me, but it did not disturb me.
Well, let us take the other rubber now.
I am almost tired of cards.
That is, because you have beat, and want to have the credit of it.
Sir, shall we play here?
I think you had better defer it—I do not love to see people play when they are angry.
SCENE II.—MAJOR and the FATHER.
OH dear! this execrable gout is coming on again. I am good for nothing. I am an old man in the midst of my days.
When you was about twenty three years old, you used to say, that you would never marry, because married men would soon grow old—Now you are half the time laid up with the gout, while I have no sign of bodily decay—tho three years older than you—have not a gray hair on my head, nor a wrinkle in my face—no gout or rheumatism, as you have.
You need not have any bodily torments—your children will give you torment sufficient.
Wh [...]re is my son?
He stole out, just now, and watched your eyes, that you might not see him.
He has no reason to be afraid of me.
He is engaged in some scheme which he knows you will not approve. He has of late been out much anights.
That is but too true.
Why need you trouble yourself about it?
O thou too tender heart of a father, canst thou not calm thyself one moment? How anxious I feel! could I only know that he was in good company, I might then enjoy some comfort—Brother, you had better go to bed.
SCENE III.—FATHER and ALBIN.
HERE I will try to compose myself till my son comes home.
So I lost my visit to night because the widow said she had a fainting fit & was sick—An't I a fool to love a little puny girl who will faint away, and be sick, and all that— She is an exccellent girl however, and that's the reason why I love her so.
Albin!
Sir I did not know you was here.
Who is that who is so sick?
I wish sir you would excuse me.
I shall not, tell me for what purpose you have been abroad so much of late.
Sir, I went—I went sir, to visit, Sophia.
And who is Sophia?
Sophia Clifford sir.
Where does she live?
At the widow Herbert's.
A fine place for you to go a courting—The best furniture in the house, is an old maple table and a few old chairs bottomed with straw.
The widow is poor but she is honest, and Sophia is a genteel girl.
What do you mean to do with her? I will not suffer you to delude her into vicious ways, or if you mean to [Page 285] amuse her a while and then forsake her—That would be mean, and cruel.
O sir, she is a sweet little angel as ever was—no body can do an unbecoming thing in her presence. Now, sir; since you know it, I wish you would go, and see her; and if you talk with her one half hour, and do not approve of my choice, I shall wonder.
I will see her that I may understand this affair— But do not expect that I will encourage you in any of your foolish ways.
SCENE IV.—FATHER and WIDOW HERBERT.
WILL you sit, madam Herbert?
Yes sir.
I want to know something about Sophia▪ the girl that lives with you. I have heard of her; but since I have heard of her, I am more at a loss what to think of her than before.
What makes you think of her?
I am afraid of unwarrantable connections between my son, and her.
O, thank you sir, my house is as honest a house as any in this city.
Be not affronted widow, I am a widower you see —We will not be upon ill terms; does my son visit this girl?
Yes, sir, often.
How does [...]e past his time with her?
Sometimes he talks about common matters, sometimes he reads very pretty things to her out of books, and one time, but I chid him for that, he made a pair of verses about Sophia.
You know how it is, widow, you and I have been courting before now—Does he ever talk to her, in a manner which you should think l [...]ly to affect the heart.
I have tho't that if I were as young as I once was, and he had ta [...]ked [...] I should have been affected—and I once saw [...], when he seemed to be very earnest with her, she puts her hands over her eyes, and I saw the tears slip thro between her fingers, and trickle down her arms.
Do you know any thing of her family?
She says she lately lost her father, and I don't say much to her about her family, for if I do, it makes her cry.
And do you suppose Sophia to be a good girl?
Yes, sir, that I do; she has been with me but six weeks waiting, as she says, for some money coming to her mother—And I would keep her if she never paid a farthing for her board, for she is always so pleasant, and when my work drives me, she will work upon the hard, coarse cloth, till her fingers bleed—I love her, sir, as if she was my own child—good night sir, I have no children of my own, but I hope my little Sophia will stay with me and be a comfort to me.
Stay widow, a moment; I will walk with you, and talk more about Sophia.
O Sir you are very kind to take notice of a poor old widow—If I had been young and worth twenty thousand pound, I should not have wondered to have heard you spoke up.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—ALBIN and AIMWELL.
IT is all out about my attentions to Sophia.
I tho't it could not be kept a secret long.
The Major has told all the story to my father.
There is no keeping a secret in a house where there is an old Bachelor putting his nose in every man's dish. But I cannot talk of it now.
SCENE II.—FATHER and ALBIN.
HAVE you seen her Sir?
Yes, I have seen her—what then?
How do you like her sir?
Aye that's to the point to be sure.
Is she not beautiful?
Yes she is very beautiful.
Do you believe her sensible?
Yes I believe she is quite sensible.
Do you not think she is good tempered?
Yes, by her looks, she is a good tempered girl.
Do you not believe she is virtuous?
Yes I am apt to think she is virtuous.
Is she not genteel?
Yes her manners are very genteel.
How did she converse?
Finely, indeed very finely.
Then what objection can you have to my acquaintance with her?
She is not fit for you.
Who then is fit for me? beautiful, good tempered, sensible, genteel, and converses finely; and yet not fit for me. Do sir tell me who is fit for me!
A lady of fortune, of great relations, who will help you to get places in the government.
Then, I suppose, some time or other, you will marry me to some fat, clumsy, awkward squab of an heiress— I shall hate her, and kill her with grief.
However that may be, my family must not be degraded—on the pain of my displeasure, you must quit this girl, and renounce her forever.
I shall be able to renounce my life as soon.
SCENE III.—MAYOR and ALBIN.
Your Father would have had me gone to bed, but I did not choose it, so since I sat up; I tho't I would talk with you.
I do not wish to hear you, you will only torment me.
Your father will have you talk with me.
Talk what you please; but I have only one word to say. Sophia shall be mine.
A hopeful youth. You are nineteen years old— What will you do with this girl?
Courtship, it is said, is the happiest part of life— If so, let it begin early, and last long—What will I do with this girl? I will marry her, when it is convenient.
Your Father will disinherit you. You, your wife, and children must starve.
I know my Father's temper very well. Were my family in want, and my little children were to go, and spread out their little hands to him; it would melt him to pity, and he would relieve them at once.
Your father is a fool—He lets his children know that he loves them. There never was such a match in any family.
Then this will be the first—it will be a great curiosity
And heiress of nothing.
Who has taught me to despise all things but virtue?
Poor people always abound in children. If you do marry Sophia▪ I hope you will have a dozen.
Four dozen at least, uncle, if they resemble Sophia.
If you have [...]ver so many, you shall never name one af [...]e [...] me.
Not I Your name is Benedict—I would as soon call one Shara [...]h, Meshech and Abednego.
By heavens! this is insufferable. I had rather you had died—I had rather when we stormed Stoney-Point, that one of the enemy had skewered you with his bayonet, and dropped you in the ditch among the dead. Leave my presence, you saucebox, in a moment.
SCENE IV.—FATHER and CECILIA.
TELL Clairet to bring my supper.
I will go and get it myself; it will be a pleasure to me.
What a lovely daughter that is—I intend she shall be married and live with me; for I shall never be able to part with her, because she is the very image of my lost wife.
Your supper, sir, will be ready in a few moments.
Stay Cecilia now—Have you ever thought of that manner of life, which would be agreeable to you?
No farther than that it is very agreeable to live with you.
But you should have a friend to protect you when I am gone.
I am not in the least anxious about that.
There is no need of affected modesty—if you prefer any gentleman, I shall be happy to complete your felicity.
My brother's situation affrights me.
Your brother is a fool.
Perhaps if I speak my mind you will think me no less unreasonable than he!
If your modesty will not permit you, let me dedeclare for you. The Major has given me hints about Aimwell.
O dear sir, believe not a word he says. He is always trying to make mischief—Excuse me sir, I must be absent a moment.
How unhappy this is! I have lost her confidence, certainly; I am afraid I shall never see the happiness of one of my children.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—MAY [...]R and AIMWELL.
AIMWELL, will reward you well, if you do one article of business for me.
What is it?
I have got a warrant from Squire Smart to carry Sophia out of town. [...]s a vagrant—If you will see it executed, I will make my will in your favor.
I would do it, if I tho't it just.
You will think it just I dare say—fifteen thousand pounds—and that [...]ine girl, Cecilia, into the bargain—you must find it to [...] just. But you will not speak of my project to Al [...].
I will not.
SCENE II.—ALBIN and AIMWELL.
I AM on the verge of distraction and despair—I will [Page 290] carry Sophia away to the farms which will soon be mine, in New-Jersey.
What, even if she be not willing?
I warrant I will make her willing. At any rate she shall go—I will assure to myself all that I hold valuable in life.
You are rushing on your own destruction.
You are scrupulous beyond measure, and a little piece of a coward—But I wish my letters from Danbury would a [...]tive—Those might save me the trouble.
SCENE III.—AIMWELL and CECILIA.
SEE two men resolved on this poor girl's destruction—The Major would carry her out of town as a vagrant, and ruin her character—Albin would seize her and run away with her, and ruin her that way—There is no way to save her that I can think of; but to put her under Cecilia's protection—and then if she proves a bad girl Cecilia will be sub [...]ected—I must try to persuade Cecilia, tho it would be dangerous for her. What strange creatures we men are; we persuade women to imprudent things, and then blame them for it.
My excellent Cecilia, I believe you must give refuge to the unfortunate Sophia.
O that must never be done—She may be a bad girl.
I believe she is very honest.
Ah but what proof have you?—You must not introduce her.
Here she is—If you can believe her a bad girl, turn her out in the street.
O Aimwell what have you done—I hope you will own that I have been kind enough to you now; that by your means I lie at the mercy of all my enemies.
SCENE IV.—SOPHIA and CECILIA.
MY good lady who ever you are have pity upon me.
Amiable and unfortunate girl, who are you?
One of whom you would not have been ashamed in my better days—But my father is dead, I came here to receive a sum of money for my mother—and what miseries have I not endured. O that I had never seen your brother.
My brother loves you with the tenderest affection.
That I believe, and it is the source of my misery— He contemplates to run away with me, and that cruel Major, what have I do done to him, that he should persecute me?
My heart bleeds for your distress.
You won't let Albin carry me off, or any of the ugly officers take me.
No my sweet girl I will not, you have melted my heart within me.
You are my guardian angel, my generous Cecilia. Your goodness shall be rewarded, if the prayers of the afflicted have any avail.
Compose yourself, my dear lady, nothing shall hurt you here.
I feel a heavy sensation; I am afraid I shall faint.
No you are only sleepy—You shall take a little repose in your chair.
Don't let any man come into the room.
I will not.
SCENE V.—ALBIN alone.
I Have eluded Cecilia sweetly — she made fast one door; but forgot there was another—Now is the time to carry her off, but I will see her first, and not carry off a wrong girl for they may mean to cheat me.
Yes it is she and how delightful she looks when sleeping—I am filled with rapture and astonishment—can I violate that sweet temple of beauty?
Can I resist her reasons, or her intreaties when she shall refuse to go— Albin, you have undertaken what you dare not not execute—
"Albin carry me away, no that is not like Albin."
Yes it is like Albin and [Page 292] Albin is a wicked fellow—O how her presence strikes me with veneration! I cannot touch her, to do her harm— Now if she should wake and catch me here▪ how angry she would be. But I never shall forget how sweetly she look [...] when asleep.
SCENE VI.—CECILIA and SOPHIA.
I AM now glad I received this girl, and I begin to think that happiness consists in doing good.
My good protectress, how long have I been asleep?
Not more than fifteen or twenty minutes.
Has there not been a man in the room?
Certainly not.
I tho't I heard one step across the floor; but was so overcome with sleep that I could not move.
You must have dreamed it; for I locked the door and put the key in my own pocket.
SCENE VII.—ALBIN, SOPHIA and CECILIA. Albin runs in and offers to catch Sophia's hand.
SOPHIA my life my—
Albin, how dare you to come into my presence, after the odious scheme you had formed?
How! I do not comprehend this—perhaps Albin may be capable of his resentments too.
You may resent my conduct in what manner you please—you intended to have carried me off, whether I would or not.
But I do not intend it now.
No matter for that, he who has once formed an ill design against a woman, should be trusted no more.
Well, I suppose I have done wrong, but I ask pardon.
I pardon the past. But I mean to trust you no more—I forbid you my presence.
I must intreat you to revoke the harshness of that sentence. My heart after admitting you to its affections, can never admit an inferior; and I must be miserable for life—I will for the future treat you on the strictest rules of honor, you may depend on it.
I have no evidence but your own testimony, and you have always been unfaithful, so you must depart.
I have imagined an injury against you, and would you destroy me entirely? You are more severe, than virtuous.
Sophia you must pardon my brother. He was driven to the borders of dsepair—I risked my honor to save you from odious persecution—I have saved you, you must not destroy my brother—you will make me miserable.
For your sake I forgive him; you shall be his surety that he will not attempt the like again.
I will not even imagine it—may I presume to take this hand?
Yes it is your's again, and when I forgive, I do it heartily.
Sweet Sophia—every moment I see new cause to admire you.
Did my Father know your true character—he could not oppose your introduction into the family.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—FATHER and MAJOR.
ALAS! what shall I do? My son flies my presence—Cecilia distrusts me—Aimwell is shy of me—I almost repent my treating my son so severely respecting Sophia.
Repent! That is a pretty fancy, and so encourage them in their impudence.
What would you do were you in my case?
I would discard that villain of a son, forever—That little saucy minx of a daugher—I'd take away all her fine cloaths, confine her to her chamber, and feed her on water-gruel. I'd give that young knave a dressing, whom you have brought up. They should obey me, or I would make them all skip—that I would.
Your advice does me some good—It is so absurd [Page 294] it diverts me—I want to know what my happiness would be if I had disinherited my son—starved my daughter—and banished the son of my dearest friend, or what would my neighbors think of me?
Oh you dread to lose your children, and be tho't a cruel father.
I own it. If my children can live without me, I cannot live without them.
There it is now. I thought you had been more of a man—are you not ashamed? you have no notion of that lively resentment which becomes a Father, whose authority is insulted.
First attain the honor of being a father, and then judge of his duties—are you not ashamed? You would desolate my house, as effectually as the plague.
I suppose I shall see you kissing, and forgiving them all in a few days.
I hope they will prove themselves innocent; I wish it might be this hour—I could not imagine a greater happiness.
I did not intend to have told you, but I'll [...]art your dull blood—the knave you bro't up is courting your daughter.
Not Cecilia, is he?
Yes! I have catched them several times in such a fondling way as made me sick, perfectly sick.
Lover's caresses are apt to be a little [...]ickish to an indifferent observer but more to an envious one—how is it, brother?
She has sitten up a great many nights, pretending to work—but there is very little work done. What do you think of that, brother?
It is just as I would have it be. It is the best news I ever heard from you in my life.
You will do nothing for the honor of the family— but I have—I have got a warrant, and Aimwell is to execute it—to take up this girl as a vagrant, and cart her out of town.
You have done a base action—but Aimwell is coming; I will stop the process this moment.
SCENE II.—FATHER and AIMWELL.
AIMWELL, what have you done? To execute a warrant against an innocent person—I should have been glad of your fondness for Cecilia, but for this base action— I cannot consent.
Then this warrant will ruin me. The detestable scroll—
I will kick it to perdition.
Hold—you have not executed it—I am glad of that—give it to me; I will see what shall be done with it.
There it is—I am glad to be rid of it, and will tell the Major you have got it.
SCENE III.—FATHER, SOPHIA and CECILIA.
CECILIA, tell Sophia to come to me.
Sophia sir?
Yes, you impudent girl, I know you have her here; tell her to come to me.
Sophia I have it in my power to treat you with severity, but I had rather use other methods—If you will give up my son I will make you a rich girl.
I cannot, sir, be guilty of falshood.
You ought not to interfere in the rights of my family—you are determined to marry my son.
Not till you consent to it.
But you will not give him up.
Because I have promised that I would not.
Here Sophia, give up my son, and take this. Here is enough to buy you a first rate husband at Danbury
Not for the universe, would I ever give up the man of my choice.
Then the warrant must have its course.
O dear sir, I implore your pity; tho I cannot give up your son — you know the tenderness of youthful bosoms—would you have given up your wife, in all the bloom of youth? Leave me not to disgrace—and [Page 296] the odious pursuit of laws—most humbly do I implore your compassion, but cannot give up my friend.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—FATHER, ALBIN and MAYOR.
NOTHING can compensate a man for the loss of an excellent wife—since the death of my dear Cecilia— happiness has forsaken my house—I took in my brother to divert my melancholy—but be only sows dissention between me and my children. He has no idea of the family state—my prudent wife foresaw my miseries, and advised me, that was all I could hear of her last broken accents, to marry the "general's sister"—what general I know not. But could I find out whom my wife meant, I would marry again, and see if I could not restore peace to my family.
Dear sir, I have a letter, which came by the post this day, and it concerns you as well as me. Shall I read it?
By all means.
I SEND you the intelligence which you desired [Page 297] me to procure—by the records of Danbury church, it appears that John Clifford, was married to Anne Waterbury, sister of Capt. Waterbury, afterwards general—the 27th of January 1768. Sophia their third child, for they lost their two first—was baptized June 4th 1775—they are a family not of ample fortune, but decent estate, of eminent good sense, of the most distinguished virtues— Sophia sustains an excellent character, in this place—If you can obtain her you will be happy.
P. S. John Clifford, Sophia's Father, died universally regretted, Sept. 29th 1791—the widow who is general Waterbury's sister, is yet alive.
Albin my boy? This is excellent— you carefully enquired out the character and connections of your virtuous mistress. Few men have so much prudence at three times your age—this Anne Waterbury was my first love, we separated on account of a violent quarrel between our families; but on a promise that if ever we were at liberty we would meet again—so Anne Waterbury that was is now my promised wife.
So Albin, if you will accept of the widow Clifford for a mother, Sophia is yours forever; Aimwell is the person I wish Cecilia to marry—all comes exactly to rights—let friendship and love once more reign thro the whole family.
So things are come to a fine pass, making love and marrying are become the general business of the house. This is no place for me, I [...]ll get away as fast as I can, I shall be glad to get out of a family where things are carried contrary to every principle of nature, and common sense.
Come my children let me indulge my joy; you have behaved well, I acknowledge it with sincere delight: it is one of the greatest of earthly blessings to have virtuous children; Aimwell and Cecilia, you need no more fear my displeasure—Sophia, you are my daughter now, and dear to my heart—let us forget our errors, and partake the delights of virtue—now are we—my children, dearest of my earthly treasures, now are we happily united. [Page 298] And we will be separated no more, nor shall any sow distrust and jealously between us.
The Bottle Conjuror. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
DISPLAYING THE WEAKNESS OF THOSE WHO BELIEVE IN FORTUNE-TELLERS.
THE rage of curiosity, enquiring into future events, has been a vice of mankind in every age. There is more wickedness in this vice, than every one is aware of. It implies impatience, under the present dispensations of Divine Providence, and distrust for the future—It often excites delusive hopes— at other times, fills the mind with needless anguish and terror—And it greatly injures society, by supporting a number of idle, unprincipled wretches, who make a fortune, in earnest, from the purses of the credulous.
PERSONS.
- SIDROPHEL—a conjuror, with a bottle.
- RALPH—his man, and assistant.
- A MILLER—guilty of bad practices.
- FARMER—enquiring after his horse, &c.
- FATHER—enquiring for his children.
- HOLDFAST—a Justice of the Peace.
- SHERIFF—ordered by the Justice to take Sidrophel.
- SUITOR—to Miss Firebrand, enquiring his fortune.
- SLYBOOTS—country sharper.
- MOTHER—enquiring for her children.
- MISS FIREBRAND—courted by the suitor, who was consulting the conjuror.
[☞ IF in this dialogue, the scene of Miss Firebrand and Sidrophel be left out; and what the Mother says be continued under the name of the Father; it may be performed by men only.]
THE BOTTLE CONJUROR.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—SIDROPHEL and RALPH.
I BEGIN to be ashamed of myself that there is so much roguery in the world, and, as yet, I have had no hand in it.
Sir, you seem to be very anxious and pensive— Have you met with any thing disagreeable?
I am in deep speculation on a very important matter—I wish, like thousands of my fellows in this world, to get money without earning it. But hitherto, I can hit on no expedient for the purpose.
Sir, I wonder at that very much—I have tho't you had better set up for a conjuror.
A conjuror! Who would be fool enough to believe any thing of that.
Can you be so ignorant of human kind? Do you not know, that if one man has courage to cheat, there will be thousands who stand ready to believe?
I can make no calculations on the stars.
That is a matter of no kind of consequence. Other conjurors know as little of that as you. Only tell something extraordinary—and you will have people enough to believe it
By what means shall I begin the business?
Only look here—Take this bottle and fill it with any kind of liquor—and call it Elixir Planetarium—and give out that he, who tastes this liquor, immediately becomes sensible of the influence of the planets; and that you [Page 302] can tell the fortunes of all who apply to you. You will find multitudes ready to believe you.
There is sense in what you say—I will get all matters ready, and do you spread a number of surprising stories among the people and prepare them for the sport.,
Then you shall let me share half of the money.
Yes; but do you be filling their minds with strange stories without delay.
SCENE II.—RALPH and a FARMER.
HAVE you seen any thing of a roan mare who strayed away, or was stolen from my pasture yesterday?
What were her marks?
She had three white feet, trotted very square; and had a blaze in her forehead.
I have not seen such a mare—but I believe my master can tell you of her—He understands such things well.
They say he understands the art of conjuring; and can find los [...] things.
He has got the true Elixir Planetarium a liquor which distills from the moon—and is squeezed out of the moss which grows on the tops of old "ruined castles and moss grown steeples." It resembles some of the finer wines —but the taste of it is very fine—And if any one tastes it, it makes him sensible of the influence of the stars, he can tell peoples fortune's—declare the place of lost goods—and indeed every thing one wants to know.
And how came your master by this liquor?
He has a bottle of it which was owned by Peter the Hermit, who preached up the Crusades for the recovery of Jerusalem. It descended from him to Dr. Faustus— and from him to the famous Radcliffe of London—and it comes by inheritance to my master, who is the seventh son of a seventh son.
That's very strange I'll say for't. And can't he tell what has become of my mare?
I am confident he can, for he can tell almost every thing.
Do you know of particular cases in which he has told the truth?
Yes, there was a girl in our neighborhood had a swee [...]heart, who was tho't to love her, very much. But [Page 303] she said—Now my market is made—and [...]he grew sluttish, and careless and fancy. My master told her fortune, that she would grow careless and he would be sick of her and leave her—and that she would be miserable.
How did the matter end?
Just as my master told in every particular. You would be surprized to find how exact he is.
Why that is good guessing I count—But one instance not enough.
There was a young man, who courted a very industrious girl—He disliked her and left her, because she had a hard hand, and the ends of her fingers were rough by being pricked with a needle; and the mark of a thimble spoiled the beauty of one of her fingers—after he had left her he came to have his fortune told.
Immediately after leaving this girl?
No, but he was then courting another, whose hands were as soft as paste—and there was not the least mark of a needle, thimble, or any blemish to be seen on her hands.
Could your master tell his fortune?
Yes, he told him that he would marry an idle wife who would dissipate his fortune. And it turned out just so, in every particular.
There is reason in that—I guess your master is no common conjuror.
He is an extraordinary man—One more instance I will tell, which must surprize you—For, I assure you, that bottle of my master's is brimful of wisdom—A young lady of our village trusted a gentleman his mere word for the security of her reputation—She came to my master to tell her fortune—He told her that the wretch would never marry her, and it turned out just so.
How under the heavens could he know that?
He would know it above the heavens. Assoon as he tastes the Elixir Planetarium he becomes acquainted with the whole circuit of the stars—with all ther aspects and influence on the earth—and I have often heard him say that if a woman trust her reputation, to the mere word of a man —eight times out of twelve she will repent her confidence.
I long to enquire of him about my roan mare.
Then I'll call him immediately.
SCENE III.—SIDROPHEL and FARMER.
THEY say you tell of things lost and stolen. Can you tell me of my roan mare?
As far as the influence of the planets goes; but we have nothing to do with the black art.
I've lost as good a mare as man could wish to own.
From whence was your mare taken?
From my pasture, I saw fresh tracks in the dew, about day light.
I perceive that your horse was taken out of the pasture just at morning—And did you search all the public roads?
Yes, we did, and she could neither be heard, nor seen any where—There is no account of her.
I perceive that your mare has got into some buy place.
That may be.
Are there not girls in your neighborhood who are courted?
Yes sir, three, or four.
And do their suitors live remote from the public road?
Yes, two or three of them live very remote from public ways.
Well sir I see how this matter is—The planet Venus rules in the evening; that sen [...] the young lads in quest of the girls—In the latter part of the night the influence of Mercury became predominant—that planet impels to thieving—going h [...]me the young fellows stole your mare. They have left her [...] that [...]ye place and there you will find her.
What is to pay sir?
About fifteen shillings, if I ask any thing, or you may give me what you please.
There sir, I think is just the money.
Well sir, step into the other room, and take a drink with [...].
SCENE IV.—FIREBRAND and SIDROPHEL.
I HOPE you won't tell Mr. Small thought about me—If the stars should let you know, don't tell him any thing about my being so passionate—I hope to manage the matter to my advantage, for he has been pretty attentive to me and I don't wish him to find it out.
And have not you other vices too?
I don't love to get up early in the morning.
You don't love housework neither.
There is some truth in that.
Well if he marries you there is danger, that he will have an idle passionate wife and a bad economist.
That he may find out—Now it is my desire that he may not know of it—Could you cast a spell too, to prevent his finding out my being given to tattling, and injuring people's characters?
Why, I am afraid, there is no art can tame a wanton tongue—I fear the power of all the planets would not reach to that.
O sir, I had no thought that you should confine my tongue, I would not have you do that for the world —But prevent the gentleman's hearing any thing bad of me.
Well this matter belongs to Mercury, he has influence over all stratagems. When Mercury rules I'll try what can be done. And the price is just the same, for preventing a things being known as to discover what is unknown—I have fifteen shilling's for every trip to the stars.
Well if you can conceal all my faults, I would not grudge ten times the money.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—HOLDFAST and the SHERIFF.
IT is a grief to me to see how easily human beings are deceived—Multitudes give money to conjurors, [Page 306] and fortunetellers freely, who would never give a farthing for any honest purpose.
Why sir, we must take mankind as we find them, and do them all the good we can. I know nothing more humane than to bear men's vices if we must, and cure them if we can.
But since I am come into office I will turn over a new leaf in this neighborhood—The people shall not go after conjurors and witch-men. I'll prosecute such fellows as vagrants to the utmost rigor of law—They shall have something else to do than to show magic lanthorns, and set up conjuring bottles. Such fools defy the whole commonwealth?
How much influence they have I cannot say, nor how you will prevent them.
I'll apprehend this same Sidrophel, by warrant— when we have him under authority we'll get the whole matter out of him.
Sir excuse me, I am apt to be nervous. If I should see a ghost, or a devil, it would fright me to death.
Are you a fool? How many ghosts and devils can he cork up in his old junk? Do you suppose it would hold as many as Mary Magdalen's? You shall serve the warrant or be broke.
You may procure me to be broke, but your worship should consider that he can turn himself into all sorts of shapes—and if he should turn himself into a dead horse without a head, stretch his nose out half a yard long, or swell out his eyes as big as two warming pans, I should be so frighted that I should not get over it in a mouth; and folks say he can do this, or any thing else.
For shame to believe such nonsense. Take this warrant, and execute it, or it will be the worse for you.
SCENE II.—HOLDFAST, followed by FARMER, MILLER, FATHER and SUITOR, with a mob, armed with clubs.
WHY do you follow me thus? What's your will?
Our Bottleman is as good a man as you, Mr Justice. He told me how to find old Roan. If you offer to meddle with him. I'll burn your house over your head.
Shame neighbor, how foolishly you talk—to expose [Page 307] your life for a wretched juggler. Have you any reason?
Mr. Justice, you have got to be a great man since you got your commission. Will you take up our Bottleman? If you do,
I'll open my mill-dam and drown all your flax.
I want to know my children's fortunes—if you take up our bottle prophet and put him into jail, I'll raise a mob, and give you a new suit of tar and feathers.
I want to know if Miss Firebrand will have me— and if you offer to take up our Bottleman, I'll way lay you and knock your brains out. You may put the Doctor, the music master, all into jail, with all the school masters in town—you may burn the meetinghouse, and all the school houses in town; but if you touch our Bottleman you touch my heart's blood.
Fellow citizens, you are all acting a most unworthy part—you are determined I shall not starve for want of business—I shall enter you on my books
for threatening to burn my house; you shall be prosecuted next session—you,
for threatening to break your mill dam and drown my flax—you,
for threatening to tar and feather me—you,
for threatening to way lay me, and knock out my brains. You may depend all of you on being bound over to the next term.
SCENE III.—SIDROPHEL, MILLER, FATHER, MOTHER and SUITOR.
YOU do well, fellow citizens▪ to consult the stars. They know every thing that is done in this world.
I knew a miller sir, that fixed a bag below the box which contains the meal that is grinding, in such a manner, as to catch meal from the box—and he called this practice making presents to his Peggy.
Well sir, and what is your will?
I wish to know whether this miller will ever be detected.
This is a matter [Page 308] of stealing—it belongs to Mercury—yes—this Mercury tells, that the rogue is yourself. Going home you will find a man who has Peggy and all the presents you have given her in the mouth of his bag.
Stop sir, and pay your fifteen shillings, o [...] I will bring you out in some of your other tricks.
I have a son; I wish very much to know his fortune—Something makes me anxious about him. He is a likely well made fe [...]low; and I want to know whether I had best send him to college, and make a learned man of him.
How does he like instrustion at home?
He would like it pretty well, I believe, if we could ever get a school master that was worth the money—But he is dissatisfied with all we have had yet—and indeed according to his account, they were wretched fellows.
Does he drink hard?
Not very; I never knew him drunk more than four or five times in my life.
How is he with respect to the women?
Pretty well—he is often playing with the girls whom I hire to do my work; but he is rather bashful with your genteel women, your fine ladies.
Well, this is a matter of learning—It depends on the Sun—by the the antients called Apollo, the God of Wisdom. He finds much fault with his school masters.—He hates learning then. At College he'll kick up a rumpus a [...]d disturb the government. He has been drunk several time —He will be a capital hand for high goes. He plays with hired maids, and is abashed and confounded among modest women—This is the opinon which I have drawn from the Sun; that he will be a rake, a dirty low rake.
I do not grudge the money —my wife I hope will be easy on that score.
Sir, I have two daughters, and of very different manners▪ I should be glad to know their fortunes The eldest is given to scandal, and is nice about her company, to a very great ex [...]reme—There are none but [...]ip tops that can speak to her. But I'm a plain woman; she has not birth, and certainly not fortune nor accomplishments to boast of.
Venus has the charge of these matters; and madam Venus says; the queen of beauty declares; that this daughter of yours must be an old maid —for it has lately been ordained, in the court of celestial beauty, that every girl (now a juster law was never made) that every girl that is given to scandal and ill nature, and dissimulation, shall be an old maid.—That the good tempered, tender, agreeable girls, who at the same time are sociable and discreet, shall marry young, genteel, handsome lads, who will be fond husbands even to old age.
Then there will be a reformation among the women soon.
Certainly, it begins to operate already.
My other girl is handsome, lively, good tempered, fond of good books, and good men; neat in her dress, sociable, and tender; yet she is a good prudent girl—She has the name of a very prudent girl.
I predict her fortune will be very good. She will be courted early in life, marry a likely man who will support her genteelly and live very well.
Well
I do not grudge the money, now I shall know what to do with them.
Sir, I am courting a maiden lady of fortune, who is past fifty, and—
SCENE IV.—RALPH, SIDROPHEL and SHERIFF.
SIR the sheriff is coming, to serve a warrant on you immediately.
Now let him come if he dares.
Thou enemy of the arts and antichrist of the sciences, avaunt, begone.
O mercy, mercy, mercy on us, O terrible oh, dreadful oh!
ACT III.
SCENE I—SLYBOOTS and SIDROPHEL.
How do you do sir?
Well, and [...]earty what do you want of me sir?
Nothing very special; but as I was walking with some people across the plain, with several young ladies— I tho [...] it my duty to call on you, upon some serious business.
What do you wish to know sir? whether you shall meet with success with the ladies. Is that it sir?
No, sir, by no means, but as I came along I saw your barn and stable all in a blaze and I knew your best horse to be in the stable.
You villain why did you not tell me before.; they are all in a blaze before this time—Now they are all in ashes before this time—Run Ralph run.
SCENE II.—HOLDFAST and SLYBOOTS.
WHAT have you done with him?
We shall now have him fast enough—for in fact his stable is on fire.
Here he has left all his tools behind him.
He has; there's his visor, his bottle, staff and all.
And this is that which put the Sheriff in such a terrible fright.
Yes, but is perfectly harmless now—And here's the bottle—Let us taste—It did not poison him neither will it poison us.
Let us drink it off—or take a genteel sip at least. Do you suppose, we shall understand the stars—It may make us see stars if it be too strong.
We will not drink the whole.
Now let us fill it with about 150 drops of laudanum and that will give him a decent nap.
That will be very dextrous—Now I trust Mr. Conjuror will find his match. And we shall accomplish by art, what we could not accomplish by open means, thro the madness of the mob—But do you stay here, and amuse him when he returns.
SCENE III.—SLYBOOTS and SIDROPHEL.
HAVE you lost any valuable property.
I have not lost any thing of great consequence, tho my stable was indeed on fire, but in such a manner as easily to be extingushed—But you did not help us to put it out.
I have long since much used myself to Philosophy— and am not moved with the accidents of this life. But can you tell my fortune?
Your fortune I suspect is to be hanged, for you are a rogue in grain You told me my stables were on fire, but never [...]ent the least assistance to put it out. I suspect you set the fire yourself
One who knows the plane's as well as you. should not suspect; he might know—Now calculate upon the influence of the planets, and if you can furnish any proof by means of them, I shall be hanged no doubt: but if you will not calculate for me, you may go to sleep.
SCENE IV.—SUITOR and SIDROPHEL.
Sir, we we were broken off before, by the cry of the fire—Tell me now, sir, what will be the consequence if I marry Miss Firebrand.
Why sir, this is the oddest love affair that ever I had any concern with. Venus has nothing to do with it. The queen of love is quite out of the question Mercury has a hand in it, as it is a matter of gain. You will make yourself rich by it—But then Mars, the fiery planet, has a hand in it—There will be wars
and fightings between you—yes, yes, yes—you will —you'll quarrel—yes—O dear, how sleepy I am—I think you'll quarrel—sir—
SCENE V —HOLDFAST, SHERIFF, and assistants; and SLYBOOTS.
Here he is, Mr. Sheriff; and here is his bottle, and his formidable visor which affrighted you. How vain all your fears were you may now see.
If he knew the stars could he not have known what we were about to do with him?
No doubt, and from this you may see how credulous those people are who believe in people who have a present interest to deceive them.
Alas, my formidable astronomer, man familiar with the stars, O Lucifer how art thou fallen—Up and take a sip of the Elixir Planetarium, and tell us all t [...]t is doing among the stars—Thou art overcome by [...]yboots— how weak is human wisdom.
Here Mr. Sheriff take this mitt [...]mus, and for the present commit him to jail.
The Apparition. A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.
VICE, IN GENERAL, IS THE CAUSE OF SUPERSTITION.
WE say, in general, because sometimes superstition arises from weakness of mind, or accidental causes.—But, in general, the mind which is conscious of guilt, is, by that very sensation, prepared to see ghosts, devils, and furies, and all the armies of terror. It is probable that Brutus had never seen Caesar's ghost at Em [...]hia, had he not been conscious to himself that he was the assassin and murderer of Caesar. It is easy to see, from these observations, how necessary it is, that we keep our minds free from guilt; that we may enjoy contentment and happiness.
PERSONS.
-
Two young gentlemen of the country.
- STREPHON,
- PHILANDER,
- SIMON—a servant to the 'Squire.
- ROSINA—a girl extremely fond of amusement [...].
-
Her associates.
- ALMERIA,
- RHODA,
- LEVANIA,
- POMPOSA—house keeper to a wealthy 'Squire.
- MARTHA—daughter of the 'Squire, aged 18.
- SMILINDA—daughter of the 'Squire, aged 10.
THE APPARITION.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—ROSINA and ALMERIA.
WELL, you will allow that I contrived the entertainment, we have had this evening.
Yes.
Was it not agrreeable?
Yes, while it lasted.
And it is quite agreeable to think of it, when it is over.
It is common for me to feel dull after a frolic.
I think girls we have a chearful prospect. I never saw our young beaux behave half so well, as they did this evening.
I have often supposed the girls here had a melancholy view of time to come—our young sparks were so dull and numpish—but they shone out this evening quite plausibly. Yet after all I feel dull and heavy, and heavy I must feel.
You are a heavy, dumpish, creature, I know; I hope some of the rest of the girls will come in and relieve me.
SCENE II.—RHODA and ROSINA.
WHAT ails Almeria? She is as dull as a block.
I am afraid you will not find me any better.
What ails you? Has the dance tired you out. It never tires me. I could dance forever.
It is not the dance that tires me. The reflections of my mind are disagreeable.
Now Almeria thinks that we never had so fine a prospect of having a set of agreeable young gentlemen about us, as at present.
That prospect gives me very little comfort now.
Why now?
Because I fear, if they be worthy of our regards, that we have behaved in such a manner as to be unworthy of theirs.
Why unworthy of theirs?
Because Almeria, Levania, and myself, as well as you, came out this evening with an express promise to our parents that we would be back again by ten—They know not where we are, and even now it is almost two in the morning.
And why did you not think of that in the time of it?
The music, the dance, the refreshment, so exhilirated my spirits, that I found it next to impossible to get away —and when the time was now elapsed, the shower detained us; as the time was past I thought we might as well be killed for a great fault as a small one — so I concluded to stay.
SCENE III.—LEVANIA, ALMERIA, ROSINA and RHODA.
DO you not feel very disagreeably, now the dance is over?
She expected Mr. Lightfoot would have remained —Her comfort is departed.
It would not have been in his power to have afforded me much consolation.
What do you suppose our parents think of us?
I know not; but must suppose they are very uneasy — I dare say mine have not slept a wink this night.— They are always uneasy, when I stay out late, and they know not what has become of me.
And what account can we give of ourselves, on our return?
What account ladies? I wonder you should be puzzled about that. I can manage that matter very well.
I wonder how?
I am surprized that you can be so dull—I can fix the whole business, as nicely as can be. Only tell them that there has fallen a shower this night, that it began to rain in the place where we were, at half past nine—and never left raining till past two in the morning.
That I suppose we must tell, or meet with a very disagreeable reception. Tho I must confess the story is bad enough, take it lie and all.
That is the most plausible story we can tell, I suppose whether it be true or not.
I shall tell my parents the whole truth, be the consequence what it may—I shall have nothing to do with your fictitious stories; for we may depend on it that the black man will have us, if we tell such abominable lies.
Why Rhoda! what do you mean? You talk enough to fright one.
I talk just as I think, I assure you.
There is another thing to think of which is as perplexing as any thing can be. There has no one invited us to stay here. How shall we get any rest?
I'll manage that matter too. I will go to the 'Squire's daughter, and see how we can be accommodated: pick up all your things, and have them ready; and if we cannot rest here, we will all set out together a little before day, so as to get home, before the people are up in the morning.
A pretty figure we shall make, but for that matter, no body will see us.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—STREPHON and PHILANDER.
NOW let us consider what is to be done with these girls. Will you see them home?
Not I, I have tired myself already, with dancing and waiting on the misses.
But it would be unpolite to let them go home alone.
Why, they came out alone; and they may return alone—No one invited them here.
Then I shall not trouble myself with them.
Nor I, for they stole away from their parents; and if we go home with them, their parents will believe that we enticed them away, and we shall get a bad name.
I am astonished that the girls should not think of that, how they expose themselves by such things—I should be afraid to marry such a girl, for fear she should run away from me.
I leave them to you. You may be 'squire to them all if you please.
SCENE III.—MARTHA and STREPHON.
ARE all the young ladies gone yet?
No; Rosina, and they who came with her, are in the ball room now.
Why have you not the complaisance to wait on them home?
They stole away from their parents; and now if we wait on them home, it will be tho't that we seduced them away.
What a reflection for a young man—had you been sixty years old, I should not have wondered to hear you make it.
I am ten times more interested in the virtue of young girls than any man of sixty—When I marry I shall wish to have a wife that won't run away.
SCENE II.—POMPOSA, MARTHA and SMILINDA.
IS not the company all gone yet? I am tired and wish to go to rest. Have you asked any of them to tarry here to night?
Not one, I did not know how you would like it, as I understand my Papa leaves all these things to you in his absence.
Are they in the back parlour yet?
No, I believe they are gone into the ball room— But they cannot go away, for it is tremendous dark; and [Page 319] the moon does not rise till a quarter past three—There has been a shower too! and the roads are all full of water.
And why did not some of the young gentlmen wait on these girls home?
Because they knew they run away from their parents; and they were afraid to go home with them lest it should be tho't that they seduced them away.
That is quite curious—but a young man of twenty five is always more rigid in his ideas of women's morals, than a man of sixty five.
And don't you know the reason of that ma'am?
Why what is it?
The young men suffer by the faults of the girls. The old ones are not afraid of it.
That's a deep observation for you miss; where did you learn all this wisdom?
I knew our Pat would start to hear me say so— But I heard Pâ say so himself once; but Pat don't like to hear of it, I know.
How came there to be such a collection of young people here to night?
It was all Rosina's contrivance, she loves frolicks, and is a perfect witch at intrigue to get young people together in the absence of the elder ones; that they may take the more liberty together.
I fear the 'Squire's displeasure—were this house mi [...]e I should not like so much company in my absence.
He will not like it. He says the amusements of young people should not exclude the observation of the elder—Because the observations of the elder persons inspire the young ones with a sense of decency—and the aged by sympathy enjoy over again the delights of youth.
That I suppose contributed to the happiness of both—I've heard him say that in Switzerland they dance after prayers in the evening, and the elder people wait on the young ones—I don't like this creeping into houses, in the absence of their owners—A shyness between the elder people, and the younger ones, denotes vulgarism in manners and a low state of society.
What will you do with them—will you turn these four girls out of doors?
No, give them some buttered rolls and beer, and then put them to bed in the chamber where the 'Squire commonly sleeps—So I will go to rest; and you may go to the ball-room and see how the girls are to be disposed of.
SCENE IV.—MARTHA, ROSINA, ALMERIA, RHODA, and LEVANIA.
SINCE the ladies are willing to stay we will lodge them in the haunted chamber.
The haunted chamber did you say? I should not sleep a wink.
It is only a notion about its being haunted—It is as handsome a room as any in the whole house—The 'Squire sleeps there when at home—and his man George in the little room adjoining—There are two beds perfectly neat, and well aired—just sufficient for you four ladies.
But for heaven's sake don't put us to bed in a haunted chamber.
Why, I tell you it is nothing but a notion.
How do you know it is nothing but a notion?
My mother always used to sleep there; she was a Church of England woman, and always said her prayers by book—she had a reading desk over the Sofa against the inner wall, where she used to kneel and say her prayers.
What connection has that with the chamber's being haunted?
Only since my mother's death a vapory old woman who has lived with us, says that between day-light and dark, she has seen my mother in that chamber, reading her prayers, just as if alive.
And did none of the rest of the family see her?
Never. My Sir. always sleeps there, when at home. My mamma has been dead about eighteen months— and my papa says there is no place so pleasant to him, as where she used to be—If she comes he says he should be glad to see her—for as she never did any thing, but good, in her life time—he cannot think she would hurt any person now she's dead.
And is not any one of the family afraid to lodge there?
No, no more than any where else—It is only by way of joke that we call it the haunted chamber—You may [Page 321] stay here Ladies till I get a light—It will be perfectly safe for you.
SCENE V.—ROSINA, RHODA, ALMERIA, LEVANIA.
WELL what will you do ladies? Will you sleep in the haunted chamber?
I am not afraid, for I am determined to tell no lies —What do you say Almeria? That was a pretty lie you contri [...]ed to tell your parents when you went home.
I don't like sleeping in a haunted chamber very well —we may possibly get a fright.
I suspect there may be some truth in the story about the old lady's appearance. I have heard of a number of such things in my life.
And so have I; but I never believed them. What is the reason, that people of the best sense, and best understanding, never see such things? But they are commonly seen by nervous, hypocondriac, or half crazy persons. I do not say such things never were; but I believe most stories of that kind are without foundation.
I do not know what to think of such things; but I know it is natural for me to be afraid; and I own I do now.
I wish I never had thought of going from home this evening.
O, you are a faint hearted creature as ever existed—You are not capable of doing any thing that is ingenious—I am not yet twenty years old—and I have contrived up more than a hundred evening parties already—I love amusements. Life is insipid without them.
And so it is a pretty amusement to lodge in a haunted chamber—I guess you will meet with something to try your high spirits yet.
I protest I am not in the least afraid. Let old grand mother come if she will, and say her prayers—If she be a good woman—we shall sleep the safer for that. Come, come, let's go.
I feel afraid—I do not wish to go—I do not love to sleep in a haunted chamber.
Nor I, and am willing to own it.
O for shame girls, what cowards you are, afraid of nothing—come—come along, or I will leave you here in the dark.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—SIMON and SMILINDA.
WELL Smiley, where's your Doll?
I have put it where you cannot find it.
I shall get it yet—and cut its head off.
O you cruel, barbarous wretch, to go to murder my poor baby, little innocent, that never did any harm in its life.
I set my black cat to day on your white one, and she has stript her ears all into fiddlestrings; and one of these days I intend to kill her.
SCENE II.—SMILINDA and MARTHA.
I TELL you what Patty, our Simon is a rogue— he's always setting his black cat on my white one; and he says he means to kill my cat.
He shall not kill your cat. If he does he shall be turned out of doors.
Then he is always plagning my babies. He says he'll get my prettiest Doll; and cut off its head.
Simon had better mind his manners, or he'll be turned out of his place, when papa comes home.
I do think pâ will do right to turn him off if he does suffer by it, he is so forever playing the rogue.
SCENE III.—ROSINA, and her associates enter, screaming out with a fright.
O MERCY help us, I never was so frighted in my life—the chamber is certainly haunted.
There are more than a thousand evil spirits in it now.
And what a shocking noise they made? I never heard any thing before so terrible. Dear me, what shall I do?
Did you see that great something all in white—It was as big as a man.
And there was something all in black. It seemed to be as big as a horse; and it had eyes like balls of fire.
That was old Satan himself, I do believe; I never saw any thing so dreadful.
And there were a thousand little white creatures that flew all about the chamber like lightening—it was the dreadfullest sight I ever saw—I never believed such things before.
These are serious matters ladies—and we must think of our bad actions, and be sorry, else we know not what will become of us.—I am sorry now, ladies, that I ever did any thing but what was strictly honest, we had better own the whole truth, and not tell any lies about our going out, else the black creature we saw will have us all.
Yes, you know I told you so—I believe that it was he whom we saw, that it was old Satan himself—and we had better take care of ourselves—did you hear what noise he made when he trotted away? He made a noise as loud as a horse treating on a barn floor.
O dear! I shall always be afraid to go out a nights after this.
Ladies how came you to disturb me with your noise? I have to rise early, and work hard; and I think it unkind, that when you have your lodging given you, you should disturb the whole family with your noise.
We could not help it—you put us to bed in a haunted chamber.
But you have not been to bed, you are in your proper dress now—you sit up I believe on purpose to make a noise.
No, Miss Martha gave us a candle, and we attempted to go into the chamber, and the candle burnt blue and almost went out—and I was going to take a pin, and pick open the wick; on a sudden I heard the dreadfullest noise that ever I heard in my life, and I saw something all in white, nearly as large as a man, fly off one way; and another all black, which the ladies say looked as big as a horse, trotted off another way, and made a noise as loud as a horse stepping on a barn floor. The candle burnt dim and blue, and there was a strong smell of brimstone, all the while, and no one could know how many white creatures were seen flying about the chamber like lightning. [Page 324] How came you to put the ladies to bed in the chamber if you knew it to be haunted?
I knew nothing of the matter, nor ever believed it to be haunted—Ladies, are you not deceived?
The candle burnt very dim and blue, but we could see.
O yes, we could distinguish objects, and colors: I could see the great black creature, and the white one, and the smaller ones, all flying about: It was a dreadful sight.
I saw them plainly.
So did I!
All this is perfectly astonishing to me. I never heard of any such thing before, much less believed it.
SCENE IV.—The same Ladies— SMILINDA enters, crying out.
They shan't kill my cat! They shan't kill my cat! You won't let them kill my cat, will you?
Why who is going to kill your cat?
Simon says he'll kill my cat.
No my dear, he shall not kill her; but why does he say so?
Why, I took my white cat with all her sweet little white kittens and I put all nine of them into Pa's bed, you can't think how pretty they looked all nine of them together—Then Simon went and got his great awful black cat, and shod her feet all round with walnut shells, sticking them on with wax. And then he sent him right into the chamber amongst my cat and kittens, and at it they went, fighting, and frighted the ladies almost out of their wits, and now Simon says he'll kill my cat, because she scared the ladies, and his cat scared them full as much as mine— For he made an awful noise trotting away on his four shoes.
There ladies the matter is all out now—I advise you to go home and never steal away from your parents any more, nor frame any lies to excuse the matter; for a guilty CONSIENCE can turn nutshells into horse shoes, and cats into devils, and even do stranger things than all that.
The Wooden Boy. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
THE FOLLY OF LOCAL PREJUDICES.
PERHAPS there is not a prejudice in human beings more unfriendly to society than that which improperly called local prejudice. A remarkable instance of this we have between cits and clowns—In the exercise of this prejudice it is difficult to say which discovers the most impenetrable stupidity. The cits commonly, however, are most insolent: the clowns have, perhaps, the most settled malice. Differing districts of the same nation often carry it almost to open hostility—How can men so far forget, that they are all of the same species, and have the same feelings?
PERSONS.
- MR. FREEMAN, OR JOHN HICKORY, a polite young gentleman, affecting to be a rustic.
- JAMES HOTSPUR—a young satirist.
- JACK BATTLEDOOR—a boxer, affecting to be a high fellow.
- HARRY PLUME—a young beau.
- TALBOT—a large good natured boy.
- MARTIN—a serious sententious lad.
- CHRISTOPHER—a waiter in a boarding school.
- MYRA—a miss, favorite of Harry Plume.
- SISTERS—of Mr. Freeman who appear but do not speak.
THE WOODEN BOY.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—PLUME and BATTLEDOOR.
I WONDER what the marvellous cause can be that our young fellows do not study the art of dress!
I think the art of boxing of much greater consequence.
Dress recommends us to the ladies, dear creatures; my heart is charmed with them; tho people laugh at me, for taking notice of them because I am so young.
But you can learn push, parry, quart and tierce, I mean to learn the art of fencing before I make pretensions to the ladies, and then if a man rivals me, I'll call him out.
I guess I'm not far from being a man, for when the miss Linnets sung last evening—they are sweet little angels you know—I felt my heart go pi [...] a pat as plain as day light. If I be not pretty near a man, I wonder what in the name of beauty, that could mean.
I care not, I love to throw every boy in the school of my age; and beat every one of my size in boxing—then, if I like any of the girls, I can defend myself in possession.
But to make the girls like you, that is a serious matter, to captive their little tender souls, then you may keep them forever.
I would rather undertake to knock down a boy of twice my size, than to flatter a girl, or even to coax her to walk with me half a mile.
You and I shall not agree in our notions—But do you know that we are to have a new student, in our school, to day?
I heard of it—They say his name is John Hickory, and that he comes from the town of Brushwood, a rare wooden fellow—I dare say we shall pick fun out of him.
SCENE II.—HOTSPUR, PLUME and BATTLEDOOR.
Well boys, they say we shall have a queer fellow come into school to day—We shall have music with him.
I wonder you should not have the prudence to acquaint yourself with the sweet little angels, and l [...]rn genteel manners, as I do.
If he comes I guess I shall box him, or at least I shall challenge him to wrestle with me at the first dash, that's my way.
I'll try, and see how he'll bear a joke. Th [...]y say he dresses very queerly, all out of fashion. We shall joke him all to rags.
I wonder he should not dress himself when he comes to school, because that's a matter of importance.
I mean to buy me a jest book, and learn to joke by rule—It will cost only one dollar, and wit, you know, is worth every thing.
Better lay it out in pomatum to keep your hair slick; and give it an agreeable smell; that will make the young ladies like you.
When I get all the wit in the world, the ladies will like me for my wit; and then I shall be as smart as any man.
I am determined to learn boxing and the back sword; for if you and I travel together, as we may; when you affront a man with your wit, then I shall have to fight him.
Rare work you'll make of it, and I shall have to follow you in order to make peace. So we have business planned out for the rest of our lives.
We will contrive some way to make fun of neighbor Hickory—I love to take a fellow, who can't say his soul is his own, and give him a hearty sweat.
Now I had rather please one girl, than plague ten boys, and there is more amusement in it.
SCENE III —MARTIN, BATTLEDOOR and HOTSPUR.
NOTHING gives a greater lustre to learning than prudence and good morals. I cannot join you in afflicting our new companion, it can only render us odious.
You never had any spirit for fun more than my grandmother—Always preaching your grum morals, what do you say Jack, shall we give up to him?
Not till he has had a spice of my jokes; I mean to try titles with him for the greatest wit.
If he can give me a fall, or beat me in boxing, then I'll allow him to be a good fellow.
I'm ashamed of you both—forever in riots and mischief—a terror to the neighborhood. You'll sooner be in prison than in Congress, at this rate of proceeding.
What a preacher! Let's collect money to buy him a new black coat—and he shall hold forth to the school.
You will need no preacher. Soon the consequences of your folly will give you tormenting conviction, very soon.
Think I'll give back for you—I'll only go deeper —I'll get a blanket, and toss Mr. Wooden head in a blanket.
SCENE IV.—HICKORY (entering) and CHRISTOPHER.
SIR can you introduce me into the school?
No!
Why not?
I have no time to wait on such wooden headed fellows—You came from the town of Brushwood—I must attend to my business.
Sir it will take you but a moment to introduce me.
I cannot spend my time to wait on you—You have no more manners than a bear—What sort of people live, where you came from?
A very rough unsociable people I must say to their dishonor—They will refuse to direct a stranger on his way —ask the town he came from, and tell him he has no more manners than a bear.
That is pretty much as they do here.
Will you please to direct me into the common room?
You must first cross the yard—then turn over to the left—then you must come to the right again—then you must go back again to the left—then come to the right, and take a winding course up the back stairs into the common room.
It is impossible to find the way by these directions. Here, I'll give you this if you will show me the way.
I will wait on you sir.
But I must ask leave of absence of the master of the kitchen.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—BATTLEDOOR (entering) and HICKORY.
WELL, Sir what's your name?
John Hickory sir.
What town did you come from?
Brushwood; a very remote part of the state.
You are the fellow I have been hearing of a number of days past—they told me there was a strange, woodenheaded fellow coming from Brushwood, a dark obscure hole, and that he had no more manners than a bear.
Well what do you think of him?
Think of you—Why as to your own proper self, you look passably well—But then how you dress, all as far from the fashion as from Nova Scotia to Georgia—What do you mean by wearing that old bayonet-hat—Your coat is half a yard too short—oh! fun indeed! this is pretty! what a coat!—and then your hair tied up with a leather— whang — You like old Jeremy—fact!—Why sir, what sort of people are they at Brushwood?
They are a very droll people it would make you laugh to see their manners.
Why, how are they?
O they are so ridiculous, they say you love fun— it would make you die with laughing.
I long to hear then—Let us have it.
The first thing these coarse, rough people do, when they see a stranger—is to ask him what is his name—where [Page 331] he came from—they tell him he is a fellow they have heard of before—that he is a strange wondenheaded fellow, with no more manners than a bear—then they examine his person, and tell him he looks passably, but his dress is out of fashion—his hat is not right, and his coat is half a yard too long or too short—they find fault with the tying of his hair, and ask what sort of people they were in the town from whence he came.
You lie. Those are not the manners of the people at Brushwood.
They are sir, and you may enquire of any person you please—They are the manners of all people who have no sense of propriety.
Very pretty indeed! and so I have no sense of propriety!
I have never said that sir.
But you told the manners of the people of Brushwood, to be just like mine.
If they be alike, you would not have me tell a lie.
You are a saucy fellow; and I dare you out to box with me.
There are two things more which the people at Brushwood, are very apt to do —If they do not like what a man says to them, they tell him he lies, and challenge him to box.
I won't bear this—you mean to impose upon me, I know you do—I'll knock you down.
SCENE II.— (Enter TALBOT, BATTLEDOOR & HICKORY.)
Stop your fire skull; what are you about to do? Fight a scholar before he enters the school—And for what? Has he ever injured you? It is not possible.
He has insulted me, and I won't bear it.
How insulted you?
He described the manners of the people of Brushwood to be just like mine.
What then? one unmannerly fellow is just like another.
O let him alone if he has a mind to fight, let him fight.
But he shall use fair play.
Fighting is fighting after all. I am not much concerned about the manner of it.
Yes I suppose in your Town they use the Indian hug, and strike a fellow after he is down.
If the business is to be civil, it is best not to fight at all.
That is because you are a coward. Yes, because you are a coward, I say, you refuse to fight.
No s [...]r, I do not refuse—but as you are the challenger, you must let me have the choice of weapons.
That's certainly fair—you can have no objection to that.
Then when I fight, I always fight with a large lemon in my fist—look you here, this is the way I fight, if I fight at all.
What is that for?
The business of fighting, you see, is to hurt one another—if you bruise any one, the juice gets into the wound, and the smart it intolerable—and if you strike them in the face, the juice gets into the eyes, and the anguish is inconceivable. Here sir,
take a couple and prepare yourself. We must hurt one another very much, before we have done—I mean to fight as long as I can move a finger. I hope if I hurt you ever so much,
you will not take it ill
'Twould be a pity— really 'twould be a pity.
What is a pity?
To bruise these lemons all up in fighting, it will spoil them entirely.
Would it not spoil a man's face as much. But that is no matter—it is my way of fighting; and I have a right to chuse.
I think I don't want to fight much now.
That's because you are a coward.
Why I think—I think, I'm dry, and I want a drink of punch—had we not better make these lemons into punch, I'm very fond of punch.
With all my heart; I love punch for that matter, as well as I love fighting.
I like it, so lay the lemons aside for a moment and we will have a drink of punch.
On my word I ask pardon for being so rough with you at first. I begin to think [Page 333] you are a clever fellow. There's Hotspur a coming—don't say a word to him, that we have made all up.
SCENE III.—HOTSPUR, entering—the others as in the last scene.
Where's our new genius—Well my friend, did you come here to buy wit?
I have come, I believe, to a bad market, for I do not find you have any to sell.
He's sharp, you see, very sharp. He lives upon razors, don't you think he does?
You had better not meddle with me then, for I have just this moment finished my dinner.
You came from Brushwood, I think, where foxes are plenty.
Yes sir, and when I dine on razors, I have fox-brains for sauce—that makes me very keen, you see.
And so you mean to deal out your fox-wit by wholesale among us.
There is no need of that; a very small portion will serve for you.
I fancy you have been used to fox hunting; do yo mean to pursue it here?
No, I'm hunting for fools, and have had great luck—the game is plenty.
You will find one if you look in the glass.
Then I won't look, for I am satisfied with what I see already.
How his wit bites; he stings close; he has been a pepper merchant, you may depend on it.
Yes, and have enough of it yet to season a dozen such fellows as you.
You are a proper blackguard—I am ashamed to talk with you.
A cur is always ashamed when he is beat.
I'll be revenged on you for this.
O shame on you—You began the attack, and are only angry because yau are out witted.
I'll go and call a number of boys, and I'll be revenged on you.
How common it is for boys, who begin with joking, soon to get angry—I thing we may fairly draw the consequence [Page 302] from this; that judgment is much better than wit.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—BATTLEDOOR and MYRA.
AH how do ye do, my pretty Miss.
You are not to be very conversant with me sir, till you behave yourself better.
Why, have I done you any harm?
No, but I am told that you this day contrived to insult a new scholar, just as he was entering the school.
That does not concern you that I know of.
It concerns me to keep such rude, unmannerly wretches at a due distance, I hope, you will not have admittance, where we dance this evening.
You are always very particular about your company.
I wish every girl were as particular, then we should cure you of your high-goes—that is to say of your low frolics.
Madam, if you are out of temper, it is not worth my while to stay here?
SCENE II.—PLUME (entering) and MYRA.
YOUR servant Miss—I am happy in hoping for the pleasure of dancing with you, this evening.
Sir if it be agreeable to you, and the company choose partners I have no objection.
For one thing Miss you must suffer me to blame you a little gently—I saw you walking with Jack Battledoor; he has not the best character in the school.
O never fear my growing fond of his company—he seized my arm, 'tis true, but I obliged him soon to quit it —I do not like him, his manner is quite too rough.
Shall I conduct you home.
You may if it be agreeable—tho it is but a little way —it will not be unpleasant to have company—yet now I [Page 335] wish you to stay here and prevent the boys from insulting Mr. Freeman.
SCENE III.—PLUME and HOTSPUR.
Well, Harry, wont you join us, we mean to have a high go?
I am always afraid of you, you carry matters to such a violent extreme.
You are a soft hearted thing, just fit to please the girls; and for nothing else.
What marvellous plan have you on foot, that you urge me so much, to take a part in it?
We have a scheme to take John Hickory, and toss him in a blanket.
Have your rough play to yourself, I will have nothing to do with it.
Go, then, and tie yourself to the girls apron-strings; and let them coax, and wheedle, and befool you forever.
I have no taste for such rough play—It always ends in something disagreeable. As for my misses, they will soften, and polish my manners; and teach me to be a gentleman.
SCENE IV.—HOTSPUR, BATTLEDOOR, (entering here) with other boys and MARTIN.
COME lads; see John Hickory cut capors in the air—We mean to toss him in a blanket.
You are forever inventing mischief. What has John Hickory done to you, that you shall bear malice against him?
He is a new scholar you see.
The very reason why he should he treated kindly —If he be not polite at present it is his unhappiness not his fault.
We know more than he does.
Give credit to your knowledge then, and behave yourselves well.
Wonderfully wise to be sure.
Ignorant people have some excuse for bad morals —but to those who profess to be the knowing ones—nothing can be more infamous, than to despise the manners of civil life.
It always is the custom among scholars to play the rogue.
For that very reason seminaries of learning become odious. If men professing learning behave worse than they, who inhabit the woods—who can wonder that men hate the idea of a scholar—by such methods too, they are bred up to be the pests of human society—and the more learned the more pernicious they are.
But seminaries of learning are the resorts of politeness— the seats of the muses.
They ought to be; but such fellows as you give them the character of the seats of illiberality, and vice. If we find in colleges and acadamies, the rough stoic, the contemptuous cynic, the coarsest pedants, and the sons of riot, and debauchery, who can wonder if the public conceives an aversion to such societies?
A fig for your morals—There are your high fellows in all the seminaries of learning.
Yes, a worthy object to be sure. To study one, two▪ three, or four years, in some seminary of learning—to qualify ourselves, to get drunk as brutally as porters, and grooms—to introduce ourselves to vicious women, who after all prefer the assassin and street robber—and to acquire an aversion to modest ladies, to be embarrassed, and know not how to speak to them. One need not reside in a college to learn these things—They may be learned in taverns, and gaming houses to perfection.
Come on, boys—down with this preacher—Does he think we came here to hear sermons of terror? Let us all fall on, have him in the blanket, and give him a shaking.
Stand off you villains; if you attack me, I shall defend myself.
Well he is a great heavy lubber, we will let him alone; and take Hickory; he is the very man we want.
What do you mean, by this rude assault on me?
Silence ye young villains—Let this young gentleman alone—unhand him. There now, be easy; or I will bring every soul o [...] you before the government.
SCENE V.—MARTIN, HOTSPUR, and BATTLEDOOR.
I SEE we are likely to have no fun to day—I will go and see some of the misses—I do that when I can find nothing better.
What would you have better, than to recommend yourself to the best part of the human species?
Why do not our instructors then let the masters and misses perform their excerc [...]ses toge [...]her—or why in schools where they study together, do they make them sit in different parts of the house.
It is to save them the pain of being corrected in the presence of each other—to preserve their delicacy, and [...]ncrease their mu [...]ual [...]espect—There is n [...]thing which makes the intercours [...] of men and women so happy as preserving mutual respect a [...]d esteem.
On my word, I believe you are right, for I have found when we had been from the misses all day—and had a nice genteel dance after school—it was the finest pleasure, I ever experienced in my life.
That's always the case—The more decent and proper we are in conversation with women, the more we enjoy [...]heir society, which is in fact, and truth, the greatest blessing of human life
That's what I have not tho't of so much before— But there seems to be good sense and reason in what you say.
SCENE VI.—TALBOT, (entering) HOTSPUR, BATTLEDOOR, and MARTIN.
YOUNG men you are very fortunate indeed, that you did not meddle with Hickory, for he is indeed a very genteel young man—He lived in Brushwood but one fortnight—as he knew you to be saucy, he contrived this way to mortify you; so he makes you the fools of the play. His real name is Freeman.
Yes, boys you will be mortified with a witness.— The wooden boy you laughed at is rea [...]ly as genteel a lad as any in the school, and has permission to invite the young gentlemen and ladies to a dance after school.
O I shall die to appear before him.
I must excuse myself—How he must despise me— I may as well be annihilated as to appear before him.
I have often told you, young gentlemen, that you would bring yourselves i [...]o disgrace by such proceedings— But see, he is coming with his two sisters—sweet girls as ever lived. He looks like a Wooden Boy to be sure.
SCENE VII.—Mr. FREEMAN entering with his two Sisters, richly dressed.
GENTMEMEN, I have the honor to invite you to dance with my sisters, and a number of the other misses after school; at the house of Mrs. Careful, the Governess.
Mr. Freeman I ask a thousand pardons—if I had but known you I should not—
No matter, it afforded me some amusement—no matter.
If you will only pardon my jokes. I was wrong, perfectly wrong, I confess.
I think sir, your jokes were quite harmless. Gentlemen I shall wait on you at four.
My jokes quite harmless—That is worse than all the rest—He must think meanly of me, and cannot think otherwise. In fact, I feel very small.
And I too, as small as a mouse—I wish I had been in France before ever I heard of the Wooden Boy.
Bernard of Berlin. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
THE ABSURDITY OF PROFUSENESS.
THERE is in many persons of some plausible qualities, a great vanity of spending money profusely. It is lavished away on parasites and flatterers, who give their patron nothing but empty praise.— And it is commonly the case, that they who help a man to spend his estate profusely, are the first to desert him in distress, if not upbraid him with his folly.
PERSONS.
- BERNARD OF BERLIN—a man of excessive hospitality.
- WIDDEL—his steward.
- SCRUTER—an Attorney.
- COUNT ANSPACH—a worthless Nobleman.
- GOLTZ—a city Magistrate.
- STRASSMUND—an old Miser.
- KEENSPRUCK—an Architect.
- BRUSCH—a Servant.
- CHRISTIERN—a Cook.
- BRYSSEN—a stranger.
- GERTRUDE—wife of Bernard.
- CATHERN—his daughter.
BERNARD OF BERLIN.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—BRYSSEN and CHRISTIERN.
WHO lives in this house?
Nobody lives here.
Is not the house inhabited?
Here my master starves, with his wife, and family, and myself.—We are starved to death all of us.
You have no regard to decency, to be starved to death, and yet walking about and transacting business.
We are in no danger of being called to an account—We have no business to follow, and are grown by starving so thin and so pale, that were we examined on the qualifications of ghosts, there would not be a wretch of us all, but would pass muster.
You have lost your manners as well as your flesh— Who stays in this house? I ask again.
Bernard, sir my master Bernard.
Has he no other name but my master Bernard?
Why sir there are a number of Bernard's in this town, there is one who was a man of figure—Is that the man you want?
Describe his particular quality or business.
There are two Bernards noted men in this city. One is a poet and a man of wit—He is as social a fellow as eve [...] you saw, he'd entertain you with his fine verses.
The Bernard, I want, is the Bernard who gives such good dinners. I have heard an ex [...]ellent character of him —I am tired, faint, and hungry, coming off from a journey, and have a better relish for a good sirl [...]in of beef, than for the finest verses in the world. Will you tell me at last what your masters' name is.
Why sir, he has been so popular in his day, that [Page 344] they called him Bernard of Berlin—No man has ever given better dinners—But he can give them no more.
Why, if that be the case, I will dine at the tavern. But, I respect his memory, and will call and see him after dinner.
SCENE II.—BERNARD and SCRUTER.
THERE is a man knocking, introduce him.
Sir, here is a note which is become due.
Due to whom?
To a neighbor here in Berlin.
Go to my steward.
He has already put me off, from day to day— The holder of the note wants the money, and must be paid.
Persuade him to wait till tomorrow.
I cannot sir. It must be put in suit.
Eye, you may ruin a responsible man by sending him at once to prison. Here take this
and ask him to wa [...]t a month longer, not ruin me and my whole family.
You talk enough to break one's heart.
I will try to persuade him. But with a little exertion you can pay this other.
I cannot answer that neither. Can you nor put it off till next week?
Perhaps I may by some persuading, for which I ought to be payed. But here is another.
O conscience, what? another!
Yes, another; and he says he must have speedy payment. The sum is less than either of the others—I hope you will pay this.
I cannot pay that nether — But how came I over head and ears in debt? Is it possible that my steward has done his duty, Brusch—Tell Widdel to step here in a moment.
Pay this last note by to morrow or it will be put in suit,
SCENE III.—BERNARD and WIDDEL.
HOW came my [...]state so deranged! Why did you not tell me of it?
I did a great many times, but you put me off.— You told me I was honest, and that you would look into it another time.
You must sell off some of my land.
It is all sold, except one little dark spot in the corner of Silesia, hardly fit for a coblers stall. This will hardly satisfy your present creditors; what is to be done for the future I know not.
But there was not a village from Berlin to Dantzick, that I had not a farm in, or near it.
True—but when it cost you 1000 acres for a feast, or you gave away 10 [...]000 in a breath—had you possessed all Europe, in one farm, it soon would have been gone.
What you say is reasonable.
If you suspect my honesty, or truth, I'll settle my accompts in presence of a magistrate—But I must tell you▪ that your feasts, revels, illuminations▪ balls, and what not, at such an excessive charge, have often made me retire to a corner and weep.
Prithee say no more.
Then, what fellows those were who praised you.— Count Bernard! the noble Bernard; and Bernard of Berlin; who had every man's hand, head and heart at his service—now your fortune is gone they are as still as flies after a summer's storm.
Finish your discourse—I will apply to my friends— I have mines in their hearts, and treasures in their inmost souls—I can get favors from my friends as easily as I can speak the word.
I wish you may find it so.
Never mind it▪ Widdel, my wants are my blessings —You shall see that I am rich in friends, tho I be low in cash.
I have the warmest wishes for your success.
Here▪ Brusch, come in an instant. Go to Count Anspach; ask him to lend me 200 pounds; to Goltz, and ask him for 150; to S [...]r [...]smund, the miser; ask him for 100; to Keenspruck▪ the architect: ask him to lend me 50. for he has had many a good job by my means—I advanced to the city magistrates £ 3000 in a time of difficulty; I shall ask £. 1000 of them▪
I wish you may be succes [...]ful, but I greatly fear you will not.
SCENE IV.—GERTRUDE and BERNARD.
DEAR sir, what are we to dine upon to day?
Upon victuals, what do you think?
But the cook says there is not a mouthful of any kind of provisions in the house.
We shall have plenty in a few minutes. I have sen [...] my servant to borrow money of my friends.
If that be the case we may fast and reckon upon fasting—we will lay i [...] up against a fast day comes.
What, my dear, we will not be uncharitable towards our friends—They cannot be so ungenerous as not to relieve our wants.
Heaven bless your hopes, my husband, and render them successful: but much I fear, that we must keep lent, for many days to come, in spite of all our friends.
O woman—woman! how suspicious you are—I wonder you had faith enough to be married.
I should not, if I had dreamt of starving in consequence.
Well, well—I'll expedite the servants, and get a supply, the moment my money arrives.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—Anspach enters, then Brusch.— ANSPACH and BRUSCH.
MY master Bernard wishes your health and prosperity.
Here, take a glass of my bell wine, you are welcome above all men—Here take another glass—How does that complete gentleman your master do, whom I love as my life?
Very well, as to health, very well indeed.
And what hast thou got under thy cloak? Some genteel present from your master. I dreamt last night he gave me a silver tankard.
I have no silver tankard sir, for you.
Something more elegant. Your master shows [Page 347] his genteel taste always in his presents—a pair of diamond buckles, perhaps. O, I love him as my life.
No sir he is in want: he sends this empty box for you to fi [...]l. He asks 200 pounds, not doubting but you'll supply him.
Ah! not doubting—Why I told him when I dined with him last, I was afraid he spent too fast on his capital.
And then came to supper to tell him to spend less.
Liberty was always his fault. But you are an arch fellow—you know these times.
What of the times sir?
That no-body pretends in these times to lend money upon friendship, without security.
My master has lent you three times the sum without security.
Yes, and I took it because I wanted it. But I tho't him imprudent, then.
Shall I say that to my master?
No, take this piece; and say I was not at home.
Thank you sir, I will not tell a scandalous lie for three shillings.
SCENE II.—BRUSCH and GOLTZ.
ILLUSTRIOUS magistrate, that gentleman, Bernard of Berlin, sends to know of your health.
Ha, has he sent to me, and what has he sent? He is the genteelest man on earth in sending a present.
O sir, he will make no more presents He sends this empty box for you to fill—He desires you to lead him 150 pounds.
He is only merry, he has ten times that sum to spare!
No sir, he is in present want; or he would never have troubled his friends.
Hah! in present want do you say? How then will he be able to pay?
He was kind to you, in difficulties; and expected a return.
What a perfect fool, and scoundrel I was; that no more than three days ago, I made a purchase that swept off every stiver of my money.
Then you will not [...]upply him.
Why just before you came in I was going to send to my lord Bernard, to borrow, which I scarce would have done for the worth of all Germany. Give him my most sincere respects; tell him my utter inability; and beg him to conceive in the fairest manner of my intentions.
Shall I tell him you will not?
No, sir, tell him I cannot, and that it is a mortal affliction to me.
And is this the return you make for all my master's kind [...]ess to you—Well there remains old Strassmund the miser. I will see what I can do with him.
SCENE III.—BRUSCH and STRASSMUND.
MASTER Bernard sends his respects to you sir, and asks the loan of a hundred pounds.
How came he to think of me?
Why he sent to lord Anspach, and Goltz; but they proved of base temper; they gave him no relief.
And so he sends to me the last of all—I was the first man that received a present of him; the first who was invited to dinner by him; and now that he should send to me the last— I will not lend him a farthing—I am downright affronted with him.
There is no one who now remains but old Keenspruck the architect—whom my master took out of prison; and gave him many a fine job—I will try him, and then I have executed my master's orders.
SCENE IV.—BRUSCH and KEENSPRUCK.
MASTER Bernard sends to you sir, his most sincere respects.
What job does he want me to do now? I'll not do another so cheap as I did the last; but I don't perfectly understand you—I am hard of hearing, you know. Come close to me now.
Master Bernard is in want of cash, which is the worst situation in the world for building.
Hah! the situation—Don't he like the situation of the building. Then let him build somewhere else. There [Page 349] is room enough in the world to build upon.
He does not want to build [...]r. He has built too much already —He wants to borrow fifty pounds of you —and if it please you, I call upon you for it by his order.
The order please me? Let him please himself about the order—If he does not like the Ionic or Tuscan orders which are very plain [...]; let him take the Corinthian, which is very grand.
My master does not want to build. He has built too much already. He wants to borrow money; he has a number of little debts which he wishes to square off.
Square roof. It seems he don't like a square roof— He may have a bevil if he pleases, or a common pitched roof.
It is no such thing—Sir, my master is a little out of cash at present—he wants fifty pounds, if you will do it for him.
Do it for him, yes if he will pay me well—But I must have the dimensions of the building, before I can tell what to charge for it.
You know what I mean well enough, you old knave.
Aye, who is a knave? Not I, I hope.
Will you come, and dine with my master immediately?
O yes by all means; the gentleman is very kind—
Thanks to my old deaf ear, I have escaped—He was so anxious and so uneasy: I knew the dog wanted to borrow money by his phiz.
SCENE V.—CATHERN and BERNARD.
MY mother sends to you to know if you are likely to have any thing for dinner to day?
Then tell her not to be anxious; we shall have it soon.
She seems almost out of patience; and if any company comes in, we have nothing in the world to set before them.
I am not anxious about that. If they furnish money, then we can furnish them a dinner. Or otherwise we make them welcome to the best we have—If we have nothing I mean to invite them all to dine.
O dear sir do not expose us in that manner.
Yes, by all means, and let them see how [...]olks live who live upon nothing.
O sir, I should be so mortified I should leave the house.
You must not be affrighted at that; we may all soon he obliged to leave the house.
ACT III.
SCENE I.— Bernard enters, then Widdel. BERNARD, WIDDEL and BRUSCH.
WHAT not one of them lend me a farthing?
Not one upon my life.
Go immediately and invite every one of them to dinner.
I could not have tho't there had been so much ingratitude in mankind—I tho't they might have some sense of obligation; but he who is smitten of the disease of poverty is shunned of the human species.
I have long known it to be so. The warmest trencher friends, when a man is in distress, would deny him even the crumbs of charity.
SCENE II.—SCRUTER and BERNARD.
THE last note I had against you sir is put in suit.
It is just as agreeable to me as any way—Let my creditors take all I possess, if they will be content with that.
If you remain here in Berlin they will not be content till they have you in prison.
SCENE III.—GERTRUDE and BERNARD.
MY dear, you must take care of yourself—I have found out that tomorrow they mean to put [...]u in jail.
There is a great favor my dea [...] ▪ I re [...]pected they would have done it to day.
I tremble for the consequences. We must flee immediately.
Will you go with me?
It is my design to live and die with you.
Let me have my wife; and they may take my fortune▪ I shall be richer than they all.
Sir, you are still a gentlema [...]; and the more is the pity that you will not have a fortune.
SCENE IV.— [...]PACH, GOLTZ, STRA [...]M [...]D, SCRUTER, and K [...]SPRUCK, all come in together.
I HAVE done myself the honor to wait on you according to your obliging commands.
I thank you for your invitation. You are a compleat gentleman, not to flatter a word.
I am sorry you did not send first to me to borrow money—I cannot get it over.
I love to be invited to dinner▪ it saves all the expense, and trouble, you see.
I suppose your good ear was offered to this invitation—I w [...]nder, far the advantage of it, that I never tho't of being deaf of one ear.
You can be deaf of both ears; when you find it to advantage.
Neighbor Bernard you have invited us to dinner, but you show us nothing of dinner yet—To be a little free, what are we to have for dinner to day.—
Just what you gentleman helped me to—Had I obtained any thing, you should have been welcome; but since I obtained nothing you are as welcome.
I think you treat us very scandalously, master Bernard.
You might be ashamed to treat gentlemen in this manner.
I shall not consider you after dinner▪ as I [...] ed to do.
I shall turn a deaf ear as I do on all such occasions.—
Adieu my dear friends adieu, [...] love you as my eyes love smoke, or as my mouth warm water▪—You [...]ingy, deceitful, worthless vermin▪ begone!
Now I could curse these detested Parasites; is there lan [...]uage strong enough to do it in—The sum of all my curses is that they may be as they are—that's bad enough.
SCENE V.—BERNARD and BRYSSEN.
HAVE I one friend left?
Yes, you have one, who knew you not, except in fame, till this day —I heard of your affairs, and pity you most sincerely. I live in Silesia near the little farm which you have left. It is worth near five hundred pounds— You may make a safe retreat to this little spot—where if you cannot live in splendor—you may be honest and independent of every man.
I will go with my wife and daughter. You, Widdel, and Brusch may if you please go with me—I have been extremely mortified, and mankind seem excessively cruel— But how can I justly blame them for not taking care of me; when it is evident, that I did not take care of myself?
The Rogue proved honest▪ A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
THE EXCELLENCE OF THE GENERAL PRINCIPLE OF A FREE COMMONWEALTH.
A SENSE of liberty infuses life and activity thro a whole commonwealth—And not only are particular laws a security to the citizen, but a greater security arises from the general principle of liberty— That in every instance will cause the presumption to be made in favor of the accused citizen; that he is innocent, and that the sufferings of the innocent will by that means be prevented—Happy above all people are they of the United States, if they know their own good.
PERSONS.
- ESQ. RIGHTWAYS—a justice of the peace.
- MR. JAMISON—a merchant in distress.
- PORTERSON—a neighbor.
- NONSUIT—an attorney.
- READY-CASH—a banker.
- MC. MULLOCK—an Irishman.
- MRS. JAMISON—wife of Mr. Jamison.
- CLARA JAMISON—unmarried sister of Jamison.
- MRS. ROBERTS—married sister of Jamison.
- MISS MUSLIN—a linnen draper.
- BETTY—a laundress.
THE ROGUE PROVED HONEST.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—Mr. JAMISON and CLARA.
SISTER I wish you to lend your attention to me a moment.
As long as you please.
Have you heard any thing bad of me in this neighborhood?
Certainly your character is given out as extremely bad; and you are threatened with a prosecution for several very high crimes.
I hope that gives you no uneasiness.
It certainly does, and I can scarcely sleep because of it.
I am sorry if it affects you so disagreeably, it certainly gives me very little disturbance.
I am astonished at your calmness; for I am told, there is one prosecu [...]ion against you for false coinage, another for highway robbery, and another for forgery—They say the proofs are all flagrant against you, and you cannot escape.
I defy them all to hurt me; and yet I do not suppose that one of them owes me any malice. Just so prone are human kind to believe every thing that is bad concerning a man who falls into distress in his affairs.
But by what means do you expect to support yourself, when so many false accusations ga her round? by what means will you be extricated?
I suppose twenty witnesses might be brought who [...]ou [...] I swear against me and yet all be honest and believe they swore to the truth.
My brother, you don't say so, I almost think you [Page 356] guilty myself how could it be, unless you have been very w [...]cked▪ you never can clear yourself of them; and how do you expect it?
I have no money to defend myself with▪ I cannot a [...] present procure a single witness in my favor—All my dependence is upon the author of all truth; and the testimony of my own conscience, and they being on my side, are all the witnesses I need.
I wish you may find it so, in the conclusion of your affairs—but I am on the rack with anxiety day and right on your account.
Be quiet my sister—Never believe that he who brings the righteous into affliction; has not power to bring them out again.
SCENE II.—PORTERSON (entering here) and CLARA.
SERVANT, Miss Clara, your servant—where is your brother?
He has this moment gone out.
Why miss Clara, there is an old racket in this neighborhood about your brother, what has he done?
He has always been an honest man from a child▪ the kindest brother that lives to his sisters, the most dutiful son to his parents, whom he his with the tenderest care supported in their feeble, and decriped state. And now he has the tears of the poor, since he has fallen into distress, witnessing in his favor.
Why I was at the alehouse last evening and they called him all the rascals in the world, I tho't if half they said was true, I would not give one of my old boots for his head.
They talk frightfully about him I know.
Well and can't he have them up for it, I'd bring 'em corum nobus—If they talked so about me.
He is more anxious, lest he should be prosecuted himself, than how he shall prosecute others.
Well this is a proper harum scarum world, all things go hoity toity, head over heels. I have hitherto taught my children to be honest and trust providence.
Well, I hope you do not mean to teach them otherwise in time to come.
I have been thinking whether men get any thing by being honest, or whether some men did not cry up [Page 357] honesty that they might the better cheat their neighbors— I have lost many a hundred pounds by being honest, and among great folks it is a [...] [...] of fashion.
Yes, and perhaps gained thousands by it at other times—Do you suppose that you should have been worth what you are if you had not had a reputation for being honest?
Aye there you have it now, you are a cunning little puss.
I love to hear you talk dearly.
My clothes don't want brushing sir; or if they do we will not trouble you to do it, I mean to be honest, tho my brother be ever so unfortunate.
But supposing now, just for the notion on' [...] that what we call vice had been called virtue, and what we call virtue had been called vice?
Supposing what we call white had been called black and what we call black had been called white— would it have altered the nature of those colors?
But then would we not have been as much pleased with black, as we are with white? there, I guess I've got you now.
No sir, supposing ratsbane had been called butter, then we might eat it on bread without harm—or supposing butter were called ratsbane, then it would poison us, would it not?
That's sly now—and I will own you have got some wit—but supposing that no man had any thing of his own but every thing was earned by every body, and every body had aright to it—all things in common.
Why then some would do nothing but live on the earnings of other people, while only a few would have to maintain all the rest.
Why girl you reason away stoutly now—can you tell me girl why a woman is called the weaker vessel—it is not because she is naturally more shallow—that is a little too bad too—I mean whether she has not naturally less understanding than a man.
I suppose sir, that a great iron pot, will bear a stouter blow than a china bowl, but I do not know that of consequence it is more valuable—or in fact worth more.
People will have their different fancies about that— you know.
Well sir, from certain circumstances I judge that men are weaker than women, and have less understanding—are not all the whims and extravagances of learning invented by men—the ideal system—denial of providence, atheism, or putting nature instead of God▪ Mischance agency, scepticism concerning morals &c. which have deranged society and corrupted mankind. Are they not all inventions of men? Women in general despise such notions—and they refer all their ideas to use and benefit— they value no learning but which is profitable—and refer all study to its moral use. I appeal to facts for this. Is it any sign of weakness in their understanding?
Why ah—hem—ah—as for that—hem—I hardly know what to say.
However I will be candid—I will allow men have as much sense as women—but I detest all principles that weaken the obligations of morality—our happiness depends on right conduct, and however calum [...]iated my brother is, I would have him be strictly honest—nor make use of any art or evasion, to avoid suffering—He had better follow truth even if he suffers for it.
SCENE III.—NONSUIT (entering here) and CLARA.
BUT then as to that master you are right; you don't approve that girls should have much learning, it nonsuits their understanding.
Your understanding
was never nonsuited that way.
But then it is my opinion, that women should learn to spin, and knit, to mend clothes; and darn stockings.
So it is mine. They ought to learn all those matters—I will put it stronger, they ought to be very attentive and diligent in these things—But if they have as much learning besides, as they have opportunity to acquire; I do not suppose it does them any harm.
I think that women have no business with much learning—they had better keep to their kniting, patching, and mending, &c. and washing dishes &c.
Sir, I suppose you do not know it. Such observations hurt the tender feelings of my sex—we have as lively a taste for knowledge as you—It becomes us as well—What [Page 359] [...] or has befallen the authoress of the Coquette? Or did Montague disgrace her self by her Letters? Would not many men be proud to write [...]ke P [...]ilenia?
They had better mind their own business.
How would you like it sir, if the women should say of you that it would have been better for you, if you had been confined all your days to the spade and plough, instead of pettifogging and setting neighbors to quarrel— or what would some Doctors of Theology say, if we had said concerning them, that it were well if they had mended shoes instead of making sermons. I respect the profession of the law too much; and certainly I respect the religious profession too much, to make any such observations. Yet I do not know but such observations are altogether as good natured, and as just, as those which are thrown out by some men against the education of women.
Well, I know this▪ your brother is a villain, & I intend to prosecute him to the utmost rigor of the law. I guess his sisters won't get him out of my hands▪
I do not know that they will, but I guess they will try.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—NONSUIT and READY-CASH.
WELL Mr. Ready-cash—what's your complaint against young Jamison.
Why he passed a number of counterfeited bank notes, here to day.
And do you believe he counterfeited them himself?
Yes; for they were all altered with a pen, and every body knows that he is in very low circumstances as to estates—and there is a great probability that he did it for his own benefit.
Well, and have you no further evidence against him?
Yes, he urged me very much to take them, and I thought he appeared very uneasy because I did not take them readily.
But you took them.
Yes, I took them, and passed them to his credit▪ but they are certainly counterfeits—I paid him some in hard cash for them.
Well, mind this, if you mean to get recom [...]ence, you must swear plump [...]y—perhaps the Justice won't li [...]t you much about your oath—and as you really believe that he did counterfeit the bills, you may swear plumply
SCENE II.—NONSUIT and MUSLIN.
WELL, Miss Muslin, I understand you have something against young Jamison he is an anointed rogue I know.
Yes, sir, he called upon me the other day with an order in his brother's name, saying, that his brother had given him power of attorney to draw in his absence —he got the goods; now since he is uneasy in his circumstances I felt concerned about it; and called upon him to show the evidence of his right, and his power to draw in his brother's name; he could not show any, and pretended he had lost the paper.
Aye he is rogue enough, but I shall catch him yet, lawyers are the only men for such matters. These facts you can attest to because you must be sworn to your deposition.
Aye, I know that, and I have asserted nothing but what I can prove—I observed him well he lookod concerned and uneasy, and he has for these many days: and I guess by that, he has some schemes on foot which are not right.
Do you know any thing about Jamison's wife.
Yes, they say she is confederate with him in all his villanies.
SCENE III.—NONSUIT and Mrs. JAMISON.
SO madam, how does Jamison do to day.
He is very well sir — but none the better for you.
None the better for me? but I intend he shall be— I intend to cure him of his vices, and then he will be a better man.
That he will be persecuted by you with all possible malice, I doubt not; but I believe he will triumph over you all finally.
Why do you think so?
Because I believe he is a very honest man, nay I know he is so.
But the proofs against him are very pointed—Certainly you cannot get over them.
It is possible to make truth appear what it is —but you will not be able to make it appear otherwise by all your craft.
If that be the, case what is all the artifice of our profession good for?
Good for nothing, I suppose—but when you deal honestly, you, like all other men, appear respectable— I hope you will lay that to heart.
SCENE II.—NONSUIT and Mc. MULLOCK.
AYE, Mc. Mullock, you are a principal witness against Jamison.
Yez zur, please your honor—I swore against him, may't please your honor with all ray might—I could not have swore stronger if I had been to die for't.
Now your oath may be depended on a [...] substantial evidence, because you was an eye-witness.
O yes, may it please your honor, I was an eye-witness—for our Nab saw it with her own eyes; and she told me first of all.
But that will weaken your testimony if you own that Nab saw it; and not yourself.
Aye but, Nab sir is my own flesh, and Nab's eyes are my eyes, may please your honor.
Aye but that won't do—you cannot swear to that which was seen by another person.
I know I can sir —I can swear to any thing I please — I'll lay a mug on't.
I mean you cannot with truth.
Aye that another matter — you did not say about my swearing to the truth—you only asked me if I could swear.
Well I've got your deposition—are you ready to swear to it, be it what it may?
O yes I could swear all day, if you will pay me [...]r't—But a man's a fool to swear without pay.
Be ready then when you're called.
SCENE V.—Mrs. ROBERTS and NONSUIT.
DO you mean to take Mc. Mullock's oath against my brother?
Yes, why not?
You know he cannot be depended on. He may be an honest man or may not be; but he is a stranger among us, and we know nothing of his character.
We don't know it is a bad one.
And we don't know it is a good one.
That's nothing; if no exception can be made against a witness, his testimony is good in law.
I know better—It is not in all cases; because when a man's character is unknown there can be no dependance on his veracity.
Do you think you know law better than I?
I know that is no law which is not agreeable to reason—and certainly it is not agreeable to reason to take the oath of a foreigner, an unknown person, against a citizen of known established good character.
These are fine times indeed; when women must meddle with laws.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—JUSTICE RIGHTWAYS, NONSUIT, JAMISON, READY-CASH, M [...]LIN and Mc. MULLOCK.
MR. Attorney—Where are the depositions which have been sworn to?
They are here, the very same, which your worship has perused so carefully, before you appeared to be satisfied with them.
Why yes—it appears to me that there is sufficient cause for committing him—What have you to say for yourself Jamison? Have you any objection to the sta [...]e of [...]e evidence?
Nothing sir, yet I know my own innocence—I have two good witnesses on my side—My own conscie [...]ce, and he who gave it me.
What signifies it for him to speak of his witnesses, his conscience, and all that, when the facts are so plain against him? I move for his commitment.
I think I have a right to expect he will be committed without delay for trial.
I cannot but expect [...] will be? for I am sure, if I lose my debt, he ought to be punished for it.
Aye indeed may it please your worship—if he be not trounced for't, the next time I go abroad, I shall not dare to stir a foot from home—I should expect he would rob me of my money if I had not a farthing in my pocket.
I beg your worship will let me have one hour's respite; perhaps some witness may arrive who may make my innocence appear.
Can you specify any one?
Indeed I cannot sir.
Then I do not se [...] any cause for delaying proce [...]dings—It may be a more fetch to gain time to effect a rescue—or something of that sort—Make out his mittimus Mr▪ Attorney and let the constable take him to prison.
I see nothing now but I must suffer. It will be the work of providence. [...]f I escape —for if I be committed —then there is no money nor power among my friends to procure one witness in my favor—yet I know myself innocent.
I wish you would make that fellow hold his tongue —I desire to know what all this is to the purpose.
Silence, Jamison, silence.
SCENE II.—Mrs. JAMISON.
PERMIT me Mr. Justice to intercede [...] my husban [...]—You must know that it must be a terrible event to my family; if he should be taken from it. What is more distressing than the state of a woman, left with a family of small children, without a protector? And what would add to my distress is that I have my husband's father, and mother, aged people to look after, who cannot help themselves. Tho I cannot at present give any particular reason, yet I beseech your worship to give my h [...]sband the respite of one half hour.
They give no reason, they mean to raise a mob and rescue him, or some way effect his escape.
I cannot think he ought to be respited.
I shall not consent to it, Mr. Justice—and if you respite him, I'll complain.
Order, I say, order—I hope you won't interfere in my department—I must say, notwithstanding there is no reason given for it specially, that the respite of half an hour ought to be granted—No one knows what may come of it—Perhaps some person in that time may appear in his favor—You ought to esteem yourselves happy to be born in a commonwealth, where the rights of citizens are held sacred; and where it is so difficult to restrain any one of his liberty. I grant the privilege to this man now. It is the privilege of you all▪ that your liberties are held thus sacred. You ought to love your country and laws, else you are the most ungrateful people in the world. On this principle, upon which our whole government rests — that the liberty of the citizen is sacred—I grant this prisoner another half hour for his defence.
SCENE III.—MISS CLARA, RIGHTWAYS, BETTY, and MUSLIN.
I COME, oh I am out of breath, oh my brother is nor committed.
What's your will miss?
Here sir, this I got sworn to before Justice Quicksight, and here's the girl who will attest it before you to the same purpose—She saw the instance in which it is said that Jamison was guilty of robbery—Was eye witness to the whole affair, it was mere accident that I found her— She mentioned something about a young man's being accused of robbery—I told her it was my brother—She then related the circumstances.
What do you say, Betty Laundress, I think your name is.
Why, I saw a man go up to Mr. Jamison, hold a pistol to his breast and demand his money—Mr. Jamison delivered, but the robber had only turned a corner not ten yards distance, before the robber's feet slipped, and I saw Mr. Jamison catch a pistol, which the robber dropped in his [Page 365] fall, and sprang on the robber, and redemanded the money and got it.
This you can swear to.
Yes, sir, I saw the whole.
What did you do with the money? just now you complained you had none.
I bought some medicines for my poor aged father who is very sick.
There for miss Muslin.
Betty, hold your tongue about me, or I never will employ you in my business again.
I shall not say any harm of you madam.
Say away Betty, you have as good a right to speak as any body.
I heard master Jamison had got into difficulty— thought it might do some good to give his sisters these papers, which I [...]nd in the pockets of one of his waistcoats, which he sent me to wash.
What are they?
Here sir is the power which my brother, who is gone to the West Indies, gave to him to transact any matter of trade for him and in his name, see.
Very good, this is very good, but as to the coinage, how will you clear yourself of that?
I know not yet, I know I am innocent.
SCENE IV.—Mrs. ROBERTS, RIGHTWAYS, CLARA, NONSUIT and JAMISON.
SIR let me speak a word with the justice.
Speak madam if you please.
There Squire Firm-trust, and my brother had been playing at whist and they changed accidentally two papers which had bank notes in them, and my brother took up a paper in which the notes were all counterfeit. The Squire has rode 150 miles in [...] days and half, in order to rectify the mistake—Here the true notes are for the banker.
What say you now, Mr. Nonsuit.
This comes of giving girls learning, they take the business of the law all out of our hands.
A great evil no doubt to defend the innocent; we have done nothing these three days but pick up evidence in favor of our brother.
Heaven bless you my good girls.
Now learn my friends to revere the ways of providence, which bring unexpected relief to oppressed innocence, by which honesty is safe, and render your fervent thanks for your constitution of government, which considers the liberty of a citizen as his most sacred treasure.
The Little Box. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN THREE ACTS.
MODERATION IS NECESSARY IN POLITICS— FOR JUSTICE WILL HAVE ITS PROPER TIME.
THERE is the assemblage of all the virtues in a true politician. He is impartial with regard to parties, and his connections with foreign powers— He respects religion and those who administer its ordinances—He is not moved by violent attachment or aversion to individuals—He treats none with contempt; for they who make no great show in the eyes of the public, may have strong connections with the essential interests of the State—He is not bigotted to his own opinions.—In one word, no man can be a thorough politician, but an able, and good man.
PERSONS.
- TIMOCLES—Grand Secretary of the State of Syracuse.
- HAMILCAR—his rival in party and politics.
- HIERO—an old politician, uncle to Timocles.
- A SENATOR—attached to Timocles.
- A PARASITE—one who affects the character.
- HIRAX—an augur and a priest.
- A LAWYER—wavering between the parties.
- SEBASTE—Mother to Timocles.
- GLYCERIE—Sister to Hamilcar.
- PHILESIA—espoused Mistress to Hamilcar.
THE LITTLE BOX.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—HAMILCAR and HIERO.
PARTY rage is indeed a dreadful passion.— My whole life has been devoted to the state. I have equally opposed the influence of Carthage, and Rome, and have met with no reward but persecution.
Timocles is against you, he represents you as a person endeavoring to overturn the state, and place yourself at the head of affairs.
What prete [...]t have they against me?
That you are a stranger.
So much is true, that when my infant mind first knew reflection; twas in the arms of a Carthaginian, who named me after his general; yet Syracuse, my native state, was always the object of my love.
I wish they who oppose you had half of your zeal for the public good.
Love for the state is certainly my ruling passion. I love money; but I have neglected my private fortune for the state. I have often wished to marry the delicious girl, who has honored me with her affections, but the business of the state has wholly engrossed my attention.
I observed you one day talking to yourself.
And listened like a rogue I suppose to hear what I said.
Yes, and I expected to have heard the name of the fair Philesia—but I heard you say, O Syracuse! charming Syracuse, my dear native city. Shall the Carthaginians insult over thee? Shall the Romans ru [...] thee with a rod of iron? No I will redeem thy prosperity with all that is dear to me, with the last drop of my blood.
Such are my constant thoughts, if I do not always [Page 370] thick publicly—use your influence my worthy friend to mitigate the public rage against me, and set mine actions in a proper light.
SCENE II.—TIMOCLES (entering) SENATOR and HIERO.
GUARD against traitors—every man in the interest of Carthage is a traitor. We had better fall into the hands of Rome.
I cannot understand your politics; if the state must be subject to foreign power, it is of little consequence into whose hands she falls.
So the government must never act with vigor. I should have had Hamilcar's head before this day, were it not that some are always pretending the benefits of moderation.
And what good from his death will accrue to the public.
It will be the means of saving the state. He is in the interest of the farmers, and favors the party of Carthage —he opposes the land tax and is for laying heavier duties on impor [...]ed goods.
He is a villain. He opposes the senate, and keeps up the low people.
He may be honest tho he differ from you.
I can never believe it. He opposes every measure to [...]avor the Romans, and would make us a colony of Carthage.
Would not your measures, for the same reason, make us a colony of Rome—I cannot see.
I can; you never fully considered the business; he shall be impeached, and his credit forever destroyed in this state.
The laboring people must never get head. It makes them so saucy—They are so uppish, that it is time they were taken down a little.
They would take you down, if they know what a speech you made against them.
Let them find it out if they can—If they do, a little electioneering honey will sweeten all again.
That is as I say.—Push the matter for the mercantile interest—Then see if our bunkers can raise themselves to the highest places in government.
Don't let that get abroad—
Come home with me and I will show you more of the villany of Hamilcar.
SCENE III.—TIMOCLES and PARASITE.
Illustrious Secretary; We hope that your health is as good, as your merits are great.
My merits are not of the size which your praises represent them to be—But I hope my actions have been of some use to the public.
Immense! prodigious! infinite! There is no calculating the benefits of your administration.
Why sir, I have been guilty of several errors in government.
Not one upon my honor—Those things which the public has charged on you as mistakes are the most glorious acts of your official ability.
There are many who complain of me.
Not a man of any consequence; you possess the hearts of all our people.
You flatter me, sir.
I flatter—Your actions are above flattery, your deeds are as great as your genius is sublime, and that we know is superior to any thing else, done by man. For since the days of Saturn, since the golden age▪ there has not been such an administration as yours.
I am happy if my conduct meets the public approbation—then if I push the affair against Hamilcar, I shall certainly succeed.
Blast him, a villain, if I do not think that so much praise deserved an invitation to dine. But one may go hungry forever, for any thing that is to be expected from his administration. I have a great mind to change sides, and see whether there be any thing to eat among those in the opposition.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—HIRAX and TIMOCLES.
MOST noble secretary, I wish your health forever and ever.
Let us hear the omens of our future prosperity; what are they?
I have attended to the office of augur to day with great care—I was never more desirous or more careful to know the will of the Gods.
What is it then, my reverend priest?
Every thing tells the coalition of parties and the safety of the state—not human craft but divine providence discovers itself—the merchants and ploughmen will soon agree, and there will be rejoicing thro all Sicily.
What are the signs of this.
I saw three hawks pass by a flock of doves in peace —trees were struck with lightning, then soft music was heard, and shepherds danced in the shade—the tygers and the lambs played together—gamecocks refused to fight and picked the grain together in peace—every thing portends peace and harmony.
Thou art a false prophet—you have been bribed by the Carthaginians—This is no time for coalition—it is time for every man to rise and crush opposition, and banish every moderate man from the state.
I a false prophet Timocles! was I false when I foretold that you would be a great man, and throw the state into parties? Nor am I a false prophet now—when I predict that your measures will turn to peace—you will be violent, cruel and revengeful—but the more violent the sooner your influence ends, and the state is in peace.
No man can conduct the measures of government properly, when priests meddle with every thing—I wish there were a particular law to punish every meddler of the sacred order.
When you set new measures on foot, you ask our prayers for success—that makes us of your party; and if we pray and preach as you would have us; all is right— but if we differ from you then we are knaves, and ought to be hanged—But as priests are so dependent, if they be dishonest it is because the people love to have it so, for the maxim is true, like people, like priest.
Let us hear no more of your false prophecies, but go home, parson, and kiss your wife, and mind your domestic pleasures. If I find you meddling with politics again I will commit you to jail.
Do what you will, the counsel of the Gods will [Page 373] take place—The events predicted will come, and the more violent you are, the sooner you will bring them about.
SCENE II.—The PARASITE and TIMOCLES.
NOW let my heart be joyful, my stomach exult, my palate be delighted; and my appetite rejoice. Never I believe did there exist a man who took more pleasure in eating and drinking, than myself. And here in this Little Box
is the resource of eating forever—Never more shall this body, mine own dear, dear flesh, know the torture of emptiness, and famine. Never shall these dainty ribs know the judgment of leanness. This Box supplies me with good eating forever. The present administration is a dry, lean, administration—I gave the prime minister to day a bushel of praise, but he never gave me a mouthful of dinner. His party must soon fall. A starving government never prospers—But this Box—O! this Box, this lovely, sweet Box,
this is my farm, my plantation, my trade, my shop, my magazine of riches. Never was man more lucky than I, to find this Box. It will afford me the means of eating forever and ever—This day destruction falls on all sorts of provisions. Wo to spare-ribs and hams of bacon. Wo to roast pullets, sirloins of beef, and mince-pies. Wo to gravy sauces, pickles and mangoes. Wo to vegitables, and eatables of all kinds.—Hoh!
What, wretch, is this thy tone? This morning the government was perfectly sublime, now it starves its citizens. Would it could starve you and all your race to death. Know, if I hear again of your railing against the government, I will put you in prison, and you shall be hanged.
SCENE III.—HIERO and PARASITE.
THAT Blunderbuss is gone. He took fire at what I said and in the spirit of true party rage threatened all the opposition. But this Box he searc [...]es not—nor dreams that it contains his [...]te.
Let me see it.
Astonishing! Let no man know this mystery till you hear from me—Good heaven! the fate of Sicily is certainly contained in this Little Box.
But must I starve, who bear on my shoulders the fate of the whole nation? I have thro the whole city, done errands for some, flattered others, threatend more, for a man is apt to be cross when he is hungry; and have not broke bread these fifteen hours. I shall be tired of carrying the weight of the whole [...]ation, if I be kept so short.
Well sir, come with me—as far as food will go, I will support the main pillar of the Commonwealth.
Say what they will, the weight of the public lies on my shoulders.
There let it rest for the present, but we shall soon find means to take it off—Now let me lead you to my pantry, and leave you there; and let all kinds of provision surrender to you at discretion.
Illustrious hero! Glorious patriot, I revere thy virtues—I will always be of this party in the time to come; for the other is a dry faction, and must finally starve its supporters.
Live here at large—But excuse me after leading you in—while I receive other compny.
SCENE IV.—HIRAX and HIERO.
MY worthy friend, what think you of the present administration?
I dare not speak sir, and scarcely dare to think.
That is giving a character of them very pointed— Now I think Timocles honest, but at the same time a very infatuated man.
I perceive it, and know that he may be very much mortified—But have you consulted the Omens?
I have with great care.
What do they portend?
Peace and harmony to the whole nation. I to [...]d Timocles of it to day but he was angry and threatens to imprison me, and hang me.
Under what pretence?
That one of the religious profession must not med [...]le with politics.
A religious officer is a citizen—and is never blamed if he favor the right party—But they whom priests oppose always dislike it; because the religious profession carries weight with it.
In a time of peace, and in a government established by the clearest law—can it do good to carry matters with such violence?
It cannot—it is like overcharging the Balista—It hurts the army that uses it, more than the enemy.
And what do you suppose is the point of prudence for one of the religious profession in state [...]matters?
Why if he thinks it will do good, let him declare his opinion honestly—if he thinks it will not, let him keep the matter to himself.
If any enquire of him the will of the Gods, what must he do?
Tell it exactly according to the best of his discernment, whether they like it or not; for a priest loses all his importance when he becomes a nose of wax for every man to stretch or shorten at his pleasure.
Happily you agree with me I must go to the augury again, and, depend on it, I shall declare my real sentiments.
SCENE V.—TIMOCLES (entering) and HIERO.
NOW I shall be decisi [...]e▪ You will not interfere.
I shall make no promises.
Hamilcar is coming to trial—he is impeached—his trial is voted—the Archon approves it.
You do as you please, but I dislike your measures.
Bold enough in fact.
Bold and just. Nothing is more improper for a minister of state than such fiery proceedings. Politics should have no passions, but be conducted with a simple view to the public good.
A citizen should love the state warmly.
Warmly as you please, but with discretion: he loves not the state who destroys one half of its people— Hamilcar opposes you, and defends the farmers—are we not all one nation? What benefit is there to show malice, or favor, either to Carthage, or Rome? A nation should stand on the broad basis of its own independence, and virtue.
Hamilcar if he be let alone will destroy the state.
That is, he opposes you—who will speak the things best in the world, if for speaking, he must lose his head? Men should say and do what they please within the law; without this there is no liberty.
He is attached to Carthage.
I doubt it. But if he be, you are as much attached to Rome.
I am determined to humble the landed interest, and get the law passed to tax corn two sesterces on a bushel enacted—you had better be quiet, I shall spare none who oppose me.
Then your reign is short I promise you.
SCENE VI. — HIERO and PARASITE.
Well I begin to be confirmed in my principles of government. I have been for the mercantile interest while they gave me good dinners; but now they give me none.
You seem to have found quite a deliberate reason for deserting them.
Yes, I think for the future I shall be firmly attached to the interest of the farmers; they raise the grain; there is provision made for bread, pudding and pye-crust; they raise the grass and from grass comes milk, of which we make syllabubs, whipt creams, and custards—beef also is the produce of the farm—I determine from this time to attach myself to the interest of the farmers. And why cannot I do some thing for the public?—the public say I'm lazy. But I can carry news from place to place, and tell all the stories of the day; and when the candidates kiss the freeholders wives with pieces of gold in their mouths I can make as good a story of it as any man. But my little box, my precious treasure. What future feasts am I to derive from this little box.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—SEB [...]STE and TIMOCLES.
MY son, I must, from the tenderness of a mother's heart, say something concerning your conduct.
Women are naturally so timid that they are poor counsellors in political affairs.
If I know politics less I have more experience of human life, and manners, than you. I have seen the fall of seven ministers of state, and I have ever observed it to be in consequence of heat, and violence in their measures.
They were unskilful as well as violent.
A ship is never safe with a mad pilot—I speak in the bitterness of a mother's heart, I pretend not to dictate measures; but entreat you to consider whether you be right—Your ruin, my son, is at hand; for heaven's sake desist—I am overwhelmed with grief.
In other matters I could respect you; but here—
I meddle not with state affairs—But I have seen so many men ruin themselves by viole [...]t measures that I tremble every moment.
Leave all those matters to me; I shall manage them successfully.
SCENE II.—TIMOCLES and PARASITE.
I HEAR you have told, thro the city, that you have power to bring me down when ever you please.
If I have said so it is no more than the truth.
And that I am a niggard, and tho you treated me very politely, that I had not the complaisance to invite you to dinner.
If I said that too, I said no more than the truth.
If you said that you are yet not worthy my notice. Where is the wonderful Box which contains the fa [...]e of Sicily
I have a Box which contains the fate of Sicily— Look here, and judge for you [...]se [...]f
A fig! It is nothing but your box of tooth powder, what a miracle! well I suppose I understand you now— you say the fate of Sicily depends on this box. If your teeth be kept clean you will devour all the provisions of the whole island—if they fail the island may yet be supplied.
Were it not that I despise you; and think it a disgrace to have any competition with you; I would make you smart for this, you dotard.
Take that and begone.
SCENE III.—HAMILCAR, TIMOCLES, SENATOR, LAWYER, and HIERO.
YOU see me now condemned to death, on the impeachment of Timocles—the witnesses, lawyers, judges, were all his creatures. Never was a more dangerous precedent. Yet I chuse to die, that all the citizens may see, what a despotic secretary can do with the most innocent man.
There are certain cases not designed in the ordinary courts; and must consequently be managed by the prime minister of the time. But I could wish the mode of these trials were altered, that they might at least have the appearance of equity—For next to the substance of justice, the appearance is of importance.
I have fought ten times with the Romans in pitched battles; and twenty times with the Carthaginians. My main principle of politics has been to equalize the taxes among the citizens. Party zeal now disposes of my life, and the same fate avails you all, should the current of party turn against you—all depends on Timocles.
I could not prevent it—a defence would have been followed by an impeachment. But it is no uncommon thing for a criminal, to complain of his accusers.
Delay not, Timocles, as it belongs to you to read his sentence and order his execution. Delays may give room to excite the compassion of the people.
See a grave Senator thirsting for my blood, because Timocles will have it shed. I only wish that I had died before I saw any thing so shameful, and could have departed with some pride on account of my nation.
My friend Hamilcar is condemned on a trial, short, violent, partial, and unjust. Let me but know the articles of impeachment.
1. Being a foreigner he assumed an office. 2. He was under the influence of Carthage. 3. Was the author of a law to promote confusion.
I can prove all those articles false.
SCENE III.—PHILESIA is introduced suddenly, and breaks off the dialogue—She curtifies to the floor to Timocles.
ILLUSTRIOUS Secretary, let the prayers of innocence and truth prevail—Spare a man who possesses a mind rich with all that is honorable, and just.
Justice must prevail, justice rules all.
At least indulge to hearts, which have ever cherished virtue, more than life, the sad consolation, of mingling the tears of their last adieus—Let Hamilcar with one keeper only withdraw a moment with me,
There must not be any delay to the course of justice.
Excellent woman—beseech him not, he has a heart insensible to pity—I d [...]e with honor, I mean in heart and principle—we shall meet in the Elysian fields, and be assured nothing but Elysium itself could compensate the want of your society—adieu Philesia, took for a better husband than I could be—aad may the gods make you happy.
I say I can prove every one of these articles to be false, and would have done it before the court if you had given opportunity—did he make a law to promote confusion? It was only to equalize the taxes between the merchants and the plowmen. May not any man originate a law in an orderly way? You say he is under the influence of Carthage—it was but three days ago that he gave the money he had prepared for his own wedding, in bounties to soldiers to fight against Carthage—truly it is capital for a foreigner to assume an offi [...]e; but Hamilcar is not a foreigner.
I say he is a foreigner▪ and shall be executed immediately.
The court finding Hamilcar gu [...]y—
Monster of cruelty desist; it is not enough that every thing is subject to thy power, must thy malice be satiated with the blood of innocence? He is no more a foreigner than thyself.
Guards seize this woman, and keep her at a distance.
My brother is innocent, you won't let me tell how.
Silence woman, or I shall order you to prison immediately.
Cease my dear sister, it will be of no avail—let him execute his bloody work—be virtuous, my dear sister, & we shall meet in Elysium.
The court finding Hamilcar guilty of the crimes recorded against him in this proceedings of this court, do order the execution of the said Hamilcar, to be first scourged with rods without the walls of the city—and then be suspended on the cross—Go, officers, see this executed immediately.
S [...]ay rash man!
Proceed guards, and do your duty.
Rash man! he is your brother.
You lie.
I'll prove it on my life.
Guards, halt, reconduct the prisoner.
Listen noble secretary to reason—have a little patience. Parasite where is your box?
This little box, O my sweet box, many good dinners I shall have by means of this box.
Hush your nonsense and open the box.
Take it, and open it yourself.
Here, according to the custom of this city, on the birth of a pair of twins a plate of brass was engraven with their names, and put into a little box, and given to the nurse in record of their birth▪
see here, the figure of two i [...] f [...] and [...]e [...]r little hands cle [...]ched together, [...] their names below "Timocles▪ and Erastus" The nurs [...] Athea had this, when the city was t [...]k [...]n by the Carthaginians, 35 year [...] [...], and it was kept by her.
I was then a prisoner, and the on [...]y Syra [...]usian [Page 381] she knew in her captivity—I saw her, when she was dying, and she gave the box to me, and it has bro't me several good dinners, and so—
How do you know Erastus and Hamilcar to be the same?
When the nurse Althea expected to die; she procured another little plate to be engraved showing the time when the Carthagenian who took him, charged his name to Hamilcar calling him after the name of his general —bu [...] how he came here, I know not.
I made my escape when the fleet lay at Agrigentum. I swam in the night to the rock Lebeta, and was received by a shepherd▪ who afterwards conducted me to this place—I was so well treated by the shepherd, and farmers, that I have loved them ever since.
Do you Parasite remember the birth of the twins; my mother always told me I was a twin; and that my mate was carried off by the Carthaginians? I am full of astonishment—I am petrifyed with surprize. I s [...]y do you remember the birth of the twins, and the giving of the box?
I remember it well —my brother was as grand as Hercules, to think that he had a pair of such fine boys. He made a great sacrifice to the household gods, and a great feast—I remember it—the mince pies were admirable; the sausages were delicious, and as for the gravy sauce that did beat all.
Infamous Parasite—it is all a cheat, and a lie— you only mean to impose on my influence.
No, this Parasite, is Parasite no more—he is your uncle; I, your father, and he, were brothers of the s [...]me father and mother—he is your uncle, and a sensible man; he lived at Athens and coming home was afraid of being too well known, as his principles were so opposi [...]e to yours, therefore assumed the ridiculous character of a Parasite—we all know what he has said to be true. And here I present you with a sister, your own sister Glycerie.
I yield—I have been wrong, what wonders there are in divine providence—I foresee what the good priest told me of. Coalition of parties, and the tranquility of the state. What will be the joy of my mother to discover her children, to see my sister and both her twin boys. [Page 382] How will she weep for joy, over her long lost children; and to see my brothe [...] married to his dear Philesi [...]. My first work shall be to redress the wrongs of all. But let me now, my dear brother, unburden my heart, and present you to my mother.
The Inquisitor. A TRAGI-COMIC DIALOGUE, IN FIVE ACTS.
HONESTY WITHOUT LEARNING, IS BETTER THAN LEARNING WITHOUT HONESTY.
THO every rational man must discern the value of learning—when rightly used; yet if a man abuses his learning to the injury of his fellow men—he degrades himself below the most illiterate person in the world—The greatest simplicity of ideas, united with common sense, and fidelity in business, may make useful men—The Popes, and Inquisitors, tho ornamented with the highest polish of learning, excite our odium▪ while a simple▪ honest, farmer, mechanic, or sailor—may even be an agreeable companion, and useful friend.
PERSONS.
- CARDINAL BOUHOURS—grand Inquisitor at Lisbon.
- PHERON—prince of Abyssinia—prisoner in the Inquisition.
- FATHER JOSEPH—a friar.
- MR. MONROE—the English resident.
- LT. BOWLING—a sailor, prisoner in the Inquisition, remarkable for his honesty.
- A GRENADIER—a patrole soldier of the Inquisition.
- PHYSICIAN—to the Inquisition.
- ILISSA—daughter of the prince of Abyssinia.
- MENDOZA—sister of the Inquisitor.
- MRS. MONROE—wife of the English resident.
- MISS MONROE—daughter of the English resident.
SCENE—An apartment in the prison of the Inquisition.
THE INQUISITOR.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—INQUISITOR and MONROE.
I AM much obliged to you for this honor.
I should not have troubled your eminence this evening, after the fatiguing day you have had, were it not on business of importance.
The commands of the English shall always meet with ready attention—They are powerful by sea; and our nation needs their assistance.
The court of London enquires after the prince of Abyssinia—It is said that he is sent to the Inquisition.
The Prince of Abyssinia!
The Prince of Abyssinia—a territory twenty times as large as Portugal, is now confined here.
Let that remain a secret, or the demand for his ransom will be enormous—I tho't him a person of rank, but had no idea of his being a prince.
Let him be treated honorably for England's sake, and the court will reward you.
SCENE II.—INQUISITOR, alone.
WHAT evil genius directed me to the office of Inquisitor to reign in this court of infernal torments? Me, whom nature formed of the softest mould, and poured the milk of humanity, and the honey of kindness, into all my veins. How happy was I when in my little retired village—I exhorted the old men to contentment▪ and the young men to matrimony, and felt the consciousness of doing good—The church to reward my services, has made me wretched— Detestable preferments, by which I ratify acts which my soul abhors, and reign like satan supreme in the [...]egions [Page 386] of misery.
But why do I not fly from this detested place? Alas the charming Ilissa; can any thing be more charming? Hardly can the purest saints in heaven exceed her in beauty; or in dignity of manners—I must remain in horrid office till she can escape with me—O love! immortal songs have already celebrated thy power, tho ever hast blessed heaven, and hast conquered hell—But this is thy last effort to penetrate the gloom of the inquisition—I live only to admire and hope for Ilissa.
SCENE III.—INQUISITOR and FATHER JOSEPH.
I ASK pardon of your eminence—I hope I did not interrupt your devotions.
I had done sir before you came in.
How go the affairs of the faith—were the prisoners condemned as usual?
Yes. The Consistory ordered punishment as follows— Four renegado Moors were sent to the gallies, two Jews to the mines, the English sailor remanded to prison—who has been chastized for speaking disrespectfully of St. Dominic.
And what became of that genteel looking man, and his daughter? The daughter sir is innocence itself.
She certainly is, and the father has so much condescension and docility about him; that we cannot find the shadow of a charge against him.
Then he was dismissed, I suppose.
No, it was ordered that he should be retained in prison; and his daughter kept at the Inquisitor's house— and that they should not be treated with any great degree of severity.
That daughter of his is a delicate little piece.
Fye, I wonder Father Joseph, you will let your fancy run upon such subjects—you should not let vain tho'ts lodge in your mind—I expect soon that you will quarrel with your vow of celibacy.
I should now if I dared— But I am all submission to the church—Yet I do not see why people should take vows contrary to the order of universal nature.
Silence, Father Joseph, or you will be called to an account—Let us go and see what other business must be attended to this night.
ACT II.
SCENE I.— (The curtain draws and discovers Pheron on a little bed—Ilissa sitting by the bed and raising his head on a pillow with her arm.) ILISSA and PHERON.
MERCY ye kind heavens! grant mercy to poor beings miserable beyond expression—Let not my good [...]re lose his reason—sir, my dear sir, speak, my dear papa, speak to me, do you know me?
Know you; yes. You are one of the spirits of the just made perfect—you are in a state of complete happiness.
Alas! I fear his reason is gone forever—and what will become of me—My dear, most dear father, my life my happiness, pray, dear sir, wake up. Do you know yourself, who are you?
A poor creature; but honest—The devil and the Inquisitor. O, I had a dreadful struggle, tried above an hour to tie me on a wheel of fire that keeps rolling, and rolling to all eternity—But a sweet little angel came and took me away and laid me in her lap.
Merciful heavens restore him, or let me die with him.
O dear sir, I am extremely glad to see you,
SCENE II.—The DOCTOR and ILISSA.
And how, my sweet lady, does your father now?
O sir, I cannot tell; he seems to be disordered in his mind.
Why, truly, madam, his fever is not very high—his disorder arises from fatigue and anxiety of mind. I have given him about 30 drops of Laudanum; and that makes him sleepy. He will wake soon; and may be a little wild at first; but he will soon recover.
He will wake soon! The idea makes my heart spring with joy—Yet to what can he awake but to new scenes of miseries.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—PHERON and BOWLING.
HOW wide from their principles are many who are called Christians! their religion breathes pure benevolence; and yet they persecute each other—why am I in prison? and in danger of severe sufferings—see, here—
"whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer—we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren. Whoso shutteth the bowels of compassion from his brother in need, how dwelleth the love of God in him—my dear children, let us not love, only in word and tongue; but in deed and in truth."
That's good doctrine, as true as my christian name—what book is that?
The Epistles of John—it contains many beautiful sentiments.
What you read, is right up, and right down good — had some folks minded that, I should not have been confined here; nor would they have given me such an infernal toasting.
Then you have studied the maxims of religion.
Not much master, I have been rather too busy for that.
You took so much notice of what I read; that made me ask.
Yes, my father, who was as good a sailor as ever s [...]epped between stem and stern, taught me and my brothers religon.
I should be glad to hear a sailor's theory of religion.
This my father used to tell us always, and he told us it on his dying day—My boys, perform your duties well in this life, and in the next life you'll be promoted, and put into a good mess.
Did that have any great effect upon you?
I never have forgot it; and I dare say I never shall.
Why did it make so strong an impression?
'Twas my own father sir, and would he deceive his sons, as he was just going out of the world?
And did it have as great effect on your brothers?
There were four of us, you see, the four Bowlings, the youngest is now thirty one years old—and not one of them has been bro't before the mast yet.
It is a short and simple religion—and does it keep you from evil in general?
Why sir, I do my duty—swear but little—and the bad girls, I never see them at all.
And do you forsake the women altogether?
O no master—there's black Moll of Wapping that I love as I do my eyes—Her skin is not so white nor so smooth as some, but she is a fine vessel for all that—she's good spunk—I pledge you that master.
If she be fond of you, I hope she does not know, that you are here.
I hope she does not, poor Moll, 'twould break her heart if she did—I was to have gone home at Christmas, and the parson was to have given us the grand reef that would have made us man and wife, you see.
O master Bowling that goes near your heart— come take a glass of my wine—and here's a [...] health to black Moll, hoping you will get the grand reef yet.
O master,
your honor I know is good—When I think of poor Moll, I have a great stomach to cry—but I keep it down—It shall never be said that Tom Bowling cried for a girl—tho I have a stomach for it, and hardly can keep it down.
With such an honest and humane heart, who put you here, Mr. Bowling?
The people of this place—because when they praised St. Dominic—I was mad, and tho I do not swear often, I swore them and damned his Saint off the reel—for I hate cruelty—then they sent me here, and gave me an infernal toasting, such, as when pay-day comes, they will have to take themselves.
We often bring ourselves into difficulty by too free [Page 390] use of our tongues—but we will say no more of that, we are companions in affliction. Let us be friends Mr. Bowling; and we may be of use to each other to get out of this place.
I hope to see that day—If I can get aboard my frigate again—I will bring her up the Quay, so as to bear on this place, then I'll pour in my broadside upon them, and dash them all to dust—Then, I'll tell them that's Tom Bowling, and get away as fast as I can.
SCENE II.—PHERON and MONROE.
SIR, whoever you are, you come to visit me in a horrid place.
I bear with me the commands and respect of the English nation.
Of what extent they may be to me is unknown.
I can do all the English nation can do—without interfering in the government of Portugal—and I have a personal curiosity to know why you are here.
Religion is assigned as the cause, but how I have offended them, I cannot tell.
It is presumed that you are the prince and apparent heir of the whole empire of Abyssinia.
That is the precise tru [...]h. The Abyssinians are a most inoffensive people—They are Christians, on the instruction, and principles, of the apostle John.
Your religion is then, very simple and benevolent.
Certainly, and our clergy the most prudent in the world—They hate sects and parties; and that they may better agree—they reduce all religion to two principles— Belief in the mercy of God, thro Christ, for the remission of sins—and the sincere pactice of duty—These two principles make all their system.
I admire their prudence—The way to agree in a system, is, to simplify it as much as may be. But how did a perso [...] of your rank become a traveller?
I lost my beautiful princess, and melancholy possessed my mind—I tho't to relieve it by travelling—My daughter, my only child▪ refused to be left alone; so she became the companion of my journies.
It was like travelling w [...]h a guardian angel—No [Page 391] foreign princess was ever admired, in England, so much as Ilissa.
She is all I can in fondness wish. She determines to live, and die with me.
They have not then determined with respect to you.
They have not, and very little do I care for myself—Unhappy victims are daily committed to the flames— I tremble for my dear Ilissa—I am a sovereign prince— yet for her sake supplicate a stranger—If you can procure our liberty—when I return to my domain you shall be imperially rewarded.
Nor means nor time, shall be lost in helping you— The whole force of a powerful nation is at your service.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—ILISSA (entering) and PHERON.
ARE you better sir? Since I went out have you received a visit from the English resident?
Yes, I have; and I feel my mind perfectly composed.
Thanks to divine goodness for such a blessing: you owe much to the skill of the Doctor.
I owe more to you my dear girl—Your attention has done me more good than medicine.
I am amply rewarded if I can contribute to the happiness of a father, who has been always kind as an angel to me.
Your goodness inspires me with hope. Surely heaven will not suffer such virtue as thine, to perish in this accursed place.
SCENE II.—INQUISITOR, (entering in the dress of a layman) PHERON and ILISSA.
YOU may wonder that I visit you here.
I beseech your eminence to tell me why I am confined.
I know as little of particulars as you; but you may have expressed some disrespect of our religion.
I have kept myself from offence and ever will— But why should the harmless Ilissa be deprived of liberty, and live in fear of the severest tortures? Can she deserve any thing like this?
O Illissa, she deserves the esteem of all human kind. Never was there a more amiable woman.
Why then must she suffer: instruct me wherein I have offended; and I will make the most ample amends.
Envy at your appearance, illustrious prince, or some slight suspicion, may have been the reason of your being taken up—some pretence will be shown—but I believe you and your daughter to be wholly innocent.
Protect then, by all motives of benevolence, the oppressed innocence of my daughter.
Sir I will unfold to you the strangest affair that has happened since the creation—love has penetrated the dungeons of the inquisition—the charms of Ilissa, are the guiding star, which must lead us to liberty.
I cannot comprehend you, you would add insult to suffering, and set the honor of my daughter, as the price of liberty.
I blame not your apprehensions—but in me your will find as true, and tender a lover, as ever was described in Romance. Nothing is more intense, more elevated, or more pure than my passion for Ilissa.
Does not your oath of celibacy bar every sentiment of honor?
I will renounce the vow, which infringes the order of providence—the sin of making, not of breaking it, is what I fear.
Will not he who breaks one oath break another? My daughter and I, shall both prefer death to dishonor.
There will be no dishonor in the case, I'll turn my estate into money—hire an English vessel, embark with you and go where you please.
The plausibility of your proposal interests my confidence—but why can you not discharge me whenever you please?
You know not the nature of despotism. One tyrant must submit to the tyranny of many others—should the [Page 393] least lisp of what we are doing transpire we are in the flames in less than three days—But this I will do; I will deliver you and then I shall claim Ilissa—by your leave.
Your proposals are obliging, but I am in your power, you can deceive and ruin me.
Sire, excuse my speaking—do any thing that promises you liberty, I shall secure myself from dishonor—permit me to call Donna Mendoza, the Inquisitor's sister.
Call her if you please.
There is great danger that we be betrayed. Who is here? O, the English sailor—what a task to me to pronounce sentence on him. This enterprize is so dangerous that we every moment tread on the brink of our graves— can this fellow be trusted?
Yes, he must partake our deliverance.
Let me withdraw then, to ripen our plan, and see if there be no spies about.
SCENE III.—MENDOZA, (entering) ILISSA and PHERON.
YES, my dear Iliss [...], I love to speak in presence of your venerable father—you may trust my brother— let me be partaker of your fortune.
I will do any righteous thing for the safety of my venerable father—but if your brother be honest, how came he to accept this odious office?
He could not [...]line it—the court is odious even to catholics; but none dares speak one word against it.
Did he never [...]ike it?
He never did—he considered his advancement, as his greatest misfortune.
Custom may have reconciled him to cruelty.
No, since he saw you he has been more averse than ever—since that time he cannot bear severity—your very temper is infused into his heart.
That is very curious.
Yet true, and why should it not be, since love, real and pure, is nothing but benevolence itself?
There is no person in whom I so readily place confidence, as a virtuous, well bred women—Do you Donna Mendoza verily believe your brother to be kindly affected towards my daughter?
Never, I believe, was a man more sincerely in [Page 394] love—she engrosses his whole mind and heart—he scarcely eats, or sleeps at all, and thinks and talks almost wholly of her.
I conjure you Donna Mendoza, by all the rights of a woman, as you are a woman yourself, that you do not deceive me.
My brother will give you the surest grounds of confidence—and I risk my life with you.
I place confidence in you—a woman must know the miseries of our sex, when they are deserted in a state of infamy.
Of them, I am sensible, and I detest the Inquisition from my heart.
I have in all my travels observed that women almost universally hate cruelty, and she must detest perfidy as it strikes against the dearest interests of her sex.
My friend, the daughter of the English resident, will further inform you.
SCENE IV.—Miss MONROE, (entering) ILISSA and PHERON.
MY worthy father has great designs for you, and I am to tell you in his name.
I faint with expectation. It is like a trial of one's salvation.
You must all be very still, make no noise to be heard abroad, and must tell it to none, but the prince, Mr. Bowling, Donna Mendoza, and the Inquisitor.
We have the utmost interest to observe your commands.
You must not name the Resident; he has trusted a soldier with a pass from the patrole, to bring some passengers on board a frigate—when that soldier comes, with a white handkerchief, loose round his neck— follow him, immediately, with the utmost silence wherever he leads you.
We will carefully observe your instructions.
You must; for the slightest error involves not only you all, but my father, and his family in ruin.
We have suffered enough to make us careful; but what a dreadful interval this must be, between love and fear.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—INQUISITOR, BOWLING and PHERON.
HALLO! friend, wake up; I want to speak with you.
Avast hauling there, what mean you ragamuffins, are you come to give me another infernal toasting? Zounds, if my hands were out of the bilboes, I would send you away with a salt eel for your supper.
No Mr. Bowling, we are friends. We are come to set you at liberty.
None of your tricks upon old travellers, we are far enough from that course—but you may talk to me gentlemen, if you will be civil.
We come to bring you the happiest news in the world.
What? shall I see Moll again! her skin is a little black but her heart is honest and she speaks what she thinks, just like Tom Bowling.
Here Marshal knock off his fetters.
Now Mr. Bowling you are your own man again.
Well gentlemen, all this is very civil. But is it true; or am I only dreaming? Am I here, gentlemen, and you there— sartin?
Certain as life, come give us your hand.
Take a glass of my wine, you'll find all true, and that you are now at liberty.
Set at liberty, that's good—fact 'tis true, I am at liberty—
Now I feel grandly; it is almost as good as to eat warm flip and biscuit, along side of black Moll.
Mr. Bowling do you think you can command a ship?
Command a ship. You had better ask whether a fish can swim—I, my father, grand father, and great [Page 396] grandfather, to a thousand generations, could command a ship—but is that fellow to go with us?
Yes.
Then I think I won't go unless he'll leave his Toasters behind—what say you messmate?
Mr. Bowling I am very sorry for all injuries which I was compelled to do to you, and many others—and I most frankly ask pardon.
Granted with all my heart, Tom Bowling is none of your stuffy fellows, to hold spite forever.
But can you give us any proof that you can manage the affairs of a ship.
Look, here is the account of our last voyage—The captain was out of trim and obliged, to haul up at Greenwich—so I commanded—What think you of the account of expenses?
There is one charge against you which strikes my mind, for presents to Black Moll. Did you give credit for all the presents you sent to your mistress?
Yes, to half a yard of blue taste—here's all to a farthing, clean as a new cable.
Surprizing! I thank heaven, there is a little honesty remaining among men.
Among the honest Tars, there is a little honesty yet, a little.
Well sir here's a suit of naval uniform: we have engaged a frigate of 36 guns—your commission will be ready in a few minutes.
You must land us at the port of Alexandria in Egypt, from whence I shall proceed up the Nile to my own dominions.
Well, are you willing, if I set you at liberty that Ilissa should listen to my proposals?
I leave her to herself—She is grateful as I am myself—and your person and accomplishments are very engaging, not to flatter a word—
—Upon your courage and honesty now, our success depends.
As to my courage—Tom Bowling with a 36 gun frigate, will never turn tail to any thing that swims the sea —And for honesty, Tom Bowling makes conscience of that —It's my religion.
I tho't sailors never troubled themselves about relig [...]
Not understand religion? 'Twas taught in England, not roasted into me as you do here. Do you think that I don't know; that when the grand voyage is over, and the universe is hauled up to refit; that they who have done their duties in this world, will be promoted, and sit in the grand cabin—the rogues will be put down into the sink? There's for you.
Indeed, Cardinal, tho I respect learning very much, I find very little is necessary to make an honest man.
Or a religious man either—witness Capt. Bowling — The most useful truths are always the most simple.
SCENE II.—MENDOZA, ILISSA, PHERON, BOWLING and INQUISITOR.
MERCY of heaven save us—the city is all in an uproar, and the patroles are moving towards the inquisition.
Heaven forbid it—but I fear the worst.
Cruel and unhappy reverse— Now shall we be more miserable than ever—'Tis my comfort I have not deserved it—O my poor Ilissa!
I was always afraid of some trick. There is no trusting these bougers that roast people for religion.
Stand still here, and be as mute as the dead, every one of you—Conceal your lights if you can—I will go and enquire into this business, and be back in three minutes.
This is worse than not to have expected liberty.
Cruel and unhappy reverse.
Whist, gentlemen and ladies—Do you not know that we must not say a word?
SCENE III.— INQUISITOR and Mrs. MONROE. (entering.)
IT is, my friends, wholly a false alarm. The patroles were only in pursuit of a gang of thieves. I have the command of all the guards about the I [...]qu [...]sition, and have ordered them not to stir—As a tok [...]n of our good success, I present you with Madam, the wife of the English Resident.
The dispatches were so important, that Mr. Monroe would trust them to no one but me. They are as follow—1st. This contains the value of the frigate, and the expense of fitting her out—2d. Here are instructions to Capt. Bowling to navigate the ship, and land the passengers at Alexandria in Egypt.—3d. Here's a commission for Capt. Bowling. You must not open the papers till you are on board the frigate—and when the messenger comes, walk in the utmost silence and order to the quay. I must withdraw immediately, lest I be seen here, and it cause suspicion.
Now as soon as we get on board, only let me have a dash at this infernal place. I'll only throw in about 20 or 30 good thirteen inch bombs, and they'll cut capers in the air.
No honest captain, let us forgive our enemies—I have found the benefit of mild and soft manners even in this place. And in truth, it is to the sweet temper of Ilissa, that we owe our present liberty.
That is a certain truth. The first charm that drew my attention to her was, that no injuries could ever make her fret. Her soul is too noble to harbor malice, or even anger—and this mildness I found to be owing to the most sublime sentiments of religion—she showed what it was to be a christian.
SCENE IV.—A Grenadier enters with a white handkerchief about his neck— THE WHOLE PARTY.
NOW, ladies and gentlemen, my orders are to tell you that your deliverance is certain, and that when you are in the street, you must not say a word, but follow in silence and order to the quay.
O my papa, what joy I feel—and yet I hardly dare to breathe.
Now my friends. I taste of [...]rue joy— Benevolence has converted me to truth— I pray God to pardon the sins of my official conduct; and do you all pray for my forgiveness. I feel the joy of liberty▪ and the joy of doing good; and I can only be happier when I ob [...]ain the charming Ilissa; and when her sweet and gentle virtues shall conduct me to heaven.
The Death of Socrates. A DIALOGUE, IN A SUIT OF SCENES.
THE GRANDEUR OF MAN DEPENDS ON HIS RELATION TO GOD.
‘THE principle of regard to the Deity, [...]n the heart of man, resembles the first moving power in the universe—Were that power to be deranged, the whole system would fall into trouble and confusion —So if you remove a regard to the will of the Supreme, from the hearts of men, there will be no consistency, or propriety of conduct, in individuals, or societies.’
PERSONS.
- SOCRATES—a celebrated Philosopher of Athens, and instructor of a School.
-
—Scholars of Socrates.
- ALCIBIADES,
- PHOCION,
- PHILEMON,
- XENOPHON,
- DIONYSIUS—a Judge of the Areopagus, dissenting from the rest.
- MARSHAL—of the Ar [...]pagus.
- MESSENGER—from Xantippe to Socrates.
- XANTIPPE—wife of Socrates.
- MELICERTA—his eldest sister.
SCENE.—The school of Socrates at Athens.
THE DEATH OF SOCRATES.
SCENE I.—SOCRATES alone.
WHAT is the reason, that at particular times, men cannot bear truth? The first propagators of new truths are often persecuted—I am almost ready to believe with the Jews; that mankind are born [...]n a state of depravity— Little do I expect to behold the light of another day. A charge of blasphemy is brought against me in the court of Areopagus —for teaching that there is but one God. I can demonstrate this truth But that avails nothing. The court are superstitious. I expect they will condemn me. But I will have one excercise more, before my death, to try the genius of some of my best scholars—and show the value of learning. My young gentlemen are rather late to school to day.
SCENE II.—ALCIBIADES (entering) and SOCRATES.
SO, Alcibiades, I did not expect that you would be the first to come to school to day. I tho't you had devoted yourself wholly to the service of the ladies.
That was what I intended, and had engaged Thais to partake with me the pleasures of the approaching festivals. But, at the Olympic games, being careless, and over confident of victory—I was beaten in the chariot-race by Pisistratus of Samos. When I returned, in the evening, I meant to excuse the matter to Thais; but I found myself excluded. And, inquiring the cause, I found she was entertaining my rival, who had beaten me in the race.— Disappointed by the ladies of the earth—I return the earlier to those celestial beauties, the muses.
The falsehood of Thais is indeed inexcusable—but [Page 402] you ought to know that the ladies always favor the enterprizing, and those who are fond of glory—and naturally despise those, who are indolent, and not desirous of praise.
SCENE III.— (Enter) PHOCION, PHILEMON & XENOPHON.
YOUNG Gentlemen, I am happy in your presence. I have tho't of a question on which I desire you, as a trial of genius, to express severally your opinions. It is this— What is that, which, all things considered, has the greatest influence on the concerns and interests of men? An important question you will say. Will you each favor me with your opinion?
MONEY.
I am, at present, pesuaded that it is money.— Whatever is the object of purchase, may be procured by money—Money has an amazing influence in deciding the opinions of men. Give a man a large sum on one side of a question; and nothing on the other—It is a wonder if he does not see all things right on that side where the money lies. What [...]oil [...] and fatigues, will not a man undergo for the sake of money? Money procures trust and favor, preferment and elegance of life. Money wins the favor of the great; favor which cannot be purchased by merit. How easily will a rich man, by means of the favors which he confers on the poor, gain admittance to places of profit, and trust. The poor man's wisdom, (be he ever so wise,) is despised. But the man who has money has credit for every human faculty—He has wit, at least in estimation. His poorest observations are recommended, his flattest jests are laughed at, and applauded. The ladies love him, and their hearts own the sovereign power of gold. Lawyers for gold pervert law—Priests for gold have perverted religion—In fine, What will not money do? It is the God of this world—In my opinion money has the geeatest influence on the concerns of men.
PLEASURE.
I CAN by no means agree with the preceeding speaker—My opinion is that pleasure has the greatest influence over the concerns of men. For what purpose is money desirable, but that we may thereby procure pleasure—Money purchases houses, furniture, fields and gardens; for what end, but that we may take our pleasure in [Page 403] them. For what end do men ply themselves with strong liquors, but for the pleasures that are attendant on appetite? Have you never known, how many votes are gained by certain persons, in our popular elections by distributing wines and sweet meats among the people? And what is the object of all learning: and of the curious arts but for the pleasure either of body, or mind, that they procure? The reputable matron, or honest householder, take pleasure in a beautiful and well ordered family, and in sincere, and delicious friendship, of which virtue alone is capable: from a mistaken idea of pleasure also, some youth of both sexes plunge themselves into the most infamous excesses, and by their miseries they discover how propense the human heart is to pleasure, that it will risk any thing for the prospect of it—In fine all happiness is pleasure in one sense or another; as the pursuit of all mankind is happiness, I determine that pleasure is that which has the greatest influence in all affairs of men.
CIVIL POWER.
MEN'S opinions are as various as their constitutions. I must dissent from from both of my friends, who have spoken before me. My opinion is that, of all things, the civil power has the greatest influence over the concerns of men—Who is equal to the chief ruler of any kingdom, who can resist the supreme authority? It disposeth of persons and property, of the lives and virtues of citizens, which way soever the sovereign power shall turn itself; all must bend before it—In a state when the sovereignty is in the people, as it is in our commonwealth, the voice of the people carries every thing: you may as well put a stop to the swelling of the ocean, as resist the popular will—Hence it is said that the voice of the people is the voice of God, because it comes with irresistible power: in monarchies tho the sovreignty is supposed to have been tranferred from the people, to the monarch, and he on account of the dispotic power he possesses is feared, and honored as the vice-general of God—The supreme law is the safety of the state: this respects the whole, and not any particular member of the commonwealth—Therefore I say, the civil power, has the greatest influence on the affairs of men.
WOMEN and TRUTH.
STILL the mat [...]er appears undecided—I am fully of the opinion that the object of our enquiry is not yet [Page 404] found—as to matters merely belonging to this world I affirm in opposition to the opinions already advanced—that women have more influence that money, pleasure, or the civil power—they compel us to love them, and we cannot help it. We love more than pleasure would dictate, we behold them with lively admiration, with the most intense respect, we consider our happiness as involved in theirs. Have you never heard of the Jewish tradition, that man, when first formed was placed in a garden beautiful as Elysian fields; yet would not be content without the society of a woman? Have you not also read in the tradition of antient Greece—that Jupiter being offended with the man, and his wife, for stealing golden apples from the Hesperian gardens, separated them from each other and placed his eagle between them, with a thunder bolt in his talons —The woman being afraid, fled and hid herself in the groves of Arcadia—the man watched the eagle for fifteen successive days and nights, till the eagle fell asleep, thro long watching, and dropped the thunderbolt from his talons—then flew the man to the groves and spoke to his wife in the language of love—Jupiter then declared that he would suffer their society, since there was no way to prevent it; but to strike them out of being.
Without saying any thing of the actual truth of these transactions, they prove that the connection of the sexes on the principles of virtue is natural and inviolable, and that this has ever been the tho't of men—whatever a man gains by study or labor, the spoils of war, and the profits of peace—the reward of genius, and ways of industry—are bro't by him, and freely bestowed on his wife. Happy, if by any means, he make her contented, and share the blessing of her smile — That women are slaves to gold, is a slander: we know them, [...], in contempt of riches, to give their hands and ho [...], to men of genius and merit—They are more powerful than princes, and kings; for our fathers have told us how at the court of Persia, the princess Apame being denied her request by the king— she took the crown from his head; gave him a slap on the cheek, and told him he should not have his crown again till he [...] grant her request—the king laughing, turned the whole affair into a just, and granted her desire. But truth is powerful above all things. Money gotten by falshood shall never prosper in the [Page 405] hands of its owner—the pleasure that is taken in false pursuits is unsatisfying to the mind, and lays the foundation of the most dreadful remorse. Power founded on falshood and perfidy, tumbles violently into ruin—and even women if they forsake the ways of virtue, and act not agreeably to truth and reason—soon sink into contempt— truth prevents all wrong, and sits every thing right—truth therefore is greater and more influential than all things else, and the prudent man will always submit to truth.
SCENE IV.—Enter DIONYSIUS, dissentient Judge of the Areopagus.
I COME sir, from the court of Areopagus to inform you, that the affair is likely to go against you.
Why, what pretence can they have to take away the life of a poor old man, who never had it in his power to do them harm?
Why truly none at all. But there are two thirds of the present court, who do not know a loaf of bread, from a grindstone, and yet they imagine they understand every thing. There was [...]d Phutatorius—He spoke an hour and half by the hour glass, and all his wonderful argument, on the most candid statement amounted to this: The foul of man is an immaterial substance, beasts are created with long tails, to brush off flies; therefore Socrates is an enemy to the state, and deserves to be poisoned.
A very singular way of reasoning truly.
It makes me angry, I cannot repress my indignation, when the lives of our worthiest citizens are at the caprice of such nonsense.
SCENE V.—XANTIPPE and SOCRATES.
O MY husband, my worthy, good husband, they will put you to death, they certainly will.
Patience, my dear, have patience, we must all die sometime or other—I am an old man now; it is not strange that I should die.
But they have no right to put you to death—they are a of pack numb-sculls—they have no more brains than [Page 406] so many seacoots and yet they are as wicked, as they are silly. You know more than a thousand of them now.
Aye, yes, I am confident had you been there you would have given them a lecture.
I should have been in such a passion, I should have torn their eyes out.
Yet wife remember this—they know but little; and I doubt not they think they are doing right—as for me, I am not afraid to die—that great and good Being, who kept me from harm in this world, can keep me from harm in another life.
I am afraid you are the more willing to die, because I have not always been so prudent, as I should have been.
Think not of that, my good girl, I have laid nothing up against you.
But I have laid it up against myself, and now I am going to lose you, I see I have been to blame.
It might have been as well if you had tho't of it a little sooner—But it is a matter of no great consequence— I shall love you tenderly to my latest breath—After my death I hope you will get a better husband.
I shall never get one
that will
bear with me
as you have done.
SCENE VII.—SOCRATES and MELICERTA.
MY daughter you will receive most unwelcome intelligence concerning your father.
My worthy good sire—I weep not for you: The eternal Being is your friend: but how wretched must we be to be left destitute of your councils and protection.
You are young—Be virtuous, and you will be protected; or you may die with honor; which will be full as well—I am fully convinced that there is One, eternal, all-wise Being, who governs all things by his providence, that our souls are immortal—and that the virtuous will be happy.
Yet how shall I conduct my life well, in this world, to escape its evils, if I live here?
Remember the eternal God—do what you really think is best—then trust him for the consequence. It is an [Page 407] excellent maxim of prudence, for a woman to marry, if she has a good offer—but above all trust in God—and hope for a better life—seek it by piety and virtue.
O sir, I wish I could die with you.
Think not of it, wish not for death till God shall send it—retire from those scenes of horror. I bless you with my last breath—retire and resign yourselves to the Almighty.
SCENE VIII.—MARSHAL of the Areopagus (entering) and SOCRATES.
I COME Sir to do my duty. It is painful but I am necessitated—The officers of the state you are siensible—
Must do their duty—read your tablet if you please.
Anytus son of Olympius hath said, in the presence of this court, that Socrates was an enemy of the state, and the religion thereof, that he hath blasphemed the gods, and corrupted the minds of youth by saying, that idols are cheats, and that there is [...]ut one God—which assertion this court finding to be true, on evidence, do condemn the said Socrates, to drink a cup of poison from the hand of his principal accuser, under the inspection of the Marshal of our court—that all the enemies of our state may be destroyed—and that this sentence be executed within one hour from the delivery thereof. There sir, you have one half hour to live.
Sir, your wife is full of distress, and sends to you again, she asks pardon for many passages of her life—she says she is afraid that you are so composed, and willing to die, because you are in hopes to get rid of her by the means;
she wishes alas to know, what shall be done for the daughters; the sons, except the two engaged in merchandize, being provided for in the fleet, and the army.
As for my poor wife, she need not think I wish to leave her—she has been something of a clacking hen to be sure, but she has bro't me many beautiful chickens. I leave her well provided for—and can testify with my last breath [...] that I sincerely love her—If she chuses let her marry again — But, my poor daughters, what will become of them?
I tho't, venerable sir, that you always taught that to weep at the ordinary calamities of this world—was beneath a philosopher.
Yes, my son, except where one's wife or children are concerned, there the greatest degree of sensibility is justifiable.
Sir, with your approbation I will take care of your eldest daughter, I have been desiring the office a long time, nor is she averse to such a measure.
I desire the like favor in behalf of the other, venerable sir.
Kind gentlemen you are welcome to my daughters —May you be happy with them—Now I think I can leave the world in peace.
Shall I tell your wife to come here and see you, and take a last sad farewell—She wishes to die with you, and hopes she shall obtain forgiveness for those flights of passion, which were too frequent in her, while she lived with you.
Let her not come here—It would kill her to see me thus—Assure her, that I think she has been a good girl; and that I shall love her to my latest breath.
I shall punctually execute your orders, sir.
Well now, young gentlemen my worthy pupils, this is my result on our question, Xenophon judged rightest. Of all things external to men's selves in this world women have the greatest influence over men's affairs. Men will give their money freely to their wives, they will sacrifice all other pleasures to the happiness of living with them. Without women there would be no commonwealth, consequently no civil power—but truth has more influence than women, in fine, women lose their influence at once, when they depart from virtue and truth, I have always loved truth and endeavored to serve God, and do good to men, to the utmost of my power. This is my consolation, now I hope I shall be accepted—I advise you always, my dear pupils, to do the same, you will find the comfort of it in life, and in death—To be stable in our sentiments and to possess true grandeur of soul, despising mean things and things unjust, we must lay hold on the arms of him who sustains the pillars of the universe, or in plain words to believe all he orders for us to be the best. God is one, his power and [Page 409] presence are every where—His faithfulness is steadier than the course of the sun—His truth is firmer than the rocks of Atlas—His power is more irrisistible than the winds or the waves, or the rapid force of thunder—His immensity exceeds the space of Heaven— His goodness milder than the rays of the morning. These are clear demonstrable tru [...]hs—as the moon derives her light from the sun. The grandeur of man is in his soul, which derives its qu [...]lities from its God—truth is the great standard of Divine proceedings—It is the express copy of the Divine wi [...]l—be it then the measure of your sentiments, and actions—it has more power than all things else, and finally prevails over all: tho error may seem to conquer in my death, the Athenians shall soon repent of it, and erect Statues to my memory, and the name of Socrates shall be immortal.
Constantia. A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE, IN A SUIT OF SCENES.
CHRISTIANITY FAVORABLE TO WOMEN.
HE that loveth his wife loveth himself.
☞No characters of men are inserted in this piece, because in the author's opinion they would not make it any better.
PERSONS.
- CONSTANTIA—Mother of Constantine the Great.
- EUDOCIA—her sister, who had suffered persecution.
- METRODORA—a fine lady of the Court, bigotted to Paganism, and favoring the rival of Constantine.
- APHRODITÈ—a fine lady of the Court, inclining to Paganism, from the love of dissipation.
- THALIA—a very sensible young lady of the Court, inclined to Christianity.
- ARPASIA—sister to Constantine.
- LAUTERIA—hand-maid of the palace.
SCENE.—The [...] in the palace of the Caesars [...] [...]ome.
CONSTANTIA.
SCENE I.—EUDOCIA and CONSTANTIA.
MY dear sister! why are you so sorrowful to [...]y? I always love to see you cheerful. This cloud which seem [...] settle [...] on your brow gives me serious concern.
Dear Eudocia, you may imagine, but you cannot fully comprehend the sensibility of a mother. The condition of marriage commonly increases the tenderness of the human heart but the parental relation much more. Were you a mothe [...] you m [...]ght possibly comprehend my present anguish of heart.
Tho you have lost your husband, you have every thing else in your situation to make you happy. He left you seated on the throne of the greatest empire of the world; caressed and almost adored by the court. You were exceedingly beloved by your husband while alive, and he has left you in the height of honor and public esteem.
My husband is gone, and that were enough to make me extremely sorrowful—but it is by no means the whole of my p [...]esent pain. The wives of Emperors are always to be pi [...]ed I have a thousand times, in the midst of the noblest scenes of magnificence, wished that I had been the wife of some shepherd, or simple swain, [...] ideas corresponded with mine. Differences of sentiments may produce much unhappiness between married persons of the best tempers in the world.
What difference could there be between your husband and you? He always treated you with extreme tenderness.
He did—and he was natural [...]y kind and generous. [Page 414] He suffered me to do very much as I pleased. He even permitted me to educate my son according to my own opinions. He is gone; and tho he was a most pleasing husband▪ when I think of him I am [...]lled with ho [...]or.— Had he been a Christian, and could I now believe him to be rejoicing among the Sain [...]s, I shou [...]d have great consolation. But he always worshipped those Gods which are vanity and a [...]e.
But you have a son, accomplished in genius, and in every virtue. If your sensibility be as great as you affirm, you must have joy of him.
I have a son. He is dearer to me than life. Heaven knows how I love him. I watched with raptures of tenderness over his infant years. I have often bedewed his cheeks▪ with the tears of delight. He grew up before me like a beautiful plant. His manners corresponded to my wishes. Early I seasoned his mind with the sublime truths of Christianity. I taught him to adore one everliving GOD—the Creator and Preserver of all—and the Mediator, the Messenger of God to man—And that he should love his neighbor as himself. Strange doctrines to us, till of late. I have endeavored strongly to impress it upon his mind, that he was born not for himself, but for the world.
And has not the event fully answered your expectations? Who can be more virtu [...]us or more agreeable than the young prince? Extremely agreeable in his person and equally amiable in his manners—his genius is brilliant, and his morals truly sublime. Lost to self indulgence, he flies from public spectacles, and seenes of wantonness, and public entertainments, to seek the society of the discreet & virtuous And he abides the company of such ladies alone, as exceed in honest fame, the Lucretias and Porcias of ancient Rome. Even now he is composing a system of laws to establish equal rights and liberty among the people on the benevolent principles of christianity.
I know and feel what you say of him to be true. But this day must decide his fate to reign or d [...]e; for his advancement to the imperial throne, or his execution by torture.
Then I wonder no longer at your extreme concern. But who can oppose so amiable a prince?
There is yet a powerful party in the senate, in [...]avor [Page 415] of the ancient religion, who only want an opportunity to kindle the flames on the altars of persecution, in which so many christians have smoked as victims to false gods. If they can g [...] t [...] army in their favor, they hope to succeed. M [...]re [...]s, my son's rival, is at their head.
But by whose influence does this party move; there i [...] scarcely a man about the court, in their favor.
Women have often determined the fate of nations. You know that enchantress, the beautiful Metrodora, tho she affects so much tenderness for us; she is deeply engaged in the opposite interest. She is the soul of the party. Her influence▪ or m [...]ne, prevails this day; but she is coming. It is most for our interest that I should meet her alone.
SCENE II.—CONSTANTIA and METRODORA.
SUBLIME empress, let me approach you with that humility which becomes your august presence.
Metrodora, for heaven's sake desist; I am a poor weak woman, pained to the heart, and I have no appetite for flattery, never, since I had the splendid m [...]sery of being an empress, did I feel pain as I feel it this moment—O my son! This day it will be decreed that he must reig [...], or die.
Well then since you deny me the pleasure of addressing you as an empress; let me talk with you as with a friend. My fears for your son are not less than yours. He is the idol of the court and the favorite of my own heart. But I find the party in the senate and in the army strong against him, I am afraid there is no way to support the young prince or even to preserve his life; but one.
And what is that one?
You will accuse me my friend Constantia! I have always wondered that you and your son, rejecting the religion of your own godlike Romans▪ should worship a crucified Jew, an honest man perhaps; but a very unfortunate one. You laugh at Gentilism, but do you think there is any thing in Gentilism so absurd.
You say we worship a crucified Jew, this is wholly an error. No c [...]ristian ever worshipped a crucified Jew; [Page 416] but one God the Creator and Preserver of all whom the christians call by the endearing name of Father. They reveren [...]e Jesus not as a man; but as the word and wisdom of God; and to promote the glory of the Father; for the word and wisdom of God dwelt in him. The christians adore not men but God.
And how do you know that the wisdom of God dwelt in him. Can you depend on witnesses who were dead three thousand years ago, and who if living would be three thousand miles distance?
Who among us doubt of the main events of the wars of Troy. Or that Eueas founded the Roman nations? We bel [...]eve witnesses incomparably more distant and more remote in time. And this we know is perfectly reasonable—Yet this is not my present object, I ask you Metrodora, if you can trust your ear to discern sounds, your eyes to judge of colors, or your mouth to taste its meat?
Certainly, we should know nothing if we could not trust our senses as being naturally true.
And your understanding to judge of truth?
Most certainly.
Then I know most certainly that the wisdom of God dwelt in Jesus of Nazareth, because in opposition to the darkness of the world, [...]unk into vice and superstition, he taught us to adore one God▪ in whom we live, move, and have our being; to love him sincerely and obey him from the heart. That we should love one another and in love serve one another, and that God is most just, and will reward all human beings according to their works.
According to their works do you say? I should not think that to be a very comfortable doctrine for you and me.
Besides it teaches us to pursue all things which are excellent. That wha [...]soever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are of good report, if there be any virtue, if there be any praise, that we should think on those things. Now I know most certainly that all this is right. Let our priests or philosophers say what they will, what then shall I do? Shall I believe, or shall I not bel [...]eve?—Indeed I must believe or do violence to my own mind.
And so you will expose yourself and your son to [Page 417] death by this hopeful system. I am astonished at your obstinacy. I never tho't of these things much, but I know the danger of them. Tell me then wherein our system of religion is not as good as yours.
Had you tho't of the matter at all you must have known; but to deal plainly with you, your head was always filled with court-intrigues. Your religion debases the idea of God, and degrades man. Jupiter, whom your poets stile father of Gods and men, is said to have many vices. According to your own writers he changed himself into a brute, tha [...] he might run away with Europa. At the same time he had, they say, a wife of his own. His wife was a scold, and he was ill tempered, so they would often quarrel and he would threaten to beat her—a fine example this for married persons truly!
Why as to tha [...] matter—but—but—
But what Metrodora. Your genius cannot answer, subtle as it is—But, do you not worship Bacchus by drunkenness? Are not ladies of the highest rank intoxicated for whole months together? Does not every man of honor and sobriety fly from a worshipper of Venus as from the plague? Is that religion, which ruins the morals of the people? Is not ill-nature itself adored in D [...]ana of Ephesus? Your own favorite, Homer, calls her the tygress of her sex. And in one word, has not every vice in your system, received the sanction of religion?
I am not well qualified to dispute on these subjects. But by all that is sacred, have regard to the life of the young prince whom you expose to immediate death if by your means he retains christ anity.
Deny my words Metrodora, if you can. You are now acting on the vicious principles of your own worship. You adore Laverna Goddess of deceit. You pretend concern for me and my son; but you mean to destroy us both —If your plans succeed, to morrow we die in torments— But I hope soon to baffle you, and all your designs. You have nothing to fear from me. Should I prevail you still live as ever. But I must see my sister Eudosia this moment—The young ladies will wait on you.
Why, if that be the case, and the matter goes ill, I will contrive some way to deny the whole affair, and throw the blame on the senate.
SCENE III.—THALIA and ARPASIA.
O MY heart! how much I fear for the fate of my brother.
I have better hopes than you concerning him. I believe that he will have success.
And what reason have you for such a hope?
I cannot imagine that such virtue should not meet success. Most sincerely do I wish that he may maintain his principles, nor give up his conscience for the splendor of a crown.
I know not what to think. Sometimes my fears for him are so great, that they almost make me with that he would renounce the cross of the Nazarene [...].
But how can you wish such a thing? You surprize me.
I never listened to discourses on this subject like my brother. My mother used to instruct us both. Constantine was always a serious youth. My mother would read for hours together out of the Bible, as the Christians call their Sacred Book; and Constantine would devour every word. But my mind was much more upon balls, assemblies, and oth [...]r parties of pleasure.
And did not that mortify the empress?
It did—and she used weep very often because I gave no better attention. But it did not seem entertaining to me. Tho I am sure that I love my mother, and Constantine exceedingly.
I congratulate you, my Arpasia, on that disposition. The tenderness of your heart will one day harmonize with the spirit of the gospel.
Why you surprize me—I should no more dare to be a Christian, than I should dare to meet an army in battle. The [...]ight of an insect affrights me, how much more that of flames and of torments.
But do you not wish your brother to succeed?
I hardly know what to think. I wish he may succeed as a Christian, or renounce the Christian faith and be happy.
I should be very unhappy to have him do that.
Why, cannot one be happy without being a Christian?
Not so well as with it I believe. The Christians have a curious system, let it come from the Jews, or from any other nation. One thing I clearly perceive that it will be greatly for the interest of our sex to have Christianity prevail—It is a matter of great consequence to our sex, to have it prevail.
What say you? Can that be?
Yes I affirm that it will be greatly for the interest of our sex to have it prevail.
And why for the interest of our sex?
No system treats them with so much tenderness and respect.
How can you make that appear?
By a fair comparison of facts—You know that women have been abused in various parts of the globe. The Christians say this was predicted from the time that Eve stole the forbidden apples of paradise. Except in Greece, which has always been the seat of learning and politeness; women have been subjected to the arbitrary disposal of the men. And even among them they are by no means so free, as among the Christians.
Are they more generous in their principles than our noble Romans?
Certainly, the noblest of our Romans claim the right of arbitrary divorce and some of our most celebrated characters have alienated their wives to strangers. In Germany and other nothern nations they are treated as slaves and subjected to the scource. In Asia they are sold like common animals in the market. In Africa they are slaves of a most slavish people.
And how do you know that it is not even so amongst the Christians?
There are several ladies of my acquaintance who have married Christian husbands. They appear very happy—This led me to enquire into their principles, and customs.
And did you find any thing worthy of notice?
I sound, what I thought worthy of notice They maintain [...] as a principle that woman was created from the substance of ma [...] ▪ and therefore it must be unnatural to abuse her. That marriage is no human law, but a divine [Page 420] ordinance previous to all human laws. That divorce can never be lawful; but in case of manifest infidelity.— That by marriage a man becomes one, with his wife, in heart, mind, and soul.
That is a very happy doctrine; for there are one half of our Romans who treat their wives with less complaisance than they would treat strangers.
That is generally the case with ignorant and foolish people. But the Christians teach, That he who loveth his wife, loveth himself; and that he should no more use her ill, than he would abuse himself. That he should be willing to expose his life for her sake, even as Christ died for his church. That he must not give her pain not so much, as by bitter, and reproachful words.
This certainly deserves our attention—A revolution in religion will be for the interest of our sex—It will be greatly in their favor—That is always good which does good—I will try my influence over some of the young senators—But are you fully informed of this matter.
You may rest assured that I am, I have spared no pains for information. And I find that the more a christian is attached to his religion the more kind he is to his wife.
Then this shall be the ladies' religion—It will be the happiest of all events for society, and prove of great advantage to our sex, till the latest periods of time.
SCENE IV.—APHRODITE ( enters to) THALIA and ARPASIA.
LADIES, I am glad to meet you. I hope you will comfort me a little for I am most seriously out of humor
Is that the reason that you come to us. When I am out of humor, I generally tarry at home till I feel better.
But my mortification is inexpressible. I thought your brother had not been so much a dunce.
A dunce, how is my brother a dunce?
It is said that he openly avows that he is a Christian; that he lives so [...]e; and will not accept the empire, unless he can retain his religion.
And how will tha [...] affect you?
Why then the whole fashion of the court must be altered, and all modes must receive a new model.
And if that should be the case, I should suppose that you would only like it the more. As you are a very fashionable woman, the more new fashions the better for you.
But only consider what a dilemma I shall be in. My clothes are all ready for the dances at the feast of Diana. It cost me thirty thousand Sesterces to the mantua-makers. Besides the cloth, which was brought from [...]a [...] dis, cost more than its weight in gold. And now to think that your brother—I have no patience with him!
And what, madam, has he to do with y [...]ur dress? His attention is, I trust, engrossed by affairs of mightier consequence.
If he be advanced to the empire to day and retain his Christian principles, then the dances of Diana, which are to be held on the Ides of next month, are to be put by.
And what if they should be?
Why do you not see▪ the whole cost of my dress will be sunk, and I shall lose the opportunity of engaging the notice of the public.
And is that all? Must the interests of the Roman empire, coextensive with half the world, be set aside on account of your dress, and to give you an opportunity of dancing before a large company?
I am mortified to death!
This is extravagance indeed—Why, my dear Aphrodite. Have you no reflection? Of what consequence is your dress, or dancing, to the great affairs of the empire? Thalia has been summing up, together with me, the advantages which Christianity will bring to our sex—Speak, Thalia, if you please.
In our researches we found that of all systems of religion, that of the Christians is most favorable to our sex, and best adapted to secure the good treatment of women.
And what else can it do?
It teaches the purest principles of virtue, which will secure to them the most rational and durable esteem. Women who practise the Christian virtues appear as angels —Our most worthy empress is an example. Their influence over the hearts of men is even greater than they themselves conceive. For purity they are compared to the temples of the Lord. What a sublime quality is this Christian virtue in our sex?
That is something it is true; but what will become, in the mean time of my dress, and the dance?
Never mind that Aphrodite. It my brother fails he will be executed in the extremest tortures, and your dance will go on.
That's true, so it will.
And if he succeed there will be great rejoicings on the occasion. Now, to accommodate you, Aphrodite— The moment that I hear of it; I will send you a Christian mantua maker, and you may have your clothes altered. Then be the first lady who appears at the emperor's inauguration. Come forward in your rich dress, imported from Sardis, to pay your respects to the new emperor — This will secure you favor, make you popular with the new government, your name shall be founded thro the Roman empire.
Now I do not much care how the matter turns— why yes, I do, too—The admiration of a whole empire is better than that of a ball room—Yes—Let Constantine prevail—from henceforth I will be a Christian, since that is to be the prevailing fashion.
SCENE V.—CONSTANTIA enters with EUDOSIA.
WELL young ladies, how do you stand affected to the good cause. Are you willing to be Christians all of you?
Yes—Yes—Yes—Madam.
A noble resolution—I hope you will have the constancy to maintain it. The Pagan system i [...] the work of the devil. I fell into their hands once, and they inflicted on me the most infernal tortures. They convinced me the wrong way, and I have mortally hated them ever since. And I own I should not be sorry to see the time when I could punish them in turn, and pay the interest on some old debts.
Cherish not that disposition, my dear sister! It is wrong. I know that persecuted persons are apt to persecute in turn, from the too common principle of revenge. But our holy system forbids it.
What shall we do then, if we get the power into our hands?
Make as many friends as you can, and as few enemies [Page 423] as possible; gain as many to be Christians as you can, by the clear demonstration of truth, or in any honest way, gain them to favor your cause. These are the means to gain favorite points, and it is not amiss to use our policy in doing good.
O madam, madam, madam, all is ruined. Constantine's head is not worth so much as my pincushion. Metrodora carries all before her policy. She has gained the orator, Helvidius, by the promise of a million of sesterces. Old P [...]iseus stood out a great while, but she finally gained him over by promising to marry him.
May the imperial laurel never wither on your head till that promise be accomplished.
The Aventine prefect, the old Treb [...]lli [...]s, is faithful to her, only with the hope of eating at her table. Poor master Constantine, he is gone as sure as death!
Ladies lead me away, I fear I shall faint—O my son! But do not change your purpose—If—If—if possible I will be with you in a few moments—if I can get a little composed.
What pain she feels for her son. Poor woman! I am glad I have no children. It often gives me extreme pain to observe the agonies which mothers sustain for their children in distress.
Yes, yes, madam, but perhaps their joys are as great when their children are prosperous. Did you never think of that madam?
Whether I think of it, or not, is not now, the question—you seem to be quite at leisure to discuss points of morality—but are we not all in as great danger as Constantine.
O madam to be sure we are, we are all gone sure enough. But it is a comfort to me that I shall die with my good mistress; I shall be saved if I go with her, I know I shall.
But how do you know these things? From whom do you have your information?
From one of Metrodora's spies, he has made love to me, and expects that I will marry him. But I told him positively that I would not have him, unless he would tell [Page 424] me all I wanted to know. And he positively swore that he told me all; and told me true.
I suffer exceedingly for my friends, but I am not in much pa [...] for myself. I yet have confidence—Constan [...]ia [...]s mind i [...] fruitful in resources. If there [...]e any remedy for our affairs she will find it. If she can only command herself. But I am afraid her tenderness will overcome her.
I am afraid of that. She always excelled in her tenderness to her children. An excellent quality at any time, in a woman, and which adds lustre to an imperial crown.
And why are we all so calm and undisturbed? Arpasia makes her observations on material virtues quite at her own ease. Are we not all doomed to tortures and death? Either the Divine Power gives us a presentiment of unknown good—else we are flattered by a small gleam of hope in Constantia's wisdom. But alas! I fear that hope or joy is no more for us in this world.
SCENE VI.—CONSTANTIA returns.
LADIES you yet may hope; tho all Lauteria's information be true, we are not ruined, nevertheless: the fatal negligence of some of our own party has done all this mischief.
And how do you expect to prevent the evils, which threaten us?
I have done much—and must still do more. I advised Labienus the old Prefect to conduct the thundering legion, who are all Christians, into the avenues, between mount Aventine, and the field of Mars—and to prevent a communication, between different bodies, of the Pagan troops.
And what good purpose does that answer?
Their votes are to be taken for the new Emperor— he will be able to take the votes of the Christians first. Then those of the troops on Mount Aventine, who are mixed, and will look out to see how others votes then those of the troops in the field of Mars, who if the others have voted in his favor, will not dare to resist.
But what will you do with the senate?
Here Lauteria
carry this to Marcellus. Tell him to exert himself or we are all lost. He [Page 425] has the best cause, and is at least a match for Helvidius, as for old Priseus. I have found means to make his bargain with Metrodora public If he attempts to speak he will be perfectly ridiculous, so there is yet hope for us, ladies.
My dear sister, you have acted the part of an able politician and general.
Men indeed pretend to rule the world; and I am very well content that they should enjoy the name. But women from a sudden effort of dexterity, will often correct their coarse blunders, and help them out of their mistakes as you see in this instance.
You will prove in that way that we had better not have a new emperor, but make the men of Rome submit themselves to us.
You mistake, my daughter; such offices are unnatural to us—Our constitutions are too delicate, and our feelings too tender. I can invent a thousand plans, but I have not the courage to execute one. I must trust them all to the men. So my daughter, whether you consider men as goods, or evils, they are necessary to us—But if my son shall reign, I will leave the court and abandon public business forever.
He will hold the reigns of govenment with discretion. He will endeavor to establish equal liberty among the people, and exert himself to make them happy. Despots will think him a fool, but among the wise and prudent his name shall be blessed forever. O I hope he will succeed.
My dear ladies! The matter will be decided in five minutes. The ensign is hoisted on the gate before the senate house, and on the Aventine mount. The whole fate of the christians will be decided in five minutes. What an interval of anxious suspense. O heaven grant my son may have success!
O my sweet mistress, good news! My dear empress, good news! my dear young ladies, good news! Constantine is elected. He is sitting in the Portico, clothed in the imperial purple, and they are going to carry him in triumph to the capitol.
O my dear sister!
Our dear empress!
Our noble lady!
Dear empress!
O how happy!
Excuse me, dear ladies, exuse me, dear ladies! sister, let me go—My son is an emperor, he shall support the christian faith. Let me fly to embrace my son.
O happy event, happy for our sex, happy to Rome, and happy to the whole world. The flames are extinguished on the altars of persecution. The church has prevailed, and idols are no more—This doubtless is the great event, which our sacred books have foretold. The kingdoms of the world are become the kingdoms of our Lord, and his Christ. But let us hasten, to pay our respects to the new emperor.
Zenobia. A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
ON FUTURE RETRIBUTION.
THERE is, if not a decisive proof, a great probability of future retribution, or the future judgment of men, according to their deeds; arising from the instances of the sufferings of the just, and prosperity of the wicked in this world.— ‘Consider a man who has amassed £. 300,000, by the ruin of 100 innocent families; that he lives in luxury, while they are perishing for want—and then doubt of a future judgment if you can.’
ANECDOTES—LEADING TO THE UNDERSTANDING OF THE PIECE.
ZENOBIA was Queen of Palmyra — a woman of high spirit, bordering on pride. She was a person of most sublime morals, and fond of her husband to enthusiasm—yet ever declared her attachment was solely founded on his virtues. She was remarkable for her maternal affection, and sense of gratitude. Her husband, perishing in the wars, left her kingdom in a very flourishing condition, which she greatly strengthened by an alliance with the Arabians and Persians. Becoming wealthy and prosperous, she declared herself Queen of the East, and defied the Roman power. The Emperor, after various efforts to gain her to the interests of Rome, subdued her in war; led her in triumph in golden chains, and allowed her to reside a [...] one of his villas at Tibur in Italy; where soon she died of grief and mortification. By the general testimony of historians, AURELIAN had no other cause for making war against her, but her prosperity and grandeur; and by his conduct to her he brought an indelible stain on his memory.
LONGINUS, her prime minister, was a person no less remarkable. Acquainted with science in general—Versed in all the eminent Pagan and Christian writers—An admirer of Moses and St. Paul. He wrote the famous treatise on the Sublime, which has ever since his day been the standard of criticism, of which POPE gives the following character—
PALMYRA was built by SOLOMON, and by him called Tadmor. It was situated in the east part of Syria, bordering [Page 429] on Chaldea. Many highways between great and flourishing states▪ centered in this city; which caused it to be a place of great trade. From the fine natural groves around it, preserved for timber, it was antiently called Tadmor in the Wilderness. The Romans ruined this city in the year of CHRIST 273—Yet certain ruins, supposed to be of ZENO [...]IA's palace, to this day, astonish beholders with their magnificence, and are esteemed among the greatest curiosities in the world.
PERSONS.
-
ROMANS.
- AURELIAN—Emperor of Rome.
- VENTIDIUS—a Senator and honest Republican.
- GABINIUS—a Tribune of the army.
- SEMPRONIUS—a Senator, and man of bad principles.
-
PALMYRENES.
- LONGINUS—Secretary to Queen Zenobia.
- ZOSIMUS—a woman-hater, assistant to Longinus.
- ODENATHUS—son of Zenobia.
- ZENOBIA—Queen of Palmyra.
- ADMETA—Sister to the Queen.
- OLENIA—her daughter, very young.
SCENE.—The room of audience in the palace of Zenobia.
ZENOBIA.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—ZENOBIA and LONGINUS.
SCENE II.—VANTIDIOS (enters as the Queen is seated) and ZENOBIA.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—ZOSIMUS ( entering here) and LONGINUS.
SCENE II—The QUEEN (enters with her sister) ADMETA, ODENATHAS and OLENIA, ( and two ladies dressed in mourning.)
SONG. Tune—The Fly.
SCENE III.—ADMETA, OLENIA and ODENATHAS, ( all enter here.)
ACT III.
SCENE I.—AURELIAN and ZENOBIA.
SCENE II.—AURELIAN, SEMPRONIUS, VENTIDIUS & GABINIUS.
ACT IV.
SCENE I—ODENATHUS, ADMETA and OLENIA.
SCENE II.—SEMPRONIUS (enters) and ZOSIMUS.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—ODENATIUS, ADMETA and OLENIA.
SCENE II.—ZENOBIA (entering) ADMETA, OLFNIA and ODENATHUS.
SCENE III.—AURELIAN, ZENOBIA, LONGINUS, SEMPRONIUS, GABINIUS, and VENTIDIUS.
The Orphan of China. A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
VIRTUE IS THE ONLY SURE BASIS OF LIBERTY.
It is reported of the Empire of China, by historians, that it has three times been conquered by foreign powers; yet has retained its own laws. Tho historians know little, positively, of the nature of its government, and what they have written concerning it, may have little fact to support it; yet if it be true, that its institutions have stood the shock of so many conquests, the presumption is, that they are excellent.
PERSONS.
-
TARTARS.
- GENGIS KHAN—Emperor & General of the Tartars.
- OCTAR—his [...]i [...]-de camp.
- ALICON—Lieut. General, and a factious demagogue.
-
CHINESE.
- ZAMTI—Mandarin, chief of the order, and tutor to the Orphan.
- CONFU—an aged Counsellor.
- PARDO—a Senator.
- ZEPHOR—a youth to whom Semira had been promised.
- ORPHAN—Son of the Emperor of China, and Emperor-elect.
- SON—of the Mandarin, of the same age with the Orphan.
- MANDANE—wife of Zamti.
- SEMIRA—daughter of Zamti.
SCENE.—The palace of Zamti. The action is supposed to begin when the Emperor is seen from the palace to fall, and the standards of the Tartars to be planted on the walls.
THE ORPHAN OF CHINA.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—ZAMTI and CONFU.
SCENE II.—Enter ZAMTI and GENGIS.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—CONFU, PARDO & ZAMTI. (All entering here)
SCENE II.—GENGIS and OCTAR.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—ZAMTI, PARDO, CONFU, ORPHAN, and the SON.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—OCTAR, GENGIS and ALICON.
SCENE II.—PARDO, CONFU, ZEPHOR and ZAMTI.
SCENE III.—OCTAR, GENGIS, ALICON and ZAMTI.
SCENE IV.—ZEPHOR, ZAMTI the ORPHAN and the SON.
SCENE V.—CONFU, PARDO and ZEPHOR.
SCENE VI.—GENGIS, OCTAR, SEMIRA and MANDANE.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—ZEPHOR only speaking.
SCENE II.—ALI [...]ON, GENGIS and ZAMTI with the whole party.
SINGLE PIECES.
Preface TO THE SINGLE PIECES.
THE Editor of this work, having always found it to be one of the most difficult things attending an exhibition, to obtain suitable occasional pieces; whether for the introduction, intermediate speech, or conclusion; thought it best to insert in his book a number of these kinds—Indeed he publishes all that he can collect, at present, of those which he has used.
It is as much impossible to avoid a sameness in the introductory and concluding pieces, as in ordination or election sermons, or commencement orations—the intermediates are not liable to this inconvenience. They may be varied without end—but only one or two of the prologues, or epilogues are used in a year, the sameness may only appear as they stand in the book, and not in the public use of them.
He has also tho't proper to publish the names of the students to whom single pieces have been assigned, because it would be doing them honor, as none can perform them but such as are, in many respects, good scholars—and none but those of unblemished moral character can have them. The insertion of their names does homage to their genius, improvements, and virtue; and may give them a degree of celebrity, which one day or another may be of use to them. It may also excite ambition of succeeding students, whose performances may be published in a second volume.
There will be a seeming inequality among the pieces here given—but both single and dramatic compositions appear differently, publicly performed, from what they do when read in silence—If any do not strike the reader much in private, let him consider, that public representation is the only test of their merit.
[Page 480]The Editor has taken great gains, and even gained the assistance of ladies of learning and approved character, to clear his pieces of all offensive words and passages—yet if one word or passage of this kind shall remain after all, he disavows it—and desires every one who shall make use of his book; to render delicate any passage that offends, as in so doing he will fulfil the intention of the publisher.
Section I. PROLOGUES; or Introductory Pieces.
PROLOGUE to the EXHIBITION in the LIBERAL SCHOOL, Sept. 27, 1793; at the end of the LADIES' TERM.
To the Committee of Visitation.
To the Parents and Guardians of the Ladies.
THE SALUTATORY ADDRESS, in the LIBERAL SCHOOL in LINCOLN, before the Visiting Committee, at the EXHIBITION, March 25, 1795.
THO it would not become us to approach you, with that extreme timidity, which is so graceful in the [...]fter sex; and with which they have submitted their first public Essays in Learning to your inspection▪ yet we cannot, unmoved, reflect on the estimation in which you are held by the public—and the powers of observation, of which, by frequent visitations of this kind, you must be possessed— Your presence, that of our worthy fathers, and matrons, and the sight of your amiable attendants▪ the young ladies of the assembly, make a deep impr [...]ssion on [...] hearts, filling us with the most intense and sincere respect.
We are encouraged by your well known [...]a [...]dor. It is pleasing to us, to think that in [...] assembly are our parents, [Page 483] our guardians, our brethren, our sisters, and our friends—We have assembled every relation, which is dear to the human heart. It is no vain presumption, which urges us to appear in this place. It is our desire to give you some specimens of those instructions which we have lately received, and we hope to convince you, that we have not wasted our opportunities, and our time. We hope then that you will give us a candid hearing; and that you will not forget, on this occasion those maxims of kindness, on which you have founded the other actions of your lives.
Venerable Matrons and Fathers of families—You will here receive our dutiful acknowledgements, for that provision, which is made by your generosity, for opening to our minds the treasures of knowledge—Were we capable of the odius vice of ingratitude, we must detest ourselves— We cannot have derived, from you, hearts, that are so degenerate. Nor have we so little profited by our studies. No, Sires, we reflect on you at one and the same time with love, with reverence, and joy—we hope in some degree, to represent the virtues of our ancestors—But the idea of another part of the assembly, lies very deep in our hearts, and to them, by your permission, we will address ourselves.
YOUNG LADIES!
The decorum of your sex will not permit you to direct an adress to us collectively in any public place. Happy are we, that we are not restrained by any such decorum from addressing you—The more public our respects are to you, the more fond we are of showing them—Perhaps we may a little regret, that our example in point of learning, and virtues, is not more brilliant; but be assured Ladies, if you will lead in any worthy cause, we shall be happy to follow you. May your smiles this day be the pure emanations of your usual candor and good will Quick as electric influence, the marks of your approbation will affect every heart with the most lively joy; but we deprecate your frowns, they will blast all our hopes in a moment— We trust, you are never severe but by the commands of virtue—As our present request opposes no principles of delicacy, we trust it will be granted—You will hear us with candor, and will encourage us in every worthy pursuit.
Venerable Matrons and Sires—Let not the ardor of our address to those amiable Beings seem irreverent or disrespectful [Page 484] to you. You cannot easily blame our emotions— You have loved them; and you know they deserved it— They have doubtless, caused you many a delightful hour— But perhaps the remaining part of their life is more interesting to us than to you. It will add to the felicity of virtue to travel her [...]aths, in the most delightful company.
BRETHREN AND FRIENDS OF THIS ASSEMBLY,
We ask your patience, and every kind allowance which the interesting nature of this sce [...]e, and of the attempt itself▪ seem to demand—If you favor our humble endeavors and by your favor they prove successful—you may reflect hereafter, that you have given proper encouragement to youthful enterprize, to learning, and to virtue—And we are well assured that such a reflection will give you pleasure.
THE RESTORATION OF ABDERA. A POEM, Spoken by way of PROLOGUE, to the EXHIBITION, Sept. 26. 1794. At the end of the SUMMER TERM.
THE SALUTATORY ADDRESS, In the EXHIBITION, March 27, 1796.
IF we do not address you at this time, with extreme timidity, if we do not discover that anxiety, which your respectability appears sufficient to inspire—it is not from any want of respect to you. But it is owing to that perfect liberality and candor with which you have favored our performances in time past, we have hearts full of sentiments towards you, such as become the most favored children—but we do not fear, that on any trifling fault you will manifest the expressions of anger or contempt. Yet your sentiments are by no means indifferent to us—It is one of the greatest pleasures of our life to merit your approbation. Our youthful hearts are elate with the prospect, that by means of your kind parental care, (Heaven forbid that we ever should abuse it,) we shall so conduct ourselves, as to increase your happiness—that we not only have your approbation in these exercises, but that you may highly enjoy our behavior in all the scenes of life.
Life indeed is sweet, and it is pleasant to the eyes to behold the sun, and survey the various beauties of nature— hence we freely own that the debt, due to a parent, for mere existence, and early nutrition, is more than any child can pay—But, how immense is the obligation to parents [Page 488] —who take all imaginable pains to make their children happy—who afford them the most rational pleasures; and the most sublime enjoyments of life—Compare my worthy seniors, and most respected ladies, the girl who is the mere child of simplicity—of unformed sentiments and manners, with one who has been favored with a good education—compare such an one with those, who lately, in this place, displayed a variety of brilliant performances— Who completely sustained the most amiable and polite characters—who fastened your attention, and left you no power to recall it, and gave you the graces and the morals united in the most charming alliance—make the comparison—then let any one, if he can, deny the advantages of education.
At present indulge us, worthy parents, to speak to those who are delightful to us—This evening we are deprived of your most pleasing company and assistance in our performances, yet still you are near to our hearts and live in them—your presence excites our lively ambition—we shall read the expression of your countenances and the language of your eyes with modest fear of being unacceptable; and with lively joy, if we discern your approbation.
Happy are they, and the happiest of human kind—who unite the love of virtue and goodness with their mutual affections; and form a lasting alliance—to know this we need only consider the respectable lives of the matron [...] in this assembly—their full praise we leave to their husbands, tho as children, with promptest hearts, we rise up and call them blessed: their various duties discharged with so much fidelity and attention—cannot but be attended with the most delightful reflections.
Now parents, brethren, sisters and friends, favor us with your usual candor, politeness and attention—and we will not only endeavor to escape your censure, but we shall (for our ambition is great) even hope to gain your approbation.
PROLOGUE, to the LADIES' EXHIBITION, Sept. 28th, 1795.
ADDRESS OF SALUTATION, At the EXHIBITION, January, 1796.
IT is with the sincerest gratitude to our worthy parents; that we now present ourselves in this place— * Nothing could afford greater satisfaction to the young gentlemen of this society, than the confidence reposed in us by the parents [Page 491] of those amiable beings who are now permitted to unite their studious excercises with ours—We realize, most intensely, this delicate trust—and we pledge ourselves to you that we will not abuse it—We cannot wonder at the precaution, with which you granted this indulgence—It is certainly right to be careful of riches, whose value cannot be estimated—and which once lost can never be recovered— We shall convince you that you may safely trust with us what is most valuable to you—It would be just, should we be forever unhappy, if we deceive you—Neither shall the amiable manners of our young ladies, be in the least impaired by their associating with us—nor their minds be perverted by the exercises of this place—Our object is, not to present to you dry precepts; but living images of virtue—to show you its effects, in real life. Will the behavior of our young ladies disgust you if they behave, as discreet, virtuous, and polite ladies do in the course of a profitable life? If they do, then virtue itself is disgusting.
Or if we in any instance represent vice, it shall bear its characteristic marks of odium, and there shall be no danger of its being imitated—we shall endeavor to abstain from every thing, which may offend the nicest delicacy, or the purest virtue—however we intreat all reasonable candor—we ask that we may not be judged by harsher maxims, than are generally adopted by persons of a just sense of piety, virtue, and good breeding—we must still represent human beings and human passions. Some of the characters we represent must appear subject to the common f [...]ibles of human nature—but we trust that if nothing is spoken which wounds the ear of modesty—if no action be shown which offends the zealous votaries of virtue—if the pieces shall each contain traits of the most useful moral and religious instruction—besides many just and instructive representations of human nature and the passion; if the fair blossoms of beauty be not sullied by any thing that is rude and unbecoming; but preserve their perfect sweetness; after exhibiting innumerable charms of personal elegance, of genius, learning, and graceful motion—if these things shall be as we trust we can show you the fact—we [...]ave the ambitious hope, that we shall not only escape censure—but even secure your servent approbation.
PROLOGUE, to the YOUNG LADIES' EXHIBITION, Oct. 5th. 1796.
PROLOGUE, to the WINTER EXHIBITION, 1797.
PERMIT me, with that modesty which becomes a youth, to state the plan of our present Exhibition—We do not expert to excell, in the art of speaking, those who have made it their business and profession—Nor is the mere entertainment of the audience, our principal object. Those persons mistake us extremely who think we mean to be imitators of a theatre—Indeed we speak & have dramatic pieces; so they have on the theatre. On the theatre also men walk & breathe. But is it a [...]ime to walk or breathe, because actors and actresses breathe and walk, as well as others—No, nor is it a crime to speak a piece in dramatic form if the object be good—The object of a theatre is amusement; that of a [Page 494] school should always be instruction. All our performances are intended to illustrate certain important principles of morality; and to show what virtue is my means of living examples—While we are doing this, we hope to make some progress in the art of speaking—Of this we readily allow there is great necessity.
Did you here behold a set of actors who profess to entertain the public, you might have both right and cause for criticism; but here you have a set of modest timid scholars who have passed but little time in the pursuits of learning—Yet they are willing to perform as well as they can; that their friends may be able to discern whether they have, or have not, improved their means and advantages.
Bearing this in mind, you will make great allowance for the extreme youth and inexperience of the students. Our pieces at this time, are not the most diverting; but such as best illustrate the moral sentiments which we would impress upon the young mind, and which may give a proper direction to the movements of the youthful heart.
We are encouraged in our arduous enterprize by considering the characters of which this audience is composed. Those respectable ladies whom we call by the endeared name of mother, will have no disposition to damp our spirits, or fully our performances: kindness is the ruling passions of your hearts, and the same tender affection will befriend us here; which bore with the patience of the saints, the cares which attended our infancy & the petulance and follies of our childhood—You will now look with charity on the imperfect performances of our youth, you will be exceedingly pleased if we do well; and this encourages the attempt— Not that we can recompense you for your goodness—That must he left to Him, whose goodness is absolutely without bounds.
Deign, venerable fathers, to soften for a moment the gravity of age; and unbend the awful brow of parental authority, that you smile on the children of your care—If you set the example to all the people of this assembly of keeping us in spirit and encouraging our endeavors, we hope to perform something that will please you.
INTRODUCTORY SPEECH, at the SPRING EXHIBITION, March 25th, 1797.
NO person can reasonably wonder that we should be intimidated by your presence. If you find us fearful and disconcerted in coming before persons of so august an appearance, we trust you will not blame us—We are as you see, many of us young scholars, young indeed to pretend to give an exhibition to such an assembly—You will find many things in our performances which will need excuse, some perhaps which you can only pardon; and yet we hope you will find some that will please you.
We doubt not, venerable fathers, of your affection—You naturally wish to find us doing right—The care which you have shewn that your children be educated in a manner becoming to themselves and useful to society, is a pledge of your kind regards to us this moment.
There is a pleasure in this idea, that we have an opportunity to recommend ourselves to you; and this pleasure in good degree takes away the sense of fear. How happy shall we be, to hear you say hereafter, that your children are less a burden than a pleasure to you; and that you have been the happier, by such blessings—as many would willingly refuse.
And surely we must not forget those who are as much interested in our being, and happiness, as you—You, virtuous and amiable ladies, are extremely dear to us—and you command the sublime respect of all who are knowing to your virtues—We have a great resource for courage—We are assured that you will not blame any thing which you can excuse—the maternal heart will never change—We shall find you benevolent, ready to extenuate our failures, and to magnify our merits—We hope for the happiness of being agreeable to you.
You will not oblige us to forget those who are the pride and ornament of your respectable families and of this seminary of learning—Such as you ever have been and ever [Page 496] will be the delight of human kind. Never shall your praises be passed over in silence. Never shall your smiles or tokens of complacency be despised, till time shall be no more—Beauty united with virtue such as you possess; and are determined you always will possess; will have its influence till the universe shall die—Order must cease in creation; and all sense of excellence be lost, among intelligent beings; before the beauty, and virtues of such as you, shall cease to he admired; or any of your brilliant and useful qualities be forgotten. I am sensible I speak with ardor— Yet ardor becomes a youth in addressing himself to you. It is even more decent than the cold correctness of a philosopher—but not the most correct or coldest philosopher can blame our lively emotions in addressing ourselves to you. To objects, to persons, so worthy of the most interesting regards of human kind.
My fellow students, we are young, unpractised scholars —but let us have courage. These persons come to see us with the most benevolent designs—They wish to see us perform well—They will I trust do nothing which shall prevent it—They will regard us with the most friendly countenances—And let us beseech you—our friends of the assembly; that if you shall hear any thing which▪ shall displease you; that you would repress, for the moment, all visible tokens of dislike—and till you have seen the whole of the exercises, occasional tokens of contempt shown in an audience, damp the firmest performer; and put out of countenance all who come after him; your candor and politeness will induce you to refrain. Then, with all our hearts, we will use our utmost endeavor to please you.
PROLOGUE, To the LADIES EXHIBITION, October 5, 1797.
Section II. INTERMEDIATES.
AN APOLOGY FOR STUDIOUS LADIES, At the LADIES' EXHIBITION Sept. 27. 1793.
IT is not unknown to you, how much wit has been scattered on the subject of the loquacity of women—and how [Page 499] much satire expended in ridiculing ladies who have a taste for learning—but if an eminent faculty of speech be possessed by women, for once let it be employed to a good purpose—let us plead the cause of a sex, who by nature are too feeble to employ force; and by principle too virtuous to use fraud, to accomplish their designs. My apology is for those young ladies, who wish to excel in endowments of the mind—will it be thought a crime, or a breach of modesty to enquire; why such an attempt should be liable to censure—especially as it cannot arise from malice to any person whatever—if we be exposed to at least an equal share of the miseries of life, ought we to be separated from its most sublime, and most constant delights? Does not the condition of a lady require, as much as any, the delightful amusement of elegant essays, of poetry and music? Has she no need of that firmness of mind which philosophy inspires? Would not the sublime consolations of religion greatly increase her happiness? But these are enjoyed in their full force only by an enlightened mind —In a rural retirement, a solitary dwelling, and silence all around her, her most agreeable friends being abroad on business, to have these ideas crowd upon the mind, with which she has been inspired by the fine arts, by philosophy and religion, must assuredly be a great consolation.
But it is said, that it will make all our women dissipated and idle—how does this apear? Do men who have wives well educated in point of learning prosper in their affairs less than others—ask those gentlemen of this assemdly whose wives have been the best educated, whether they find them to be less attentive to domestic concerns, or worse economists than the others—May not more women be trusted with knowledge, as well as these. Or is there any fear that women shall gain too much influence; and become mistressess of the world in spite of man? When we shall quit our domestic employments, put on offensive armor, and become fond of the art of war, then such an event may be feared; and not till then—Power derived from force is denied to women by the God of Nature.
The graces, the virtues, the art of pleasing, are the only ways by which women can influence the minds and actions of men—the fear of those who hold learning to be d [...]gerou [...] to ladies amounts to this—that they are afraid that they shall be too much attracted; that their reason [Page 500] will force them to approve of the conduct of the ladies, and that they shall be attached to the ladies, even against their own inclination. If the ladies then wish to indulge a stroke of policy let it be this: to gain the approbation of those who censure us; & to make even satirists confess, that we act with propriety—this is perfectly consistent with our principles—and there is nothing more conducive to this purpose than the information, which the arts afford—we may safely acquire as much knowledge, as our situation in life will admit, opposing to the geniuses of the age, who ridicule the studies of women, the sentiment of Cicero; ‘While other pursuits suit not to all ages, and stations; that of learning agrees to all. It strengthens the minds of youth, and gives joy in old age—It adorns prosperity, and comforts us in affliction—at home it is delightful, and it is a help to business abroad—it attends us in our travels, and is the joy of our rural retirements—and tho we ourselves were incapable of the arts, we should still admire them, and be captivated with their charms, when we beheld them in others.’
INTERMEDIATE, at the LADIES' EXHIBITION, Sept. 1794. Spoken by a miss of 12 years old.
THE BENEFITS OF LEARNING ARE ABSOLUTE. The INTERMEDIATE SPEECH at the GENTLEMEN'S EXHIBITION, March 25th, 1795.
IT becomes my duty now to present myself before you; and perhaps I cannot do it better than to show the merits of learning—This subject has been variously treated by others; but I propose to myself a track, new and untrodden before. My design is not to prove that learning is a benefit, but that it is necessary—I shall not pretend to show that we can do very well with it; but we cannot do without it—whatever a man learns is a part of learning—And I leave you to judge whether a man can render himself conspicuous or useful without learning any thing—For he who learns one thing, to say that what another learns is useless—is judging out of his line, and is, probaby, judging wrong.
There are two means by which men become conspicuous in the world: one is by gifts of nature, and the other by suitable education—mere natural qualities without education, have indeed an intrinsic value, but like a diamond, rude from the mine, are rough and unpleasing, while education without natural powers, is weak and ineffectual—but when to good natural qualities there succeeds a good and proper education, that presents human nature in its brightest glory.
Alas, what is man, divested of the sciences and all those arts for which learning is necessary—a stupid staring, uncouth animal, centred in himself and selfish gratifications. Say that he can neither write, nor read, that he knows nothing of numbers, and that he cannot speak without offending the hea [...]er—divest him also of the mechanic arts; for they originate in philosophy, and skill in husbandry, for that also is a branch of learning—what is he? a mere savage, a kind of brute, a little handsomer indeed, than his brother bears in the woods—but as much [Page 503] without morals, as much a prey to his passions; what would distinguish him chiefly from them, is, that he is capable of improvement.
Surely then, the consequence is obtained by clear reasoning that he ought to be improved; and the benefit of making progress is as easily discernible—if one degree of knowledge (supposing a man's heart innocent) makes him better, another makes him better still; and so on to infinity.
What is the reason, that we are so unfeeling to each others rights, and so often injure each other in society—it is because we are deficient in two points of learning—1st we have never learned to govern ourselves—next because we have never been taught to respect one another. There is not a single virtue, but must first be known before it can be practised—nor a single vice which we shall avoid unless we know how it is done.
It is a very great error in any person to suppose, that the gratifications of mere corporeal senses are superior to the pleasures of the mind and imagination—that they exceed the sublime delights of intense friendship, of sincere and virtuous love, the noble flights of the imagination, the pleasure of useful knowledge, and the heartfelt whispers of an approving conscience—yet this error, is common to men in a rude uncultivated state, the gross indulgence of appetite, and the unbounded rage of their passions, being almost the only delights of which they form any idea.
But, if the ardor for knowledge which at present exists in our nation shall continue—we hope soon to see the day, when it shall be rare to see a youth deliver himself up to riot, and inebriation—when the instance shall be still rarer, that under the color of love and good will—he shall introduce vice and contamination into a once innocent and happy family, and when to get an office, in order, to betray the public, shall be utterly unknown—we hope that education shall have such force, that the objects of desire, shall be perfectly innocent and harmless enjoyments—that the intention of wealth shall be usefulness; when love shall bless the object of its flame; and ambition shall aim at the good of a nation, and at mankind.
THE BARBARITY OF SATIRES ON WOMEN. INTERMEDIATE of the YOUNG LADIES' EXHIBITION, Oct. 6. 1796.
THE PRAISES OF A LONG AND HEAVY PURSE. An INTERMEDIATE. Spoken at the winter EXHIBITION, January 31st, 1798.
I HOPE to meet with the countenance & encouragement of this assembly, while I attempt a theme of which, I trust, all will confess the utility. I would speak the praises of a long and heavy purse—Well stuffed with substantial coin— While Orations are made on all other subjects of all kinds [Page 507] [...]it seems quite improper that this should be neglected. The present scarcity of cash, must give peculiar force to the arguments with which this theme abounds—It is generally the scarcity of any thing, which is valuable, which effectually teaches us to esteem it—Who then can be more sensible than we are of the value of that ready assistant in all manner of business? Some have asserted that it is in the power of money to do anything—That it can change vice into imaginary virtue, and deformity into beauty—But while we are speaking in this respectable assembly; we have nothing to say of vice, but that it exists not here—and while we are addressing this lovely choir of ladies, to mention deformity would be straying wide from the purpose— It will not be denied, that with the perfection of beauty, it is very well to possess a handsome interest in pecuniary matters—It makes the heart cheerful, and the business of life easy—It is written of Mrs. Primrose the celebrated wife of the Vicar of Wakefield, that she would have her daughters each carry in her pocket a guinea, without ever changing it, to keep them in spirits. If a single guinea has such virtue, what may not be expected from a long and heavy purse, well stuffed with them? It must doubtless do wonders. There are those who maintain that many evils arise from the length, and heaviness of the purse—That it makes prodigals of young heirs; and instigates them to all manner of excesses. But that their purse is not to be blamed may readily be proved from o [...]e easy supposition. Money is just as willing to do good as to do evil, nay it answers its own purpose best by being the instrument of happiness to human-kind—If it does, a man's money is no more to blame for his crimes than his bodily strength for his committing murder— For my part tho I have never experienced so much of the benefit of money, as some men have, yet the little I have had has done me so much good, that I most earnestly desire to have more, and I shall think it strange if you doubt of my sincerity in this assertion—I have a strong imagination that if I had a great fortune I should do much good with it—And if I could handsomely come to the possession of an affluent estate—I have so much confidence in my own integrity, that I should not be afraid to trust myself with it. And while I am wishing for a great plenty of money myself, I cannot help wishing that my neighbors had more [Page 508] than they have, and in this respect I hope I have the happiness of coinciding with their own ideas. I will allow that virtue is of more value than money—for virtue can procure money, but money cannot buy virtue—I will also allow health to be better than cash: because without health we cannot enjoy our money—but money is the third great blessing of human life. Therefore, Ladies and gentlemen —that you may all have the consolations of virtue—the blessings of health, and the convenience of a plenty of Dollars—and that I may have my full share of each, is the hearty desire of your very humble Servant.
A FABLE. THE TWO LILLIES, THE FLORIST AND THE BEAR. INTERMEDIATE, at the LADIES' EXHIBITION, Sept. 29, 1795.
Section III. EPILOGUES; or Concluding Pieces.
EPILOGUE, at the LADIES' EXHIBITION, Sept. 27th, 1793.
THE PLEASURES OF KNOWLEDGE. EPILOGUE to the LADIES' EXHIBITION, Sept. 26, 1794.
VALEDICTORY ADDRESS, at the YOUNG GENTLEMEN'S EXHIBITION, March 25th, 1795.
THIS band of Brothers, the young gentlemen of the school▪ now present to you their most sincere thanks, for the candid and pleasing attention with which you have [...]avored our performances.
We shall believe that you love virtue, and are disposed to encourage learning; by the friendly countenance which you have given to both—It is the intention of the young gentlemen ever to deserve your approbation. Permit me, my bretheren, to express what I believe to be your sentiments, to this assembly—You are determined to pursue those methods of life; by which you may be respectable in yourselves, and useful to society—We will ever (I trust you will support me in the assertion) maintain a grateful sense of the various means by which our kind parents have labored for our happiness. The fair advantages for acquiring useful knowledge, the kind instructions we have received from our nearest relations, and from this school, lead us to virtue, and to real praise. We do not place our happiness, worthy parents and friends, in riot, and debauchery [Page 515] —We have no imagination, that noisy revels, gaming parties, scenes of lewdness, or low knavery, are calculated to convey joy and happiness to the soul—We do not imagine that to despise the counsels of parents, to contract habits of impiety and profanity, which are always attended with savageness of manners, are ways to gain esteem Nor have we formed any idea of happiness as existing in transient sensations of joy, or mirth succeeded by the severest remorse—No—We suppose that probity is honor, and that virtue is happiness.
Speaking of happiness, an idea occurs intima [...]ly connected therewith. It is that of conversing with those whose gra [...]s & virtues and beauties necessarily excite felicity—we believe the sacred text, which saith, that after the supreme had formed ma [...], he from the substance of the man, and from materials taken [...]ear his heart, formed another being more beautiful, more graceful, more lovely— We believe it for we feel to this day the sensible anguish of that primitive wound, nor do we expect that our hearts shall know settled tranquility, or we have permanent happiness of the soul, till the materials, ravished by the divine hand, from the very springs of life, be restored to their native seat—We hope, ladies, to convince you, that to be near our heats, is to live at your proper home.
Yet think not, therefore, that those here present, whose families are illuminated with many of those brightest gems of beauty, need secure those treasures from our approach. Need you defend them by bolts, or bars, or brazen walls? We have no idea that there can be love, where there is a design to destroy: we suppose that it might as truly be said of the hawk that he loves the trembling bird, whom he pierces with his cruel talons—of the wolf that he loves the lamb when he sucks her reeking blood—as that the perfidious traitor loves the innocent and blooming maiden; when he seeks to ruin her best interests, and to fully her spotless fame. Let that heart perish which harbors a savave selfish desire, burning only to destroy. Our idea of love is that of a most innocent harmless kind affection; seeking always the good of its object, like that of the guardian angel over the precious saint, by heaven committed to his care— In respect to these amiable beings, whom we must ever admire and esteem, you will ever, I trust, find our conduct to be void of blame.
[Page 516]N [...]w young ladies, you perceive, that we have entirely cut ourselves off from the refuge of lies, we have been telling your parents, a precious plausible story, how good, how honest and how harmless we mean to be, in all our conversation with you—It happens that you are so near as to hear every word—we have now no advantage to deceive you; and should we attempt any wicked sophistry—you would confute us from our own mouths—yes, ladies, you have that advantage over us, nor do we wish to recal it: keep it and make the utmost of it, you can. We will further tell you, and our hearts witness it to be true,—that every injury from a man to a woman, proceeds from open, or secret contempt; from a mind careless of your best interests, and actuated by mean and selfish motives—reverence yourselves ladies, and it will be impossible that we should not respect and love you.
But need we become your advisers—you know these things; these sentiments are conformable to your daily practice. What respect, what admiration have not your accomplishments, your graces and virtues, inspired. All eyes, ranks acd professions, of men, speak of you with pleasure and say—How accomplished and how virtuous are the young ladies of these days—We hope the time is rapidly advancing, when the parents shall no more shed bitter tears for the weakness of a daughter; nor a brother, by a sister's fault, feel the venomed sting of infamy in his heart—When there shall be no more hurting or destroying, in all the land, of innocent and virtuous love.
FRIENDS OF THE ASSEMBLY, AT LARGE,
The moral, all the social and virtuous affections, are strengthened by the cultivation of the liberal arts—Nay, by education we may turn the whole force of habit, on the side of virtue, and real religion. This matter seems to be better understood now than formerly, and instead of mere language & the more abstract sciences, it becomes more generally the practice in schools to instill into the minds of youth the principles of religion and morals. Instead of considering religion and virtue as the restraints and letters of the mind—they are regarded as the helm and compass, to convey us to happiness, thro the boisterous ocean of human affairs. The moral part of science; and those which affect the heart▪ are much more studied than in former times—and the charming sex are advancing from a state of [Page 517] comparative slavery thro want of education, to be the equal friends and companions of men—They are now treated as the sisters and not the slaves of the other sex—May the great God of heaven preserve us from the horrid calamities of war; and give our plans of education time to ripen, and be pe [...]fected▪ and we trust that the rising states of America shall eclipse in ther glory all the nations of the east —and be a name and praise to God, in the earth.
THE GRATITUDE OF WOMEN. EPILOGUE to the LADIES' EXHIBITION, Sept. 29th, 1795.
ON DIALOGISTIC INSTRUCTION, At the WINTER EXHIBITION, January 1796.
VALEDICTORY, March 26th. 1796.
THE manner of your receiving the performances of this evening, sufficiently demonstrates that your disposition to favor the enterprizings of learning remains unchanged— We repay your candor with the most fervent gratitude.
The politeness of our visiting assemblies is a comfort and encouragement to the students. We feel a delightful security that those who are our observers will receive with pleasure every thing that is well performed, and with tenderness [Page 522] of heart regard all our defects. Happy children, whom a gracious providence has provided with parents of such a temper. We should be unworthy the name of humanity, if we should be ungrateful for such a blessing.
We feel a disadvantage by way of comparison—only a few weeks ago you saw on this stage, such performances as had a peculiar advantage to attract the attention. We cannot doubt that the benign countenance of so full an audience was greatly owing to the assistance of those amiable young ladies, who then united the sublime and beautiful in their performances.
Animated by your presence; assisted by all that was amiable; we exceeded our proper selves, and shone with the reflected rays of genius and beauty. All experiments, ladies, prove that we cannot attain our proper perfection without your society. This day have we been destitute of that advantageous assistance. It made us deeply feel our solitude. But the countenance you have maintained towards us, hath been a delicious consolation. It is your faculty, ladies, to indulge a kind and benevolent heart, and to make many happy without the least departure from true dignity. These and a thousand other agreeable qualities, are daily increasing your influence on our hearts.
We trust, respected fathers and mothers of families, that you will not blame us for regarding our once charming companions in our studies. You will readily believe, that their society must be pleasing to us: but your wisdom hath determined, that in some instances, we should be deprived of their society; and that they shall not mix the common course of their studies with ours. But without any impeachment of your wisdom, we cannot but rejoice, that there is a way, in which we may attain the permanent blessings of their society, without injury to them; and we humbly hope, without offence to you.
My brethren of the school—we have lived together in the course of this term, in delightful harmony and good [...]um [...]r—most remarkable, considering the number of students collected from various towns—and the length of the term. We have been engaged together in the most honorable pursuits. To separate, to leave our favorite studies, and dissolve our favorite society, must be painful to the heart of sensibility: yet we have this comfort, that our society is not wholly dissolved—the root of it remains, and [Page 523] when we please we can make it fl [...]urish again. The institutions of the school form all the gentlemen and ladies in the town, who have been students, or those who wish to join them into a permanent society, for their improvement in learning, in politeness, and virtue, and all that is commendable. I must now, compelled by the desires of the students, and sufficiently prompted by my own heart, return the fervent thanks of the school▪ to all the ladies and gentlemen, who have been present, for their polite and consoling countenances, which they have given us this evening. Your looks have shown, as in a mirror, the benevolence of your hearts, and we trust that the respectable gentlemen, visitors of the school, if we may conjecture from the countenance they have preserved, in their result on our performances, will raise our hearts to the highest pitch of gladness they can at present receive.
THE BEAUTIES OF THE MIND. EPILOGUE to the LADIES' EXHIBITION, Oct. 6, 1796.
GOODNESS OF THE HEART. EPILOGUE to the EXHIBITION, January 1797.
VALEDICTORY ADDRESS, at the EXHIBITION, March 27th, 1797.
THE kind attention with which you have been pleased to hear our performances, excites the most agreeable sensations in our hearts. The countenance of the assembly has given us courage and enabled us to please—praise to the youthful heart attempting worthy deeds is like dew upon the springing grass. If thus you cherish the sensations of the youthful heart, and fan the rising ardor of virtue—your institutions of learning must prosper even beyond your most brilliant expectations.
The giving of this most brilliant part of your exhibition to a person, not an inhabitant of your town—shows the liberality of your institutions—and the impartiality reigning in the school—the way to be conspicuous in any branch, is open to any one who has a passion for laudable improvement—I would willingly convince you, that the love of learning flourishes in other places, and other towns, as well as yours. [Page 529] Shall I not in my addresses to the several parts of the assembly begin with the most deserving? We must then pay our devoirs to our respectable Matrons here present—Our hearts will will not suffer us to omit this; which is both our duty and pleasure—You have done us the honor to think our performances worthy of your attention—And be assured, in proportion as our minds expand to receive knowledge; they will increase in respect to you—That mind must be stupid which thinks not with gratitude on the painful duties and attentions of a mother—Happy the youth who has one, who delights in his accomplishments— No means will be left unessayed that he may have them in perfection.
Yet while we remember matronal dignity, & recompence with gratitude maternal care, we cannot forget the agreeable young ladies, who, tho they study not with us, are related to us, in the privileges of the school—You hide our faults from them, that they may respect us; you discipline them not in our presence, lest their delicate minds should not support the mortification—Yet in the assembly of the dance—or harmless evening amusement—you permit us to have their society. Thus from early life you cherish mutual respect and esteem between the sexes—Young as we are, our hearts already begin to bless you.
My heart delights to address you, young Ladies, for who can be insensible to your approbation—Who be indifferent to your beauties and accomplishments—The heart which is cherished by you; must learn the virtues from your conduct of life—The mind contemplates your beauties, admires your graces, and prefers your virtues—Nothing could console us in leaving your animating presence, but the hope of being reunited, with our dearest domestic friends.
My delightful associates, and fellow students—permit my address to you—If the ladies have our love—and we cannot recal it; our friendship is left for you. We have passed our winter in learning and in pleasure—In pleasure not deserving reprobation—but which every noble mind must approve—The pleasures of learning and of virtue— We would wish such society to last forever—And now shall these hearts pure from the pollution of the world receive the first impressions of vice—No if we be tempted to depart [Page 530] from truth, from elegance and from virtue—we will think of these amiable beings—these exemplary young ladies, and [...]ey will recall our minds to all that is worthy the pursuit of human kind—May the heavens smile on these m [...]nds, who are devoted to the useful arts—Virtue and happiness will establish their rule in this house. We shall always remember with pleasure the days we have passed together—We thank our parents for their attention to our improvement—We thank the Patrons and Instructors of this assembly—We thank the ladies for their politeness, & candor. We thank the Almighty Father both for wisdom and happiness—Our hearts are full of gratitude to Him, that is above us; and to all and every being around us— May the choicest of heaven's blessings, rest on you, respectable matron —Our venerable fathers, our associates, and friends, forever, may you possess all the happiness, that the mind can imagine, or the heart can desire—and may that happiness be absolutely without end.
THE PLEASURE OF PARENTS IN THE VIRTUES OF THEIR CHILDREN. EPILOGUE to the LADIES' EXHIBITION, October 5th. 1797.
DEFINITION OF MODESTY. EPILOGUE to the WINTER EXHIBITION, January 31st. 1798.
LIST OF EXHIBITIONS AND HONORARY PARTS.
The
EPILOGUE is the first honorary part—the
PROLOGUE the second—
INTERMEDIATE the third.
This mark (*) signifies, not found repeated, or printed elsewhere.
First Exhibition — Sept. 27th, 1793,
- 1. Miss Hannah Fiske. Page 509
- 2. Susanna Hoar, Page 481
- 3. Anna Harrington▪ Page 49 [...]
Second— January, 1794.
- 1. Miss Hannah Fiske. *
- 2. Susanna Hoar. *
- 3. Anna Harrington, *
Third— Sept. 26th, 1794.
- 1. Miss Susanna Hoar. Page 511
- 2. Susanna Underwood. Page 484
- 3. Susanna Stearns. Page 500
Fourth— March 25th, 1795.
- 1. Mr. Samuel Hoar. Page 514
- 2. James Farrar. Page 482
- 3. Charles Wheeler. Page 502
Fifth— Sept. 29th, 1795.
- 1. Miss Hannah Fiske. Page 517
- 2. Elizabeth Hagar. Page 489
- 3. Susanna Hobbes. Page 508
Sixth— January, 1796.
- 1. Miss Hannah Flynt. Page 519
- 2. Mr. Eleazer Brookes. Page 490
- 3. Nathan Meriam *
Seventh— March 27th. 1796.
- 1. Mr. James Farrar. Page 521
- 2. Samuel Hoar. Page 457
- 3. Nathan Hagar. *
Eighth— October 6th, 1796.
- 1. Miss Lucy Fiske. Page 523
- 2. Susanna Stearns. Page 492
- 3. Hannah Jones. Page 504
Ninth— January, 1797.
- 1. Miss Thankful Hoar. Page 526
- 2. Mr. Joseph Russell. Page 493
- 3. William Wheeler. *
Tenth— March 27th. 1797.
- 1. Mr. Josian Robbins. Page 528
- 2. Nathan Meriam. Page 495
- 3. Charles Stearns.*
Eleventh— October 5th, 1797.
- 1. Miss Elizabeth Hoar. Page 530
- 2. Ruth Flynt. Page 496
- 3. Rebecca Farrar.* a double Intermediate.
- 3. Julia Stearns.* a double Intermediate.
Twelvth— January 31st, 1798.
- 1. Miss Susanna Stearns. Page 533
- 2. Mr. William Wheeler.*
- 3. Samuel Bowman. Page 506
Conclusion.
THE Author, having completed the plan of his work, would take a decent farewell of his readers. He has endeavored to set in a clear light, in his Dialogues, some of the most necessary and useful principles of morality, and religion; and to awaken, and exemplify, those decent and tender affections, which form the felicity of domestic life— these are more level to the comprehension of persons under twenty years of age—than the speeches of generals at the head of armies, or the high wrought satires▪ which find acceptance in old and corrupted courts: and the author supposes they have a better effect on the hearts of young persons of both sexes. And are more suitable to the simplicity of manners generally prevailing in our commonwealth—He condemns not other men's works however—all may be useful in their place.
The manuscript copy of this wo [...]k, contained about 1,100 pages in quarto, close [...]y written, and the book was printed wholly from the manuscript. It may be tho't not strange therefore, that there should be some errata in it—the author supposes that half the errors arose from his manuscript. The printer will not then be chargeable, with any great number. The following he thinks ought to be noticed because they confound the sense of the passages in which they are found.
| Page. | Line. | For | Read |
| 16 | 7 | compleated | contemplated. |
| 23 | 16 | with her arm | with his arm. |
| 50 | 13 | tyrant | tyrants. |
| 109 | 8 | low courtesy | short courtesy. |
| 117 | 24 | that lad that loves | the lad who loves. |
| 147 | 25 | breath of abomination | broth of abomination. |
| 151 | 21 | experience | experiment. |
| 166 | 11 | shepherd | saphead. |
| 189 | 3 | mutual | martial. |
| 199 | 9 | nephew | kinsman. |
| 204 | 10 | gets away | continues eating. |
| 212 | 7 | sweak | swear. |
| 228 | 30 | purlough | furlough. |
| 288 | 11 | And heiress | An heiress. |
| 306 | 22 | Mary Magdalen's | Mary Magdalen. |
| 309 | 32 | breathing from his mouth | breathing fire from his mouth. |
| 315 | 17 | humpish | lumpish. |
| 321 | 22 | be afraid | feel afraid. |
| 330 | 28 | You like old Jeremy | You look like old Jeremy. |
| 358 | 5 | Mischance agency | Mechanic agency. |
| 480 | 1 | great gains | great pains. |
The Author readers his most sincere thanks to the encouragers and patrons of his work. Several Towns in the country, have each subscribed for more than an hundred copies—Perhaps never was a more respectable subscription. But it is not in the Author's power to give a list of the Subscribers; for not one half of the Papers are returned. If the work lives to another edition, the Author will treat all his encouragers with due honors; and will publish a correct list of the Subscribers. But if the work must die in the infancy of its existence, the Subscribers may think it best, that their names were not annexed to it. The type is smaller than the Author at first intended—but on that account the book contains more matter; which, in a book of this kind, is an advantage—A larger type with the same materials must have made a book out of all proportion for a duodecimo—and the Author could not have afforded it at the assigned price. Wishing his Patrons, and his Readers, all happiness in this, and the better life—he remains their sincere friend and
INDEX.
PART I.
- INTRODUCTION,
- On Exhibitions, Page 5
PART II. DIALOGUES.
- Subjects.
- Titles.
- Goodness of heart & veracity of speech, w
- Woman of Honor, 31
- Folly of lying and hypocrisy,
- m w The male Coquette. 45
- Absurdity of altering reports,
- m The Growth of Rumors. 51
- Mildness of disposition,
- m w The Gamester. 69
- Command of the angry passions,
- m w Triumph of Temper. 81
- Patience,
- w Mother of a Family. 99
- Compassion to the miserable,
- w The Captive. 113
- Self-government,
- w Ronscevalles. 125
- Modesty, and virtuous love,
- m Panthea, 141
- Torments of a man of pleasure,
- m The Foundling, 155
- Danger and cure of vicious habits,
- w The Female Gamesters, 169
- Voluptuousness dangerous to youth,
- m Scanderbeg. 183
- Dignity of character superior to riches,
- m w Maid of the Groves. 199
- Absurdity of a capricious temper,
- m w The Coquette. 217
- Prudery and forwardness,
- w Insolvable Question. 231
- Baseness of fortune hunting,
- m w Match Dissolved, 243
- Youth the season for love and marriage,
- w Spring for Flowers. 255
- Frivolity of matrimonial quarrels,
- w Discontented Wife. 267
- Confidence necessary among the members of a family,
- m w Father of a Family. 281
- Absurdity and folly of fortute telling,
- m The Bottle Conjurer, 299
- Superstition generally arises from vice,
- w The Apparition. 313
- Folly of local prejudice,
- m The Wooden Boy, 325
- Folly of profuseness
- m Bernard of Berlin. 341
- [Page 540]Benefit of the principle of civil liberty,
- m w Rogue sound honest, 353
- Moderation in politics,
- m The Little Box. 367
- Honesty better than learning,
- m w The Inquisitor, 383
- Grandeur of piety,
- m Death of Socrates. 399
- Christ [...]anity favorable to women,
- w Constantia. 441
- Future retribution,
- m w Zenobia. 427
- Virtue the basis of liberty,
- m Orphan of China. 451
PART III.
- SINGLE PIECES
- 477
[For a more particular Index to the third part, see List of Exhibitions. &c.]
The letter (w) signifies the women's characters prevalent in the piece— (m) the men's— (m w) men's and women's characters, whose connection is necessary to the piece.