Mrs M. But I hope you have considered well what my lord told you, that you will not scruple going into keeping: perhaps, you will have it in your power to serve your family, and it would be a great sin not to do all you can for your family.

Miss M. I have dreamt of nothing but coaches and six, and balls, and treats, and shows, and masquerades ever since.

Fust. Dreamt, sir? why, I thought the time of your comedy had been confined to the same day, Mr Trapwit?

Trap. No, sir, it is not; but suppose it was, might she not have taken an afternoon's nap?

Sneer. Ay, or dreamt waking, as several people do.

Enter Lord PLACE and Col. PROMISE.

Place. Madam, I am come to take my leave of you; I am very sensible of my many obligations to you, and shall remember them till the next election, when I will wait on you again; nay, I don't question but we shall carry our point yet, though they have given us the trouble of a petition.

Mrs M. No, no, my lord, you are not yet reduced to that; I have prevailed on my husband to return you and the colonel.

Place. To return us, madam?

Mrs M. Yes, my lord, as duly elected; and when we have returned you so, it will be your own fault if you don't prove yourself so.

Place. Madam, this news has so transported my spirits, that I fear some ill effect unless you instantly give me a dram.

Mrs M. If your lordship please to walk with me into my closet, I'll equip your lordship. [Exit.

Trap. How do you like that dram, sir?

Sneer. Oh! most excellent!

Fust. I can't say so, unless I tasted it.

Trap. Faith, sir, if it had not been for that dram my play had been at an end.

Fust. The devil take the dram with all my heart!

Trap. Now, Mr Fustian, the plot, which has hitherto been only carried on by hints, and opened itself like the infant spring by small and imperceptible degrees to the audience, will display itself like a ripe matron, in its full summer's bloom; and cannot, I think, fail with its attractive charms, like a loadstone, to catch the admiration of every one like a trap, and raise an applause like thunder, till it makes the whole house like a hurricane. I must desire a strict silence through this whole scene. Colonel, stand you still on this side of the stage; and, miss, do you stand on the opposite.—There, now look at each other. A long silence here.

Fust. Pray, Mr Trapwit, is nobody ever to speak again?

Trap. Oh! the devil! You have interrupted the scene; after all my precautions the scene's destroyed; the best scene of silence that ever was penned by man. Come, come, you may speak now; you may speak as fast as you please.

Col. Madam, the army is very much obliged to you for the zeal you shew for it; me, it has made your slave for ever; nor can I ever think of being happy unless you consent to marry me.

Miss M. Ha! and can you be so generous to forgive all my ill usage of you?

Fust. What ill usage, Mr Trapwit? For, if I mistake not, this is the first time these lovers spoke to one another.

Trap. What ill usage, sir? a great deal, sir.

Fust. When, sir? where, sir?

Trap. Why, behind the scenes, sir. What, would you have everything brought upon the stage? I intend to bring ours to the dignity of the French stage; and I have Horace's advice on my side. We have many things both said and done in our comedies which might be better performed behind the scenes: the French, you know, banish all cruelty from their stage; and I don't see why we should bring on a lady in ours practising all manner of cruelty upon her lover: besides, sir, we do not only produce it, but encourage it; for I could name you some comedies, if I would, where a woman is brought in for four acts together, behaving to a worthy man in a manner for which she almost deserves to be hanged; and in the fifth, forsooth, she is rewarded with him for a husband: now, sir, as I know this hits some tastes, and am willing to oblige all, I have given every lady a latitude of thinking mine has behaved in whatever manner she would have her.

Sneer. Well said, my little Trap! but pray let us have the scene.

Trap. Go on, miss, if you please.

Miss M. I have struggled with myself to put you to so many trials of your constancy; nay, perhaps have indulged myself a little too far in the innocent liberties of abusing you, tormenting you, coquetting, lying, and jilting; which as you are so good to forgive, I do faithfully promise to make you all the amends in my power, by making you a good wife.

Trap. That single promise, sir, is more than any of my brother authors had ever the grace to put into the mouth of any of their fine ladies yet; so that the hero of a comedy is left in a much worse condition than the villain of a tragedy, and I would choose rather to be hanged with the one than married with the other.

Sneer. Faith, Trapwit, without a jest, thou art in the right on't.

Fust. Go on, go on, dear sir, go on.

Col. And can you be so generous, so great, so good? Oh! load not thus my heart with obligations, lest it sink beneath its burden! Oh! could I live a hundred thousand years, I never could repay the bounty of that last speech! Oh! my paradise!

Eternal honey drops from off your tongue! And when you spoke, then Farinelli sung!

Trap. Open your arms, miss, if you please; remember you are no coquet now: how pretty this looks! don't it? [Mimicking her] Let me have one of your best embraces, I desire: do it once more, pray—There, there, that's pretty well; you must practise this behind the scenes.

[Exeunt Miss M. and Col.]

Sneer. Are they gone to practice, now, Mr Trapwit?

Trap. You're a joker, Mr Sneerwell; you're a joker.

Enter Lord PLACE, Mayor, and Mrs Mayoress.

Place. I return you my hearty thanks, Mr Mayor, for this return! and in return of the favour, I will certainly do you a very good turn very shortly.

Fust. I wish the audience don't do you an ill turn, Mr Trapwit, for that last speech.

Sneer. Yes, faith, I think I would cut out a turn or two.

Trap. Sir, I'll sooner cut off an ear or two: sir, that's the very best thing in the whole play. Come, enter the colonel and Miss ——— married.

Sneer. Upon my word, they have been very expeditious.

Trap. Yes, sir; the parson understands his business, he has plyed several years at the Fleet.

Enter Col. PROMISE and Miss Mayoress.

Col. and Miss (kneeling). Sir, and madam, your blessing.

Mrs M. and May. Ha!

Col. Your daughter, sir and madam, has made me the happiest of mankind.

Mrs M. Colonel, you know you might have had my consent; why did you choose to marry without it? However, I give you both my blessing.

May. And so do I.

Place. Then call my brother candidates; we will spend this night in feast and merriment.

Fust. What has made these two parties so suddenly friends, Mr Trapwit?

Trap. What? why the marriage, sir; the usual reconciler at the end of a comedy. I would not have concluded without every person on the stage for the world.

Place. Well, colonel, I see you are setting out for life, and so I wish you a good journey. And you, gallants, from what you've seen to-night, If you are wrong, may set your judgments right; Nor, like our misses, about bribing quarrel, When better herring is in neither barrel.

[Manent FUST, TRAP and SNEER.]

Trap. Thus ends my play, sir.

Fust. Pray, Mr Trapwit, how has the former part of it conduced to this marriage?

Trap. Why, sir, do you think the colonel would ever have had her but on the prospect her father has from this election?

Sneer. Ay, or to strengthen his interest with the returning officer?

Trap. Ay, sir, I was just going to say so.

Sneer. But where's your epilogue?

Trap. Faith, sir, I can't tell what I shall do for an epilogue.

Sneer. What I have you writ none?

Trap. Yes, faith, I have writ one, but——

Sneer. But what?

Trap. Faith, sir, I can get no one to speak it; the actresses are so damn'd difficult to please. When first I writ it they would not speak it, because there were not double-entendres enough in it; upon which I went to Mr Watt's and borrowed all his plays; went home, read over all the epilogues, and crammed it as full as possible; and now, forsooth, it has too many in it. Oons! I think we must get a pair of scales and weigh out a sufficient quantity of that same.

Fust. Come, come, Mr Trapwit, clear the stage, if you please.

Trap. With all my heart; for I have overstayed my time already; I am to read my play to-day to six different companies of quality.

Fust. You'll stay and see the tragedy rehearsed, I hope?

Trap. Faith, sir, it is my great misfortune that I can't; I deny myself a great pleasure, but cannot possibly stay—to hear such damn'd stuff as I know it must be. [Aside.

Sneer. Nay, dear Trapwit, you shall not go. Consider, your advice may be of some service to Mr Fustian; besides, he has stayed the rehearsal of your play——

Fust. Yes, I have—and kept myself awake with much difficulty. [Aside.

Trap. Nay, nay, you know I can't refuse you—though I shall certainly fall asleep in the first act. [Aside.

Sneer. If you'll let me know who your people of quality are, I'll endeavour to bring you off.

Trap. No, no, hang me if I tell you, ha, ha, ha! I know you too well—But prithee, now, tell me, Fustian, how dost thou like my play? dost think it will do?

Fust. 'Tis my opinion it will.

Trap. Give me a guinea, and I'll give you a crown a night as long as it runs.

Sneer. That's laying against yourself, Mr Trapwit.

Trap. I love a hedge, sir.

Fust. Before the rehearsal begins, gentlemen, I must beg your opinion of my dedication: you know, a dedication is generally a bill drawn for value therein contained; which value is a set of nauseous fulsome compliments which my soul abhors and scorns; for I mortally hate flattery, and therefore have carefully avoided it.

Sneer. Yes, faith, a dedication without flattery will be worth the seeing.

Fust. Well, sir, you shall see it. Read it, dear Trapwit; I hate to read my own works.

Trap. [Reads.] "My lord, at a time when nonsense, dullness, lewdness, and all manner of profaneness and immorality are daily practised on the stage, I have prevailed on my modesty to offer to your lordship's protection a piece which, if it has no merit to recommend it, has at least no demerit to disgrace it; nor do I question at this, when every one else is dull, you will be pleased to find one exception to the number.

"I cannot indeed help assuming to myself some little merit from the applause which the town has so universally conferred upon me."

Fust. That you know, Mr Sneer well, may be omitted, if it should meet with any ill-natured opposition; for which reason, I shall not print off my dedication till after the play is acted.

Trap. [Reads.] "I might here indulge myself with a delineation of your lordship's character; but as I abhor the least imputation of flattery, and as I am certain your lordship is the only person in this nation that does not love to hear your praises, I shall be silent—only this give me leave to say, That you have more wit, sense, learning, honour, and humanity, than all mankind put together; and your person comprehends in it everything that is beautiful; your air is everything that is graceful, your look everything that is majestic, and your mind is a storehouse where every virtue and every perfection are lodged: to pass by your generosity, which is so great, so glorious, so diffusive, that like the sun it eclipses, and makes stars of all your other virtues—I could say more——"

Sneer. Faith, sir, that's more than I could.

Trap. "But shall commit a violence upon myself, and conclude with assuring your lordship, that I am, my lord, your lordship's most obedient, most devoted, most obsequious, and most obliged humble servant."

Fust. There you see it, sir, concise, and not fulsome.

Sneer. Very true, sir, if you had said less it would not have done.

Fust. No, I think less would have been downright rude, considering it was to a person of the first quality.

Sneer. Prithee, Trap wit, let's see yours.

Trap. I have none, sir.

Fust. How, sir? no dedication?

Trap. No, sir, for I have dedicated so many plays, and received nothing for them, that I am resolved to trust no more; I'll let no more flattery go out of my shop without being paid beforehand.

Fust. Sir, flattery is so cheap, and every man of quality keeps so many flatterers about him, that egad our trade is quite spoil'd; but if I am not paid for this dedication, the next I write shall be a satirical one; if they won't pay me for opening my mouth, I'll make them pay me for shutting it. But since you have been so kind, gentlemen, to like my dedication, I'll venture to let you see my prologue. Sir, I beg the favour of you to repeat the prologue, if you are perfect in it. [To a Player.]

Play. Sir, I'll do it to the best of my power.

Fust. This prologue was writ by a friend.

PROLOGUE.

When Death's sharp scythe has mowed the hero down, The muse again awakes him to renown; She tells proud Fate that all her darts are vain, And bids the hero live and strut about again: Nor is she only able to restore, But she can make what ne'er was made before; Can search the realms of Fancy, and create What never came into the brain of Fate.

Forth from these realms, to entertain to-night, She brings imaginary kings and queens to light, Bids Common Sense in person mount the stage, And Harlequin to storm in tragick rage. Britons, attend; and decent reverence shew To her, who made th' Athenian bosoms glow; Whom the undaunted Romans could revere, And who in Shakespeare's time was worshipp'd here: If none of these can her success presage, Your hearts at least a wonder may engage: Oh I love her like her sister monsters of the age.

Sneer. Faith, sir, your friend has writ a very fine prologue.

Fust. Do you think so? Why then, sir, I must assure you, that friend is no other than myself. But come, now for the tragedy. Gentlemen, I must desire you all to clear the stage, for I have several scenes which I could wish it was as big again for.

2d Player enters and whispers TRAPWIT.

2 Play. Sir, a gentlewoman desires to speak to you.

Trap. Is she in a chair?

2 Play. No, sir, she is in a riding-hood, and says she has brought you a clean shirt. [Exit.

Trap. I'll come to her.—Mr Fustian, you must excuse me a moment; a lady of quality hath sent to take some boxes. [Exit.

Promp. Common Sense, sir, desires to speak with you in the green-room.

Fust. I'll wait upon her.

Sneer. You ought, for it is the first message, I believe, you ever received from her. [Aside. [Exeunt Fus. and SNEER.

Enter a Dancer.

Dane. Look'e, Mr Prompter, I expect to dance first goddess; I will not dance under Miss Minuet; I am sure I shew more to the audience than any lady upon the stage.

Promp. Madam, it is not my business.

Dane. I don't know whose business it is; but I think the town ought to be the judges of a dancer's merit; I am sure they are on my side; and if I am not used better, I'll go to France; for now we have got all their dancers away, perhaps they may be glad of some of ours.

Promp. Heyday! what's the matter? [A noise within.

Enter Player.

Play. The author and Common Sense are quarrelling in the green-room.

Promp. Nay, then, that's better worth seeing than anything in the play. [Exit Promp.

Danc. Hang this play, and all plays; the dancers are the only people that support the house; if it were not for us they might act their Shakspeare to empty benches.



ACT IV.

SCENE I.—Enter FUSTIAN and SNEERWELL.

Fust. These little things, Mr Sneerwell, will sometimes happen. Indeed a poet undergoes a great deal before he comes to his third night; first with the muses, who are humorous ladies, and must be attended; for if they take it into their head at any time to go abroad and leave you, you will pump your brain in vain: then, sir, with the master of a playhouse to get it acted, whom you generally follow a quarter of a year before you know whether he will receive it or no; and then, perhaps, he tells you it won't do, and returns it to you again, reserving the subject, and perhaps the name, which he brings out in his next pantomime; but if he should receive the play, then you must attend again to get it writ out into parts and rehearsed. Well, sir, at last, the rehearsals begin; then, sir, begins another scene of trouble with the actors, some of whom don't like their parts, and all are continually plaguing you with alterations: at length, after having waded through all these difficulties, his play appears on the stage, where one man hisses out of resentment to the author, a second out of dislike to the house, a third out of dislike to the actor, a fourth out of dislike to the play, a fifth for the joke sake, a sixth to keep all the rest in company. Enemies abuse him, friends give him up, the play is damned, and the author goes to the devil: so ends the farce.

Sneer. The tragedy, rather, I think, Mr Fustian. But what's become of Trapwit?

Fust. Gone off, I suppose; I knew he would not stay; he is so taken up with his own performances, that he has no time to attend any others. But come, Prompter, will the tragedy never begin?

Enter Prompter.

Promp. Yes, sir, they are all ready; come, draw up the curtain.

[FIREBRAND, LAW, and PHYSICK discovered.

Sneer. Pray, Mr Fustian, who are these personages?

Fust. That in the middle, sir, is Firebrand, priest of the Sun; he on the right represents Law, and he on the left Physick.

Fireb. Avert these omens, ye auspicious stars!

Fust. What omens? where the devil is the thunder and lightning!

Promp. Why don't you let go the thunder there, and flash your rosin? [Thunder and lightning.

Fust. Now, sir, begin if you please. I desire, sir, you will get a larger thunderbowl and two pennyworth more of lightning against the representation. Now, sir, if you please.

Fireb. Avert these omens, ye auspicious stars! O Law! O Physick! As last, even late, I offer'd sacred incense in the temple, The temple shook—strange prodigies appeared; A cat in boots did dance a rigadoon, While a huge dog play'd on the violin; And whilst I trembling at the altar stood, Voices were heard i' th' air, and seem'd to say, "Awake, my drowsy sons, and sleep no more." They must mean something!—

Law. Certainly they must. We have our omens too! The other day A mighty deluge swam into our hall, As if it meant to wash away the law: Lawyers were forced to ride on porters' shoulders: One, O prodigious omen! tumbled down, And he and all his briefs were sous'd together. Now, if I durst my sentiments declare, I think it is not hard to guess the meaning.

Fireb. Speak boldly; by the powers I serve, I swear You speak in safety, even though you speak Against the gods, provided that you speak Not against priests.

Law. What then can the powers Mean by these omens, but to rouse us up From the lethargick sway of Common Sense? And well they urge, for while that drowsy queen Maintains her empire, what becomes of us?

Phys. My lord of Law, you speak my sentiments; For though I wear the mask of loyalty, And outward shew a reverence to the queen, Yet in my heart I hate her: yes, by heaven, She stops my proud ambition! keeps me down When I would soar upon an eagle's wing, And thence look down, and dose the world below.

Law. Thou know'st, my lord of Physick, I had long Been privileged by custom immemorial, In tongues unknown, or rather none at all, My edicts to deliver through the land; When this proud queen, this Common Sense abridged My power, and made me understood by all.

Phys. My lord, there goes a rumour through the court That you descended from a family Related to the queen; Reason is said T' have been the mighty founder of your house.

Law. Perhaps so; but we have raised ourselves so high, And shook this founder from us off so far, We hardly deign to own from whence we came.

Fireb. My lords of Law and Physick, I have heard With perfect approbation all you've said: And since I know you men of noble spirit, And fit to undertake a glorious cause, I will divulge myself: know, through this mask, Which to impose on vulgar minds I wear, I am an enemy to Common Sense; But this not for Ambition's earthly cause, But to enlarge the worship of the Sun; To give his priests a just degree of power, And more than half the profits of the land. Oh! my good lord of Law, would'st thou assist, In spite of Common Sense it may be done.

Law. Propose the method.

Fireb. Here, survey this list. In it you'll find a certain set of names, Whom well I know sure friends to Common Sense; These it must be our care to represent The greatest enemies to the gods and her. But hush! the queen approaches.

Enter Queen COMMON SENSE, attended by two Maids of Honour.

Fust. What! but two maids of honour?

Promp. Sir, a Jew carried off the other, but I shall be able to pick up some more against the play is acted.

Q. C. S. My lord of Law, I sent for you this morning; I have a strange petition given to me. Two men, it seems, have lately been at law For an estate, which both of them have lost, And their attorneys now divide between them.

Law. Madam, these things will happen in the law.

Q. C. S. Will they, my lord? then better we had none: But I have also heard a sweet bird sing, That men unable to discharge their debts At a short warning, being sued for them, Have, with both power and will their debts to pay, Lain all their lives in prison for their costs.

Law. That may, perhaps, be some poor person's case, Too mean to entertain your royal ear.

Q. C. S. My lord, while I am queen I shall not think One man too mean or poor to be redress'd. Moreover, lord, I am informed your laws Are grown so large, and daily yet increase, That the great age of old Methusalem Would scarce suffice to read your statutes out.

Fireb. Madam, a more important cause demands Your royal care; strange omens have appear'd; Sights have been seen, and voices have been heard, The gods are angry, and must be appeas'd; Nor do I know to that a readier way Than by beginning to appease their priests, Who groan for power, and cry out after honour.

Q. C. S. The gods, indeed, have reason for their anger, And sacrifices shall be offer'd to them; But would you make 'em welcome, priest, be meek, Be charitable, kind, nor dare affront The Sun you worship, while yourselves prevent That happiness to men you ask of him.

Enter an Officer.

Q. C. S. What means this hasty message in your looks?

Offic. Forgive me, madam, if my tongue declares News for your sake, which most my heart abhors; Queen Ignorance is landed in your realm, With a vast power from Italy and France Of singers, fidlers, tumblers, and rope-dancers.

Q. C. S. Order our army instantly to get Themselves in readiness; our self will head 'em. My lords, you are concerned as well as we T'oppose this foreign force, and we expect You join us with your utmost levies straight. Go, priest, and drive all frightful omens hence; To fright the vulgar they are your pretence, But sure the gods will side with Common Sense.

[Exit cum suis.

Fireb. They know their interest better; or at least Their priests do for 'em, and themselves. Oh! lords, This queen of Ignorance, whom you have heard Just now described in such a horrid form, Is the most gentle and most pious queen; So fearful of the gods, that she believes Whate'er their priests affirm. And by the Sun, Faith is no faith if it falls short of that. I'd be infallible; and that, I know, Will ne'er be granted me by Common Sense: Wherefore I do disclaim her, and will join The cause of Ignorance. And now, my lords, Each to his post. The rostrum I ascend; My lord of Law, you to your courts repair; And you, my good lord Physick, to the queen; Handle her pulse, potion and pill her well.

Phys. Oh! my good lord, had I her royal ear, Would she but take the counsel I would give, You'd need no foreign power to overthrow her: Yes, by the gods! I would with one small pill Unhinge her soul, and tear it from her body; But to my art and me a deadly foe, She has averr'd, ay, in the publick court, That Water Gruel is the best physician; For which, when she's forgiven by the college, Or when we own the sway of Common Sense, May we be forced to take our own prescriptions!

Fireb. My lord of Physick, I applaud thy spirit. Yes, by the Sun, my heart laughs loud within me, To see how easily the world's deceived; To see this Common Sense thus tumbled down By men whom all the cheated nations own To be the strongest pillars of her throne.

[Exeunt FIREB., LAW, and PHYS.

Fust. Thus ends the first act, sir.

Sneer. This tragedy of yours, Mr Fustian, I observe to be emblematical; do you think it will be understood by the audience?

Fust. Sir, I cannot answer for the audience; though I think the panegyrick intended by it is very plain and very seasonable.

Sneer. What panegyrick?

Fust. On our clergy, sir, at least the best of them, to shew the difference between a heathen and a Christian priest. And, as I have touched only on generals, I hope I shall not be thought to bring anything improper on the stage, which I would carefully avoid.

Sneer. But is not your satire on law and physick somewhat too general?

Fust. What is said here cannot hurt either an honest lawyer or a good physician; and such may be, nay, I know such are: if the opposites to these are the most general I cannot help that; as for the professors themselves, I have no great reason to be their friend, for they once joined in a particular conspiracy against me.

Sneer. Ah, how so?

Fust. Why, an apothecary brought me in a long bill, and a lawyer made me pay it.

Sneer. Ha, ha, ha! a conspiracy, indeed!

Fust. Now, sir, for my second act; my tragedy consists but of three.

Sneer. I thought that had been immethodical in tragedy.

Fust. That may be; but I spun it out as long as I could keep Common Sense alive; ay, or even her ghost. Come, begin the second act.

The scene draws and discovers QUEEN COMMON SENSE asleep.

Sneer. Pray, sir, who's that upon the couch there?

Fust. I thought you had known her better, sir: that's Common Sense asleep.

Sneer. I should rather have expected her at the head of her army.

Fust. Very likely, but you do not understand the practical rules of writing as well as I do; the first and greatest of which is protraction, or the art of spinning, without which the matter of a play would lose the chief property of all other matter, namely, extension; and no play, sir, could possibly last longer than half an hour. I perceive, Mr Sneerwell, you are one of those who would have no character brought on but what is necessary to the business of the play.—Nor I neither—But the business of the play, as I take it, is to divert, and therefore every character that diverts is necessary to the business of the play.

Sneer. But how will the audience be brought to conceive any probable reason for this sleep?

Fust. Why, sir, she has been meditating on the present general peace of Europe, till by too intense an application, being not able thoroughly to comprehend it, she was overpowered and fell fast asleep. Come, ring up the first ghost. [Ghost arises.] You know that ghost?

Sneer. Upon my word, sir, I can't recollect any acquaintance with him.

Fust. I am surprized at that, for you must have seen him often: that's the ghost of Tragedy, sir; he has walked all the stages of London several years; but why are not you floured?—What the devil is become of the barber?

Ghost. Sir, he's gone to Drury-lane playhouse to shave the Sultan in the new entertainment.

Fust. Come, Mr Ghost, pray begin.

Ghost. From the dark regions of the realms below The ghost of Tragedy has ridden post; To tell thee, Common Sense, a thousand things, Which do import thee nearly to attend: [Cock crows. But, ha! the cursed cock has warn'd me hence; I did set out too late, and therefore must Leave all my business to some other time.

[Ghost descends.

Sneer. I presume this is a character necessary to divert; for I can see no great business he has fulfilled.

Fust. Where's the second ghost?

Sneer. I thought the cock had crowed.

Fust. Yes, but the second ghost need not be supposed to have heard it. Pray, Mr Prompter, observe, the moment the first ghost descends the second is to rise: they are like the twin stars in that.

[2 Ghost rises.

2 Ghost. Awake, great Common Sense, and sleep no more. Look to thyself; for then, when I was slain, Thyself was struck at; think not to survive My murder long; for while thou art on earth, The convocation will not meet again. The lawyers cannot rob men of their rights; Physicians cannot dose away their souls; A courtier's promise will not be believed; Nor broken citizens again be trusted. A thousand newspapers cannot subsist In which there is not any news at all. Playhouses cannot flourish, while they dare To nonsense give an entertainment's name. Shakspeare, and Jonson, Dryden, Lee, and Rowe, Thou wilt not bear to yield to Sadler's Wells; Thou wilt not suffer men of wit to starve, And fools, for only being fools, to thrive. Thou wilt not suffer eunuchs to be hired At a vast price, to be impertinent. [3 Ghost rises.

3 Ghost. Dear ghost, the cock has crow'd; you cannot get Under the ground a mile before 'tis day.

2 Ghost. Your humble servant then, I cannot stay. [Ghost descends.

Fust. Thunder and lightning! thunder and lightning! Pray don't forget this when it is acted.

Sneer. Pray, Mr Fustian, why must a ghost always rise in a storm of thunder and lightning? for I have read much of that doctrine and don't find any mention of such ornaments.

Fust. That may be, but they are very necessary: they are indeed properly the paraphernalia of a ghost.

Sneer. But, pray, whose ghost was that?

Fust. Whose should it be but Comedy's? I thought, when you had been told the other was Tragedy, you would have wanted no intimation who this was. Come, Common Sense, you are to awake and rub your eyes.

Q. C. S. [Waking.] Who's there?—

Enter Maid of Honour.

Did you not hear or see some wond'rous thing?

Maid. No, may it please your majesty, I did not.

Q. C. S. I was a-dream'd I overheard a ghost.

Maid. In the next room I closely did attend, And had a ghost been here I must have heard him.

Enter FIREBRAND.

Q. C. S. Priest of the Sun, you come most opportune, For here has been a dreadful apparition: As I lay sleeping on my couch, methought I saw a ghost.

Sneer. Then I suppose she sleeps with her eyes open.

Fust. Why, you would not have Common Sense see a ghost, unless in her sleep, I hope.

Fireb. And if such toleration Be suffer'd as at present you maintain, Shortly your court will be a court of ghosts. Make a huge fire and burn all unbelievers: Ghosts will be hang'd ere venture near a fire.

Q. C. S. Men cannot force belief upon themselves, And shall I then by torture force it on them?

Fireb. The Sun will have it so.

Q. C. S. How do I know that?

Fireb. Why I, his priest infallible, have told you.

Q. C. S. How do I know you are infallible?

Fireb. Ha! do you doubt it! nay, if you doubt that, I will prove nothing. But my zeal inspires me, And I will tell you, madam, you yourself Are a most deadly enemy to the Sun; And all his priests have greatest cause to wish You had been never born.

Q. C. S. Ha! sayest thou, priest? Then know, I honour and adore the Sun: And when I see his light, and feel his warmth, I glow with flaming gratitude towards him; But know, I never will adore a priest, Who wears pride's face beneath religion's mask, And makes a pick-lock of his piety To steal away the liberty of mankind: But while I live, I'll never give thee power.

Fireb. Madam, our power is not derived from you, Nor any one: 'twas sent us in a box From the great Sun himself, and carriage paid: Phaeton brought it when he overturn'd The chariot of the Sun into the sea.

Q. C. S. Shew me the instrument and let me read it.

Fireb. Madam, you cannot read it, for, being thrown Into the sea, the water has so damaged it That none but priests could ever read it since.

Q. C. S. And do you think I can believe this tale?

Fireb. I order you to believe it, and you must.

Q. C. S. Proud and imperious man, I can't believe it. Religion, law, and physick, were design'd By heaven the greatest blessings on mankind; But priests, and lawyers, and physicians, made These general goods to each a private trade; With each they rob, with each they fill their purses, And turn our benefits into our curses. [Exit.

Fust. Law and Physick. Where's Law?

Enter PHYSIC.

Phys. Sir, Law, going without the playhouse passage, was taken up by a lord chief-justice's warrant.

Fireb. Then we must go on without him.

Fust. No, no, stay a moment; I must get somebody else to rehearse the part. Pox take all warrants for me! if I had known this before I would have satirized the law ten times more than I have.



ACT V.

SCENE I.—Enter FUSTIAN, SNEERWELL, Prompter, FIREBRAND, LAW, PHYSICK.

Fust. I am glad you have made your escape; but I hope you will make the matter up before the day of action: come, Mr Firebrand, now if you please go on; the moment Common Sense goes off the stage Law and Physick enter.

Fireb. Oh! my good lords of Physick and of Law, Had you been sooner here you would have heard The haughty queen of Common Sense throw out Abuses on us all.

Law. I am not now To learn the hatred which she bears to me. No more of that—for now the warlike queen Of Ignorance, attended with a train Of foreigners, all foes to Common Sense, Arrives at Covent-garden; and we ought To join her instantly with all our force. At Temple-bar some regiments parade; The colonels, Clifford, Thavies, and Furnival, Through Holborn lead their powers to Drury-lane, Attorneys all compleatly armed in brass: These, bailiffs and their followers will join, With justices, and constables, and watchmen.

Phys. In Warwick-lane my powers expect me now: A hundred chariots with a chief in each, Well-famed for slaughter, in his hand he bears A feather'd dart that seldom errs in flight. Next march a band of choice apothecaries, Each arm'd with deadly pill; a regiment Of surgeons terrible maintain the rear. All ready first to kill, and then dissect.

Fireb. My lords, you merit greatly of the queen, And Ignorance shall well repay your deeds; For I foretel that by her influence Men shall be brought (what scarce can be believed) To bribe you with large fees to their undoing. Success attend your glorious enterprize; I'll go and beg it earnest of the Sun: I, by my office, am from fight debarr'd, But I'll be with you ere the booty's shared.

[Exeunt FIREBRAND, LAW, and PHYSICK

Fust. Now, Mr Sneerwell, we shall begin my third and last act; and I believe I may defy all the poets who have ever writ, or ever will write, to produce its equal: it is, sir, so crammed with drums and trumpets, thunder and lightning, battles and ghosts, that I believe the audience will want no entertainment after it: it is as full of shew as Merlin's cave itself; and for wit—no rope-dancing or tumbling can come near it. Come, begin.

[A ridiculous march is played.

Enter Queen IGNORANCE, attended with Singers, Fidlers, Rope-dancers, Tumblers, &c.

Q. Ign. Here fix our standard; what is this place called?

1Att. Great madam, Covent-garden is its name.

Q. Ign. Ha! then methinks we have ventured too far, Too near those theatres where Common Sense Maintains her garrisons of mighty force; Who, should they sally on us ere we're joined By Law and Physick, may offend us much.

[Drum beats within.

But ha! what means this drum?

1Att. It beats a parley, not a point of war

Enter HARLEQUIN.

Harl. To you, great queen of Ignorance, I come Embassador from the two theatres; Who both congratulate you on your arrival; And to convince you with what hearty meaning They sue for your alliance, they have sent Their choicest treasure here as hostages, To be detain'd till you are well convinced They're not less foes to Common Sense than you.

Q. Ign. Where are the hostages?

Harl. Madam, I have brought A catalogue, and all therein shall be Deliver'd to your order; but consider, Oh mighty queen! they offer you their all; And gladly for the least of these would give Their poets and their actors in exchange.

Q. Ign. Read the catalogue.

Harl. [Reads.] "A tall man, and a tall woman, hired at a vast price. A strong man exceeding dear. Two dogs that walk on their hind legs only, and personate human creatures so well, they might be mistaken for them. A human creature that personates a dog so well that he might almost be taken for one. Two human cats. A most curious set of puppies. A pair of pigeons. A set of rope-dancers and tumblers from Sadler's-wells."

Q. Ign. Enough, enough; and is it possible That they can hold alliance with my friends Of Sadler's-wells? then are they foes indeed To Common Sense, and I'm indebted to 'em. Take back their hostages, for they may need 'em; And take this play, and bid 'em forthwith act it; There is not in it either head or tail.

Harl. Madam, they will most gratefully receive it. The character you give would recommend it, Though it had come from a less powerful hand.

Q. Ign. The Modish Couple is its name; myself Stood gossip to it, and I will support This play against the town.

I Att. Madam, the queen Of Common Sense advances with her powers.

Q. Ign. Draw up my men, I'll meet her as I ought; This day shall end the long dispute between us.

Enter Queen COMMON SENSE with a Drummer.

Fust. Hey-day! where's Common Sense's army?

Promp. Sir, I have sent all over the town, and could not get one soldier for her, except that poor drummer, who was lately turned out of an Irish regiment.

Drum. Upon my shoul but I have been a drummer these twenty years, master, and have seen no wars yet; and I was willing to learn a little of my trade before I died.

Fust. Hush, sirrah! don't you be witty; that is not in your part.

Drum. I don't know what is in my part, sir; but T desire to have something in it; for I have been tired of doing nothing a great while.

Fust. Silence!

Q. C. S. What is the reason, madam, that you bring These hostile arms into my peaceful realm?

_Q. Ign. To ease your subjects from that dire oppression They groan beneath, which longer to support Unable, they invited my redress.

Q. C. S. And can my subjects then complain of wrong? Base and ungrateful! what is their complaint?

Q. Ign. They say you do impose a tax of thought Upon their minds, which they're too weak to bear.

Q. C. S. Wouldst thou from thinking then absolve mankind?

Q. Ign. I would, for thinking only makes men wretched; And happiness is still the lot of fools. Why should a wise man wish to think, when thought Still hurts his pride; in spite of all his art, Malicious fortune, by a lucky train Of accidents, shall still defeat his schemes, And set the greatest blunderer above him.

Q. C. S. Urgest thou that against me, which thyself Has been the wicked cause of? Which thy power, Thy artifice, thy favourites have done? Could Common Sense bear universal sway, No fool could ever possibly be great.

Q. Ign. What is this folly, which you try to paint In colours so detestable and black? Is't not the general gift of fate to men? And though some few may boast superior sense, Are they not call'd odd fellows by the rest? In any science, if this sense peep forth, Shew men the truth, and strive to turn their steps From ways wherein their gross forefathers err'd, Is not the general cry against them straight?

Sneer. This Ignorance, Mr Fustian, seems to know a great deal.

Fust. Yes, sir, she knows what she has seen so often; but you find she mistakes the cause, and Common Sense can never beat it into her.

Q. Ign. Sense is the parent still of fear; the fox, Wise beast, who knows the treachery of men, Flies their society, and skulks in woods, While the poor goose, in happiness and ease, Fearless grows fat within its narrow coop, And thinks the hand that feeds it is its friend; Then yield thee, Common Sense, nor rashly dare Try a vain combat with superior force.

Q. C. S. Know, queen, I never will give up the cause Of all these followers: when at the head Of all these heroes I resign my right, May my curst name be blotted from the earth!

Sneer. Methinks, Common Sense, though, ought to give it up, when she has no more to defend it.

Fust. It does indeed look a little odd at present; but I'll get her an army strong enough against its acted. Come, go on.

Q. Ign. Then thus I hurl defiance at thy head. Draw all your swords.

Q. C. S. And, gentlemen, draw yours.

Q. Ign. Fall on; have at thy heart.

[A fight

Q. C. S. And have at thine.

Fust. Oh, fie upon't, fie upon't! I never saw a worse battle in all my life upon any stage. Pray, gentlemen, come some of you over to the other side.

Sneer. These are Swiss soldiers, I perceive, Mr Fustian; they care not which side they fight of.

Fust. Now, begin again, if you please, and fight away; pray fight as if you were in earnest, gentlemen. [They fight.] Oons, Mr Prompter! I fancy you hired these soldiers out of the trained bands—they are afraid to fight even in jest. [They fight again.] There, there—pretty well. I think, Mr Sneerwell, we have made a shift to make out a good sort of a battle at last.

Sneer. Indeed I cannot say I ever saw a better.

Fust. You don't seem, Mr Sneerwell, to relish this battle greatly.

Sneer. I cannot profess myself the greatest admirer of this part of tragedy; and I own my imagination can better conceive the idea of a battle from a skilful relation of it than from such a representation; for my mind is not able to enlarge the stage into a vast plain, nor multiply half a score into several thousands.

Fust. Oh; your humble servant! but if we write to please you and half a dozen others, who will pay the charges of the house? Sir, if the audience will be contented with a battle or two, instead of all the raree-fine shows exhibited to them in what they call entertainments——

Sneer. Pray, Mr Fustian, how came they to give the name of entertainments to their pantomimical farces?

Fust. Faith, sir, out of their peculiar modesty; intimating that after the audience had been tired with the dull works of Shakspeare, Jonson, Vanbrugh, and others, they are to be entertained with one of these pantomimes, of which the master of the playhouse, two or three painters, and half a score dancing-masters are the compilers. What these entertainments are, I need not inform you, who have seen 'em; but I have often wondered how it was possible for any creature of human understanding, after having been diverted for three hours with the production of a great genius, to sit for three more and see a set of people running about the stage after one another, without speaking one syllable, and playing several juggling tricks, which are done at Fawks's after a much better manner; and for this, sir, the town does not only pay additional prices, but loses several fine parts of its best authors, which are cut out to make room for the said farces.

Sneer. 'Tis very true; and I have heard a hundred say the same thing, who never failed being present at them.

Fust. And while that happens, they will force any entertainment upon the town they please, in spite of its teeth. [Ghost of COMMON SENSE rises.] Oons, and the devil, madam! what's the meaning of this? You have left out a scene. Was ever such an absurdity as for your ghost to appear before you are killed.

Q. C. S. I ask pardon, sir; in the hurry of the battle I forgot to come and kill myself.

Fust. Well, let me wipe the flour off your face then. And now, if you please, rehearse the scene; take care you don't make this mistake any more though, for it would inevitably damn the play if you should. Go to the corner of the scene, and come in as if you had lost the battle.

Q. C. S. Behold the ghost of Common Sense appears.

Fust. 'Sdeath, madam, I tell you you are no ghost—you are not killed.

Q. C. S. Deserted and forlorn, where shall I fly. The battle's lost, and so are all my friends.

Enter a Poet.

Poet. Madam, not so; still you have one friend left.

Q. C. S. Why, what art thou?

Poet. Madam, I am a poet.

Q. C. S. Whoe'er thou art, if thou'rt a friend to misery, Know Common Sense disclaims thee.

Poet. I have been damn'd Because I was your foe, and yet I still Courted your friendship with my utmost art.

Q. C. S. Fool! thou wert damn'd because thou didst pretend Thyself my friend; for hadst thou boldly dared, Like Hurlothrumbo, to deny me quite, Or, like an opera or pantomime, Profess'd the cause of Ignorance in publick, Thou might'st have met with thy desired success; But men can't bear even a pretence to me.

Poet. Then take a ticket for my benefit night.

Q. C. S. I will do more—for Common Sense will stay Quite from your house, so may you not be damn'd.

Poet. Ha! say'st thou? By my soul, a better play Ne'er came upon a stage; but, since you dare Contemn me thus, I'll dedicate my play To Ignorance, and call her Common Sense: Yes, I will dress her in your pomp, and swear That Ignorance knows more than all the world. [Exit.

Enter FIREBRAND.

Fireb. Thanks to the Sun for this desired encounter.

Q. C. S. Oh, priest! all's lost; our forces are o'erthrown— Some gasping lie, but most are run away.

Fireb. I knew it all before, and told you too The Sun has long been out of humour with you.

Q. C. S. Dost thou, then, lay upon the Sun the faults Of all those cowards who forsook my cause?

Fireb. Those cowards all were most religious men: And I beseech thee, Sun, to shine upon them.

Q. C. S. Oh, impudence! and darest thou to my face?—

Fireb. Yes, I dare more; the Sun presents you this, [Stabs her. Which I, his faithful messenger, deliver.

Q. C. S. Oh, traytor! thou hast murder'd Common Sense. Farewel, vain world! to Ignorance I give thee, Her leaden sceptre shall henceforward rule. Now, priest, indulge thy wild ambitious thoughts; Men shall embrace thy schemes, till thou hast drawn All worship from the Sun upon thyself: Henceforth all things shall topsy-turvy turn; Physick shall kill, and Law enslave the world; Cits shall turn beaus, and taste Italian songs, While courtiers are stock-jobbing in the city. Places requiring learning and great parts Henceforth shall all be hustled in a hat, And drawn by men deficient in them both. Statesmen—but oh! cold death will let me say No more—and you must guess et caetera. [Dies.

Fireb. She's gone! but ha! it may beseem me ill T' appear her murderer. I'll therefore lay This dagger by her side; and that will be Sufficient evidence, with a little money, To make the coroner's inquest find self-murder. I'll preach her funeral sermon, and deplore Her loss with tears, praise her with all my art. Good Ignorance will still believe it all. [Exit.

Enter Queen IGNORANCE, &c.

Q. Ign. Beat a retreat; the day is now our own; The powers of Common Sense are all destroy'd; Those that remain are fled away with her. I wish, Mr Fustian, this speech be common sense.

Sneer. How the devil should it, when she's dead?

Fust. One would think so, when a cavil is made against the best thing in the whole play; and I would willingly part with anything else but those two lines.

Harl. Behold! where welt'ring in her blood she lies. I wish, sir, you would cut out that line, or alter it, if you please.

Fust. That's another line that I won't part with; I would consent to cut out anything but the chief beauties of my play.

Harl. Behold the bloody dagger by her side, With which she did the deed.

Q. Ign. 'Twas nobly done! I envy her her exit, and will pay All honours to her dust. Bear hence her body, And let her lie in state in Goodman's fields.

Enter Messenger.

Mess. Madam, I come an envoy from Crane-court. The great society that there assemble Congratulate your victory, and request That firm alliance henceforth may subsist Between your majesty's society Of Grub-street and themselves: they rather beg That they may be united both in one. They also hope your majesty's acceptance Of certain curiosities, which in That hamper are contain'd, wherein you'll find A horse's tail, which has a hundred hairs More than are usual in it; and a tooth Of elephant full half an inch too long; With turnpike-ticket like an ancient coin.

Q. Ign. We gratefully accept their bounteous gifts, And order they be kept with proper care, Till we do build a place most fit to hold These precious toys: tell your society We ever did esteem them of great worth, And our firm friends: and tell 'em 'tis our pleasure They do prepare to dance a jig before us. [Exit Messenger

My lords of Law and Physick, you shall find I will not be ungrateful for your service: To you, good Harlequin, and your allies, And you, Squeekaronelly, I will be A most propitious queen—But ha! [Music under the stage. What hideous music or what yell is this? Sure 'tis the ghost of some poor opera tune.

Sneer. The ghost of a tune, Mr Fustian!

Fust. Ay, sir, did you never hear one before? I had once a mind to have brought the apparition of Musick in person upon the stage, in the shape of an English opera. Come, Mr Ghost of the Tune, if you please to appear in the sound of soft musick, and let the ghost of Common Sense rise to it.

[Ghost of COMMON SENSE rises to soft musick.

Ghost. Behold the ghost of Common Sense appears. Caitiffs, avaunt! or I will sweep you off, And clean the land from such infernal vermin.

Q. Ign. A ghost! a ghost! a ghost! haste, scamper off, My friends; we've kill'd the body, and I know The ghost will have no mercy upon us.

Omnes. A ghost! a ghost! a ghost! [Run off.

Ghost. The coast is clear, and to her native realms Pale Ignorance with all her host is fled, Whence she will never dare invade us more. Here, though a ghost, I will my power maintain, And all the friends of Ignorance shall find My ghost, at least, they cannot banish hence; And all henceforth, who murder Common Sense, Learn from these scenes that, though success you boast. You shall at last be haunted with her ghost.

Sneer. I am glad you make Common Sense get the better at last; I was under terrible apprehensions for your moral.

Fust. Faith, sir, this is almost the only play where she has got the better lately. But now for my epilogue: if you please to begin, madam.

EPILOGUE

GHOST.

The play once done, the epilogue, by rule, Should come and turn it all to ridicule; Should tell the ladies that the tragic bards, Who prate of Virtue and her vast rewards, Are all in jest, and only fools should heed 'em; For all wise women flock to mother Needham. This is the method epilogues pursue, But we to-night in everything are new. Our author then, in jest throughout the play, Now begs a serious word or two to say. Banish all childish entertainments hence; Let all that boast your favour have pretence, If not to sparkling wit, at least to sense. With soft Italian notes indulge your ear; But let those singers, who are bought so dear, Learn to be civil for their cheer at least, Nor use like beggars those who give the feast. And though while musick for herself may carve, Poor Poetry, her sister-art, must starve; Starve her at least with shew of approbation, Nor slight her, while you search the whole creation For all the tumbling-skum of every nation. Can the whole world in science match our soil? Have they a LOCKE, a NEWTON, or a BOYLE? Or dare the greatest genius of their stage With SHAKSPEARE or immortal BEN engage?

Content with nature's bounty, do not crave The little which to other lands she gave; Nor like the cock a barley corn prefer To all the jewels which you owe to her.



* * * * *



AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION.

Man is generally represented as an animal formed for, and delighted in, society; in this state alone, it is said, his various talents can be exerted, his numberless necessities relieved, the dangers he is exposed to can be avoided, and many of the pleasures he eagerly affects enjoyed. If these assertions be, as I think they are, undoubtedly and obviously certain, those few who have denied man to be a social animal have left us these two solutions of their conduct; either that there are men as bold in denial as can be found in assertion—and as Cicero says there is no absurdity which some philosopher or other hath not asserted, so we may say there is no truth so glaring that some have not denied it;—or else that these rejectors of society borrow all their information from their own savage dispositions, and are, indeed, themselves, the only exceptions to the above general rule.

But to leave such persons to those who have thought them more worthy of an answer; there are others who are so seemingly fond of this social state, that they are understood absolutely to confine it to their own species; and entirely excluding the tamer and gentler, the herding and flocking parts of the creation, from all benefits of it, to set up this as one grand general distinction between the human and the brute species.

Shall we conclude this denial of all society to the nature of brutes, which seems to be in defiance of every day's observation, to be as bold as the denial of it to the nature of men? or, may we not more justly derive the error from an improper understanding of this word society in too confined and special a sense? in a word, do those who utterly deny it to the brutal nature mean any other by society than conversation?

Now, if we comprehend them in this sense, as I think we very reasonably may, the distinction appears to me to be truly just; for though other animals are not without all use of society, yet this noble branch of it seems, of all the inhabitants of this globe, confined to man only; the narrow power of communicating some few ideas of lust, or fear, or anger, which may be observable in brutes, falling infinitely short of what is commonly meant by conversation, as may be deduced from the origination of the word itself, the only accurate guide to knowledge. The primitive and literal sense of this word is, I apprehend, to turn round together; and in its more copious usage we intend by it that reciprocal interchange of ideas by which truth is examined, things are, in a manner, turned round and sifted, and all our knowledge communicated to each other.

In this respect man stands, I conceive, distinguished from, and superior to, all other earthly creatures; it is this privilege which, while he is inferior in strength to some, in swiftness to others; without horns or claws or tusks to attack them, or even to defend himself against them, hath made him master of them all. Indeed, in other views, however vain men may be of their abilities, they are greatly inferior to their animal neighbours.

With what envy must a swine, or a much less voracious animal, be surveyed by a glutton; and how contemptible must the talents of other sensualists appear, when opposed, perhaps, to some of the lowest and meanest of brutes! but in conversation man stands alone, at least in this part of the creation; he leaves all others behind him at his first start, and the greater progress he makes the greater distance is between them.

Conversation is of three sorts. Men are said to converse with God, with themselves, and with one another. The two first of these have been so liberally and excellently spoken to by others, that I shall at present pass them by and confine myself in this essay to the third only; since it seems to me amazing that this grand business of our lives, the foundation of everything either useful or pleasant, should have been so slightly treated of, that, while there is scarce a profession or handicraft in life, however mean and contemptible, which is not abundantly furnished with proper rules to the attaining its perfection, men should be left almost totally in the dark, and without the least light to direct, or any guide to conduct them, in the proper exerting of those talents which are the noblest privilege of human nature and productive of all rational happiness; and the rather as this power is by no means self-instructed, and in the possession of the artless and ignorant is of so mean use that it raises them very little above those animals who are void of it.

As conversation is a branch of society, it follows that it can be proper to none who is not in his nature social. Now, society is agreeable to no creatures who are not inoffensive to each other; and we therefore observe in animals who are entirely guided by nature that it is cultivated by such only, while those of more noxious disposition addict themselves to solitude, and, unless when prompted by lust, or that necessary instinct implanted in them by nature for the nurture of their young, shun as much as possible the society of their own species. If therefore there should be found some human individuals of so savage a habit, it would seem they were not adapted to society, and, consequently, not to conversation; nor would any inconvenience ensue the admittance of such exceptions, since it would by no means impeach the general rule of man's being a social animal; especially when it appears (as is sufficiently and admirably proved by my friend the author of An Enquiry into Happiness) that these men live in a constant opposition to their own nature, and are no less monsters than the most wanton abortions or extravagant births.

Again; if society requires that its members should be inoffensive, so the more useful and beneficial they are to each other the more suitable are they to the social nature, and more perfectly adapted to its institution; for all creatures seek their own happiness, and society is therefore natural to any, because it is naturally productive of this happiness. To render therefore any animal social is to render it inoffensive; an instance of which is to be seen in those the ferocity of whose nature can be tamed by man. And here the reader may observe a double distinction of man from the more savage animals by society, and from the social by conversation.

But if men were merely inoffensive to each other, it seems as if society and conversation would be merely indifferent; and that, in order to make it desirable by a sensible being, it is necessary we should go farther and propose some positive good to ourselves from it; and this presupposes, not only negatively, our not receiving any hurt, but positively, our receiving some good, some pleasure or advantage, from each other in it, something which we could not find in an unsocial and solitary state; otherwise we might cry out with the right honourable poet—[Footnote: The Duke of Buckingham.]

Give us our wildness and our woods, Our huts and caves again.

The art of pleasing or doing good to one another is therefore the art of conversation. It is this habit which gives it all its value. And as man's being a social animal (the truth of which is incontestably proved by that excellent author of An Enquiry, &c., I have above cited) presupposes a natural desire or tendency this way, it will follow that we can fail in attaining this truly desirable end from ignorance only in the means; and how general this ignorance is may be, with some probability, inferred from our want of even a word to express this art by; that which comes the nearest to it, and by which, perhaps, we would sometimes intend it, being so horribly and barbarously corrupted, that it contains at present scarce a simple ingredient of what it seems originally to have been designed to express.

The word I mean is good breeding; a word, I apprehend, not at first confined to externals, much less to any particular dress or attitude of the body; nor were the qualifications expressed by it to be furnished by a milliner, a taylor, or a perriwig-maker; no, nor even by a dancing-master himself. According to the idea I myself conceive from this word, I should not have scrupled to call Socrates a well-bred man, though, I believe, he was very little instructed by any of the persons I have above enumerated. In short, by good-breeding (notwithstanding the corrupt use of the word in a very different sense) I mean the art of pleasing, or contributing as much as possible to the ease and happiness of those with whom you converse. I shall contend therefore no longer on this head; for, whilst my reader clearly conceives the sense in which I use this word, it will not be very material whether I am right or wrong in its original application.

Good-breeding then, or the art of pleasing in conversation, is expressed two different ways, viz., in our actions and our words, and our conduct in both may be reduced to that concise, comprehensive rule in scripture—Do unto all men as you would they should do unto you. Indeed, concise as this rule is, and plain as it appears, what are all treatises on ethics but comments upon it? and whoever is well read in the book of nature, and hath made much observation on the actions of men, will perceive so few capable of judging or rightly pursuing their own happiness, that he will be apt to conclude that some attention is necessary (and more than is commonly used) to enable men to know truly what they would have done unto them, or, at least, what it would be their interest to have done.

If therefore men, through weakness or inattention, often err in their conceptions of what would produce their own happiness, no wonder they should miss in the application of what will contribute to that of others; and thus we may, without too severe a censure on their inclinations, account for that frequent failure in true good-breeding which daily experience gives us instances of.

Besides, the commentators have well paraphrased on the above-mentioned divine rule, that it is, to do unto men what you would they (if they were in your situation and circumstances, and you in theirs) should do unto you; and, as this comment is necessary to be observed in ethics, so it is particularly useful in this our art, where the degree of the person is always to be considered, as we shall explain more at large hereafter.

We see then a possibility for a man well disposed to this golden rule, without some precautions, to err in the practice; nay, even good-nature itself, the very habit of mind most essential to furnish us with true good-breeding, the latter so nearly resembling the former, that it hath been called, and with the appearance at least of propriety, artificial good-nature. This excellent quality itself sometimes shoots us beyond the mark, and shews the truth of those lines in Horace:

Insani sapiens nomen ferat, sequus iniqui, Ultra quam satis est, Virtutem si petal ipsam.

Instances of this will be naturally produced where we shew the deviations from those rules which we shall now attempt to lay down.

As this good-breeding is the art of pleasing, it will be first necessary with the utmost caution to avoid hurting or giving any offence to those with whom we converse. And here we are surely to shun any kind of actual disrespect, or affront to their persons, by insolence, which is the severest attack that can be made on the pride of man, and of which Florus seems to have no inadequate opinion when, speaking of the second Tarquin, he says; in omnes superbid (qua crudelitate gravior est BONIS) grassatus; "He trod on all with insolence, which sits heavier on men of great minds than cruelty itself." If there is any temper in man which more than all others disqualifies him for society, it is this insolence or haughtiness, which, blinding a man to his own imperfections, and giving him a hawk's quicksightedness to those of others, raises in him that contempt for his species which inflates the cheeks, erects the head, and stiffens the gaite of those strutting animals who sometimes stalk in assemblies, for no other reason but to shew in their gesture and behaviour the disregard they have for the company. Though to a truly great and philosophical mind it is not easy to conceive a more ridiculous exhibition than this puppet, yet to others he is little less than a nuisance; for contempt is a murtherous weapon, and there is this difference only between the greatest and weakest man when attacked by it, that, in order to wound the former, it must be just; whereas, without the shields of wisdom and philosophy, which God knows are in the possession of very few, it wants no justice to point it, but is certain to penetrate, from whatever corner it comes. It is this disposition which inspires the empty Cacus to deny his acquaintance, and overlook men of merit in distress; and the little silly, pretty Phillida, or Foolida, to stare at the strange creatures round her. It is this temper which constitutes the supercilious eye, the reserved look, the distant bowe, the scornful leer, the affected astonishment, the loud whisper, ending in a laugh directed full in the teeth of another. Hence spring, in short, those numberless offences given too frequently, in public and private assemblies, by persons of weak understandings, indelicate habits, and so hungry and foul-feeding a vanity that it wants to devour whatever comes in its way. Now, if good-breeding be what we have endeavoured to prove it, how foreign, and indeed how opposite to it, must such a behaviour be! and can any man call a duke or a dutchess who wears it well-bred? or are they not more justly entitled to those inhuman names which they themselves allot to the lowest vulgar? But behold a more pleasing picture on the reverse. See the earl of C——, noble in his birth, splendid in his fortune, and embellished with every endowment of mind; how affable! how condescending! himself the only one who seems ignorant that he is every way the greatest person in the room.

But it is not sufficient to be inoffensive—we must be profitable servants to each other: we are, in the second place, to proceed to the utmost verge in paying the respect due to others. We had better go a little too far than stop short in this particular. My lord Shaftesbury hath a pretty observation, that the beggar, in addressing to a coach with, My lord, is sure not to offend, even though there be no lord there; but, on the contrary, should plain sir fly in the face of a nobleman, what must be the consequence? And, indeed, whoever considers the bustle and contention about precedence, the pains and labours undertaken, and sometimes the prices given, for the smallest title or mark of pre-eminence, and the visible satisfaction betrayed in its enjoyment, may reasonably conclude this is a matter of no small consequence. The truth is, we live in a world of common men, and not of philosophers; for one of these, when he appears (which is very seldom) among us, is distinguished, and very properly too, by the name of an odd fellow; for what is it less than extreme oddity to despise what the generality of the world think the labour of their whole lives well employed in procuring? we are therefore to adapt our behaviour to the opinion of the generality of mankind, and not to that of a few odd fellows.

It would be tedious, and perhaps impossible, to specify every instance, or to lay down exact rules for our conduct in every minute particular. However, I shall mention some of the chief which most ordinarily occur, after premising that the business of the whole is no more than to convey to others an idea of your esteem of them, which is indeed the substance of all the compliments, ceremonies, presents, and whatever passes between well-bred people. And here I shall lay down these positions:—

First, that all meer ceremonies exist in form only, and have in them no substance at all; but, being imposed by the laws of custom, become essential to good-breeding, from those high-flown compliments paid to the Eastern monarchs, and which pass between Chinese mandarines, to those coarser ceremonials in use between English farmers and Dutch boors.

Secondly, that these ceremonies, poor as they are, are of more consequence than they at first appear, and, in reality, constitute the only external difference between man and man. Thus, His grace, Right honourable, My lord, Right reverend, Reverend, Honourable, Sir, Esquire, Mr, &c., have in a philosophical sense no meaning, yet are perhaps politically essential, and must be preserved by good-breeding; because,

Thirdly, they raise an expectation in the person by law and custom entitled to them, and who will consequently be displeased with the disappointment.

Now, in order to descend minutely into any rules for good-breeding, it will be necessary to lay some scene, or to throw our disciple into some particular circumstance. We will begin them with a visit in the country; and as the principal actor on this occasion is the person who receives it, we will, as briefly as possible, lay down some general rules for his conduct; marking, at the same time, the principal deviations we have observed on these occasions.

When an expected guest arrives to dinner at your house, if your equal, or indeed not greatly your inferior, he should be sure to find your family in some order, and yourself dressed and ready to receive him at your gate with a smiling countenance. This infuses an immediate chearfulness into your guest, and persuades him of your esteem and desire of his company. Not so is the behaviour of Polysperchon, at whose gate you are obliged to knock a considerable time before you gain admittance. At length, the door being opened to you by a maid or some improper servant, who wonders where the devil all the men are, and, being asked if the gentleman is at home, answers she believes so, you are conducted into a hall, or back-parlour, where you stay some time before the gentleman, in a dishabille from his study or his garden, waits upon you, asks pardon, and assures you he did not expect you so soon.

Your guest, being introduced into a drawing-room, is, after the first ceremonies, to be asked whether he will refresh himself after his journey, before dinner (for which he is never to stay longer than the usual or fixed hour). But this request is never to be repeated oftener than twice, not in imitation of Calepus, who, as if hired by a physician, crams wine in a morning down the throats of his most temperate friends, their constitutions being not so dear to them as their present quiet.

When dinner is on the table, and the ladies have taken their places, the gentlemen are to be introduced into the eating-room, where they are to be seated with as much seeming indifference as possible, unless there be any present whose degrees claim an undoubted precedence. As to the rest, the general rules of precedence are by marriage, age, and profession. Lastly, in placing your guests, regard is rather to be had to birth than fortune; for, though purse-pride is forward enough to exalt itself, it bears a degradation with more secret comfort and ease than the former, as being more inwardly satisfied with itself, and less apprehensive of neglect or contempt.

The order in helping your guests is to be regulated by that of placing them; but here I must, with great submission, recommend to the lady at the upper end of the table to distribute her favours as equally and as impartially as she can. I have sometimes seen a large dish of fish extend no farther than to the fifth person, and a haunch of venison lose all its fat before half the table had tasted it.

A single request to eat of any particular dish, how elegant soever, is the utmost I allow. I strictly prohibit all earnest solicitations, all complaints that you have no appetite, which are sometimes little less than burlesque, and always impertinent and troublesome.

And here, however low it may appear to some readers, as I have known omissions of this kind give offence, and sometimes make the offenders, who have been very well-meaning persons, ridiculous, I cannot help mentioning the ceremonial of drinking healths at table, which is always to begin with the lady's and next the master's of the house.

When dinner is ended, and the ladies retired, though I do not hold the master of the feast obliged to fuddle himself through complacence (and, indeed, it is his own fault generally if his company be such as would desire it), yet he is to see that the bottle circulate sufficient to afford every person present a moderate quantity of wine if he chuses it; at the same time permitting those who desire it either to pass the bottle or to fill their glass as they please. Indeed, the beastly custom of besotting, and ostentatious contention for pre-eminence in their cups, seems at present pretty well abolished among the better sort of people. Yet Methus still remains, who measures the honesty and understanding of mankind by a capaciousness of their swallow; who sings forth the praises of a bumper, and complains of the light in your glass; and at whose table it is as difficult to preserve your senses as to preserve your purse at a gaming-table or your health at a b—y-house. On the other side, Sophronus eyes you carefully whilst you are filling out his liquor. The bottle as surely stops when it comes to him as your chariot at Temple-bar; and it is almost as impossible to carry a pint of wine from his house as to gain the love of a reigning beauty, or borrow a shilling of P—— W——.

But to proceed. After a reasonable time, if your guest intends staying with you the whole evening, and declines the bottle, you may propose play, walking, or any other amusement; but these are to be but barely mentioned, and offered to his choice with all indifference on your part. What person can be so dull as not to perceive in Agyrtes a longing to pick your pockets, or in Alazon a desire to satisfy his own vanity in shewing you the rarities of his house and gardens? When your guest offers to go, there should be no solicitations to stay, unless for the whole night, and that no farther than to give him a moral assurance of his being welcome so to do; no assertions that he shan't go yet; no laying on violent hands; no private orders to servants to delay providing the horses or vehicles—like Desmophylax, who never suffers any one to depart from his house without entitling him to an action of false imprisonment.

Let us now consider a little the part which the visitor himself is to act. And first, he is to avoid the two extremes of being too early or too late, so as neither to surprise his friend unawares or unprovided, nor detain him too long in expectation. Orthrius, who hath nothing to do, disturbs your rest in a morning; and the frugal Chronophidus, lest he should waste some minutes of his precious time, is sure to spoil your dinner.

The address at your arrival should be as short as possible, especially when you visit a superior; not imitating Phlenaphius, who would stop his friend in the rain rather than omit a single bowe.

Be not too observant of trifling ceremonies, such as rising, sitting, walking first in or out of the room, except with one greatly your superior; but when such a one offers you precedence it is uncivil to refuse it; of which I will give you the following instance: An English nobleman, being in France, was bid by Louis XIV. to enter the coach before him, which he excused himself from. The king then immediately mounted, and, ordering the door to be shut, drove on, leaving the nobleman behind him.

Never refuse anything offered you out of civility, unless in preference of a lady, and that no oftener than once; for nothing is more truly good breeding than to avoid being troublesome. Though the taste and humour of the visitor is to be chiefly considered, yet is some regard likewise to be had to that of the master of the house; for otherwise your company will be rather a penance than a pleasure. Methusus plainly discovers his visit to be paid to his sober friend's bottle; nor will Philopasus abstain from cards, though he is certain they are agreeable only to himself; whilst the slender Leptines gives his fat entertainer a sweat, and makes him run the hazard of breaking his wind up his own mounts.

If conveniency allows your staying longer than the time proposed, it may be civil to offer to depart, lest your stay may be incommodious to your friend; but if you perceive the contrary, by his solicitations, they should be readily accepted, without tempting him to break these rules we have above laid down for him—causing a confusion in his family and among his servants, by preparations for your departure. Lastly, when you are resolved to go, the same method is to be observed which I have prescribed at your arrival. No tedious ceremonies of taking leave—not like Hyperphylus, who bows and kisses and squeezes by the hand as heartily, and wishes you as much health and happiness, when he is going a journey home of ten miles, from a common acquaintance, as if he was leaving his nearest friend or relation on a voyage to the East Indies.

Having thus briefly considered our reader in the circumstance of a private visit, let us now take him into a public assembly, where, as more eyes will be on his behaviour, it cannot be less his interest to be instructed. We have, indeed, already formed a general picture of the chief enormities committed on these occasions: we shall here endeavour to explain more particularly the rules of an opposite demeanour, which we may divide into three sorts, viz., our behaviour to our superiors, to our equals, and to our inferiors.

In our behaviour to our superiors two extremes are to be avoided; namely, an abject and base servility, and an impudent and encroaching freedom. When the well-bred Hyperdulus approaches a nobleman in any public place, you would be persuaded he was one of the meanest of his domestics; his cringes fall little short of prostration; and his whole behaviour is so mean and servile that an Eastern monarch would not require more humiliation from his vassals. On the other side, Anaischyntus, whom fortunate accidents, without any pretensions from his birth, have raised to associate with his betters, shakes my lord duke by the hand with a familiarity savouring not only of the most perfect intimacy but the closest alliance. The former behaviour properly raises our contempt, the latter our disgust. Hyperdulus seems worthy of wearing his lordship's livery; Anaischyntus deserves to be turned out of his service for his impudence. Between these two is that golden mean which declares a man ready to acquiesce in allowing the respect due to a title by the laws and customs of his country, but impatient of any insult, and disdaining to purchase the intimacy with and favour of a superior at the expence of conscience or honour. As to the question, who are our superiors? I shall endeavour to ascertain them when I come, in the second place, to mention our behaviour to our equals: the first instruction on this head being carefully to consider who are such; every little superiority of fortune or profession being too apt to intoxicate men's minds, and elevate them in their own opinion beyond their merit or pretensions. Men are superior to each other in this our country by title, by birth, by rank in profession, and by age; very little, if any, being to be allowed to fortune, though so much is generally exacted by it and commonly paid to it. Mankind never appear to me in a more despicable light than when I see them, by a simple as well as mean servility, voluntarily concurring in the adoration of riches, without the least benefit or prospect from them. Respect and deference are perhaps justly demandable of the obliged, and may be, with some reason at least, from expectation, paid to the rich and liberal from the necessitous; but that men should be allured by the glittering of wealth only to feed the insolent pride of those who will not in return feed their hunger—that the sordid niggard should find any sacrifices on the altar of his vanity—seems to arise from a blinder idolatry, and a more bigoted and senseless superstition, than any which the sharp eyes of priests have discovered in the human mind.

All gentlemen, therefore, who are not raised above each other by title, birth, rank in profession, age, or actual obligation, being to be considered as equals, let us take some lessons for their behaviour to each other in public from the following examples; in which we shall discern as well what we are to elect as what we are to avoid. Authades is so absolutely abandoned to his own humour that he never gives it up on any occasion. If Seraphina herself, whose charms one would imagine should infuse alacrity into the limbs of a cripple sooner than the Bath waters, was to offer herself for his partner, he would answer he never danced, even though the ladies lost their ball by it. Nor doth this denial arise from incapacity, for he was in his youth an excellent dancer, and still retains sufficient knowledge of the art, and sufficient abilities in his limbs to practise it, but from an affectation of gravity which he will not sacrifice to the eagerest desire of others. Dyskolus hath the same aversion to cards; and though competently skilled in all games, is by no importunities to be prevailed on to make a third at ombre, or a fourth at whisk and quadrille. He will suffer any company to be disappointed of their amusement rather than submit to pass an hour or two a little disagreeably to himself. The refusal of Philautus is not so general; he is very ready to engage, provided you will indulge him in his favourite game, but it is impossible to persuade him to any other. I should add both these are men of fortune, and the consequences of loss or gain, at the rate they are desired to engage, very trifling and inconsiderable to them.

The rebukes these people sometimes meet with are no more equal to their deserts than the honour paid to Charistus, the benevolence of whose mind scarce permits him to indulge his own will, unless by accident. Though neither his age nor understanding incline him to dance, nor will admit his receiving any pleasure from it, yet would he caper a whole evening, rather than a fine young lady should lose an opportunity of displaying her charms by the several genteel and amiable attitudes which this exercise affords the skilful of that sex. And though cards are not adapted to his temper, he never once baulked the inclinations of others on that account.

But, as there are many who will not in the least instance mortify their own humour to purchase the satisfaction of all mankind, so there are some who make no scruple of satisfying their own pride and vanity at the expence of the most cruel mortification of others. Of this kind is Agroicus, who seldom goes to an assembly but he affronts half his acquaintance by overlooking or disregarding them.

As this is a very common offence, and indeed much more criminal, both in its cause and effect, than is generally imagined, I shall examine it very minutely, and I doubt not but to make it appear that there is no behaviour (to speak like a philosopher) more contemptible, nor, in a civil sense, more detestable, than this.

The first ingredient in this composition is pride, which, according to the doctrine of some, is the universal passion. There are others who consider it as the foible of great minds; and others again who will have it to be the very foundation of greatness; and perhaps it may of that greatness which we have endeavoured to expose in many parts of these works; but to real greatness, which is the union of a good heart with a good head, it is almost diametrically opposite, as it generally proceeds from the depravity of both, and almost certainly from the badness of the latter. Indeed, a little observation will shew us that fools are the most addicted to this vice; and a little reflexion will teach us that it is incompatible with true understanding. Accordingly we see that, while the wisest of men have constantly lamented the imbecility and imperfection of their own nature, the meanest and weakest have been trumpeting forth their own excellencies and triumphing in their own sufficiency.

Pride may, I think, be properly defined, the pleasure we feel in contemplating our own superior merit, on comparing it with that of others. That it arises from this supposed superiority is evident; for, however great you admit a man's merit to be, if all men were equal to him, there would be no room for pride. Now if it stop here, perhaps there is no enormous harm in it, or at least no more than is common to all other folly; every species of which is always liable to produce every species of mischief: folly I fear it is; for, should the man estimate rightly on this occasion, and the ballance should fairly turn on his side in this particular instance; should he be indeed a greater orator, poet, general; should he be more wise, witty, learned, young, rich, healthy, or in whatever instance he may excel one, or many, or all; yet, if he examine himself thoroughly, will he find no reason to abate his pride? is the quality in which he is so eminent, so generally or justly esteemed? is it so entirely his own? doth he not rather owe his superiority to the defects of others than to his own perfection? or, lastly, can he find in no part of his character a weakness which may counterpoise this merit, and which as justly at least, threatens him with shame as this entices him to pride? I fancy, if such a scrutiny was made (and nothing so ready as good sense to make it), a proud man would be as rare as in reality he is a ridiculous monster. But suppose a man, on this comparison, is, as may sometimes happen, a little partial to himself, the harm is to himself, and he becomes only ridiculous from it. If I prefer my excellence in poetry to Pope or Young; if an inferior actor should, in his opinion, exceed Quin or Garrick; or a sign-post painter set himself above the inimitable Hogarth, we become only ridiculous by our vanity: and the persons themselves who are thus humbled in the comparison, would laugh with more reason than any other. Pride, therefore, hitherto seems an inoffensive weakness only, and entitles a man to no worse an appellation than that of a fool; but it will not stop here: though fool be perhaps no desirable term, the proud man will deserve worse; he is not contented with the admiration he pays himself, he now becomes arrogant, and requires the same respect and preference from the world; for pride, though the greatest of flatterers, is by no means a profitable servant to itself; it resembles the parson of the parish more than the squire, and lives rather on the tithes, oblations, and contributions it collects from others than on its own demesne. As pride therefore is seldom without arrogance, so is this never to be found without insolence. The arrogant man must be insolent in order to attain his own ends; and, to convince and remind men of the superiority he affects, will naturally, by ill-words, actions, and gestures, endeavour to throw the despised person at as much distance as possible from him.