The figure of the Duke, in allusion, presumptively, to the firmness of his character, stands on a rock, with his right foot somewhat advanced. His right hand is also advanced, and rests on the shaft of the plough, while his left arm, which is somewhat too short for the figure, hangs perpendicularly, forming a line exactly parallel to the outline of the drapery on this left side of the statue. One side of the figure is thus perfectly tranquil, while the other is in gentle action. What the sculptor may conceive he has gained in effect, by thus contrasting one side of his statue to the other, he appears to us to have lost, in losing that more easy contrast and graceful equilibrium which distinguishes the best single figures of the ancients, and which should not, we think, be absent from those of the moderns. If, however, grandeur by these means be substituted for gracefulness, art and the public are amply compensated, and the sculptor should be honoured for a successful deviation from ancient authority and established principle. We are only sorry to add, that in our opinion it is not.

The features of the Duke's face are very judiciously generalised, or idealised (as is the phrase among artists) to that degree which raises the mental character of the head, and while it retains all those peculiarities which are essential to portraiture, renders an individual countenance more fit for the purpose of the sculptor, and perhaps impresses a likeness more forcibly than minute finishing, especially at a height of eighteen or twenty feet from the eye of the spectator. The neck is increased in thickness, so as to give an Herculean air and character to the bust: which yet, on the whole, so strongly resembles that of the original, that it is immediately recognised by all who remember the Duke of Bedford's person.

Of the drapery, the general style is broad, square, and masterly. The peculiarities of the English ducal robes are sufficiently attended to, and sufficiently simplified; but the ermined part we esteem unfortunate (as much of it at least as is seen in the front view of the figure) as it disturbs the contour of the folds, and has a clumsy and unsculpturesque appearance.

Proceeding downward in our remarks, we now arrive at Mr. Westmacott's personification of the seasons, where we find he has departed in some measure from former analogies, without, in every instance, substituting better.

We have already remarked that these genii have a meager effect, and have endeavoured to account for it by supposing it to be principally owing to the ill-judged mixture of materials and colours, of which this part of the pile consists. Yet beside this defect, in every view but that from the westward, these figures appear to want grouping and connexion. Seasons, which are blended in their real existence, should probably not be disconnected, nor thrown out of their natural order, in their allegorical representation. No man desires to see the backside of Spring unless Summer follow; and had Summer and Autumn been visible from the principal approach, an association of ideas would have been excited, more genial and more appropriate to the agricultural character of the monument, if not to the known bounty of the late Duke of Bedford, than by the presence of Winter and Spring. By placing the two former behind his Grace, and turning one of them away from the eye of the spectator, the sculptor has even left it so doubtful whether he has or has not taken the liberty of changing the natural course of the seasons in order to effect this, or some other purpose, that we have known some persons mistake—unless we are ourselves mistaken—Summer for Autumn and Autumn for Summer; and others puzzled between Summer and Spring. It is true, the seasons in our climate, are sometimes so strangely disordered and confused, that if Mr. Westmacott should plead that in this part of the design, he has chosen rather to imitate nature than the antique, and English nature rather than the nature of any other climate, we should probably be silenced.

It may also be pleaded with great truth in favour of the artist, that in consequence of the arrangement which he has adopted, there is in every view of the monument, something of merit and importance to gratify public attention. In front, there is the statue itself contrasted by the plainness and simplicity of the unadorned side of the pedestal. On the east side there is the most beautiful of the bas-reliefs: on the west, the most interesting view of the seasons, and what there is behind, God knows. The public are not yet permitted to walk round it.

We will now endeavour to explain the symbols and metaphors which Mr. Westmacott has invented or adopted, as well as we are able, in the order in which they present themselves on the monument. Spring is very properly represented as rising a wreath of blossoms and other early flowers, among which the lily is distinguishable; the genius of Autumn is pouring forth her abundance of English fruits and vegetables (for there is nothing exotic) from a cornucopia; Summer, as far as can be seen from without the enclosed area of Russel-square, has a butterfly perched on his hand, intimating that this is the season when this beautiful insect bursts from its chrysales into new life; and Winter sits shrunk and sheltered by drapery from inclemencies of which, to be strictly correct, it should appear to have been the cause.

The character and style of Mr. Westmacott's boys or genii, are something between that of Fiamingo, and real life. Those of Summer and Autumn especially, possess much of infantile grace; but the genius of Winter appears disproportionably small, and the space left for his chest so small, when compared with his limbs, that the Hibernian punsters will be in some danger of thinking it is meant for a personification of—nobody. What those may be tempted to think of it who are conversant with Dr. Hunter's principal anatomical work, we shall not presume to say.

The bulls heads on the angles have a new and not unpleasing effect, and are executed in a grand style; their horns are short and bound for sacrifice as in the antique. And the frieze which runs round the top of the pedestal is enriched, the East side with two sheep, a lamb, and an ox; the West side with two swine and a cow; and the South side, or front of the monument with a horse, all sculptured in low relief, and in a style partaking partly of the antique, and partly of English nature. Immediately above this frieze on the south side, and in the interval between Winter and Spring, the artist has placed a lamb, which is perfectly in season.

Of the bas-reliefs which adorn the sides of the pedestal, and which are in conception and composition, if not of execution, the finest part of the whole pile, one represents the season of ploughing, the other that of harvest; and both are so classical in their appearance, and in design so abstracted from localities, that could they have been discovered in Sicily, the cognoscenti would, perhaps, have sworn that Theocritus had seen and studied them when he wrote his Idyllia.

As associated with, and calculated to call up, ideas of humble, innocent and laudable occupation, these sculptured pastorals are of high moral value in such a metropolis as this, where guilty dissimulation and insidiousness so much abound—independent of their merit, and consequent value as works of fine art. Why do we contemplate the innocent occupations of children, and rural life, with sentiments of the purest complacency? Why, but because the soul is revived as it recognises its own nature through the disguise of society, and springs back with ardour toward a state of things on which our ideas of Paradise itself have been rested.

Perhaps no works of art, and no poetry extant, will more forcibly recall what we have read and fancied of the golden age, than these bas-reliefs. They are delightful both in design and execution. To imagine the art as co-existing with these in such an age of happy innocence as is here suggested, raises cold criticism itself almost to rhapsody.

In the first, which occupies the western side of the pedestal, peasants are resting from the labour of the plough; a yoked ox shows the nature of their employment; a ploughman takes a refreshing draught, from his wooden bottle, while a youth blows a horn to call his fellow labourers to an humble repast, which a female is busily engaged in preparing.

——Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their savoury dinner set, Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat handed Phyllis dresses.

In the other relievo, which decorates the eastern side of the pedestal, reapers and other peasantry are conversing and reposing from the toils of the field. The group consists of a mower, a reaper, a harvest man stooping to bind a sheaf, a shepherd and his dog. The principal and central figure is that of a young female laden with corn, and holding a sickle in her right hand, and is a most exquisite, and, we had almost said, unparalleled piece of sculpture in its kind. In truth, the unsophisticated, self-willed, easy, rustic, grace, of this figure, is raised by the art of the sculptor into intellectual existence—

Her form is fresher than the morning rose, When the dew wets its leaves; a native grace Sits fair proportion'd on her polish'd limbs, Veil'd in a simple robe:

and all the characters are simple; yet free from any alloy of grossness, while the grouping and drawing are excellent in a very high degree. Modern art, excepting it be in the principal figure of Barry's Grecian Harvest-home, has produced nothing of the kind, which can be compared with this reaper, or which is so perfectly the vigorous offspring of Poetry and Sculpture, generated in their happiest moments.

Mr. Westmacott has wisely chosen to display the most prominent and distinguished trait of the Duke's character, and to that he has confined himself. He has not frittered attention as a common-minded statuary would have done, by endeavouring to make the subject of his chisel appear to have been every thing that is great and good: he does not compliment the Duke of Bedford, by surrounding him with various virtues, and representing him as having been a great statesman, philosopher, patron of art and literature, orator, agriculturist, &c. &c. but by seizing the principal feature of his mental character, and representing him simply as a great agriculturist, or patron of agriculture, he powerfully impresses one important truth, which no spectator will forget, and all who possess the means, may learn to emulate.

The Duke of Bedford's agricultural, is probably the most permanent, as well as honourable and prominent, feature of his character. In his politics, like a large majority of statesmen, he attached himself too much to persons, and attended too little to the ascertainment of principles. As a politician, he might soon have been forgotten, or have been remembered with little interest, while as an agriculturist, posterity for many a century, may with pleasure view the seasons playing round the foot of his statue.

The statue is in fact as much a monument in honour of agriculture as of the late Duke of Bedford; and, observing the public interest which this excites, we cannot but think it would be well if our public ways were adorned with statues to other noblemen and noble propensities.

To agriculture, undoubtedly, in every country, the first of arts, in point of time, and perhaps of importance, the first honours may be allowed; but we deem that a sufficient portion of the attention of our nobility and great landed proprietors has already been attracted toward this pursuit; and among the various arts and sciences, we should not forget that though the iron arts are more useful, the golden are more precious. A taste for fine art, moreover, has a certain grace of disinterestedness, which does not attach to an agricultural duke or great landed proprietor, constantly employing himself in endeavours to increase the produce of his lands.

Wherefore, though the statue to agriculture and the late Duke of Bedford, be extremely fit and proper in point of moral social influence, it makes other statues or other moral works of art yet more necessary than they were. Britain may boast of many a Cornelia, but where is the monument to the maternal character? Many a Brutus and many a Maecenas, but where are the public enticements to disinterested patriotism and the patronage of art?

* * * * *

O! NEVER LET US MARRY.

"We want no change, and least of all, Such change as you would bring us."—Pizarro.

TO ROSA.

If in possession passion die, And when we marry love deny, 'Tis rapture still to tarry: If that soft breast must cease to warm, Those speaking eyes no longer charm, O never let us marry!

If I shall hang not on thy lip, Like bees on roses when they sip, And thence less honey carry; If I must cease to think it bliss To breathe my soul in every kiss, O never let us marry!

* * * * *

THE SABLE APPARITION, OR MYSTERIOUS BELL ROPE.

An extract from a Manuscript Novel.

"'Twas nothing more, indeed my dear uncle! No, indeed, 'twas nothing more! Dear, dear, how could I suppose it to be any thing more? And yet I even tremble now," exclaimed Miss Godfrey to her astonished uncle, as he entered the house. "For heaven's sake, my beloved Frances what has thus dreadfully alarmed you?" returned the old gentleman. "Tell me I beseech you! I'm on the rack till I know what could possibly have the power of alarming you to this dreadful degree. Come my sweet girl, compose yourself and relate to me this "soul harrowing" tale; for I'm half inclined (seeing you smile) to suppose it some imaginary evil." It is indeed, sir, an imaginary evil, and a very foolish fear: I am very, very angry with myself, and am seriously apprehensive, that in disclosing to you my weakness, I shall draw down your very just animadversion; but if you will give me a patient hearing, and not think me too circumstantial in my narrative, I will give you then the seeming cause for the disorder in which you found me." Do not fear censure from me my dear Frances, we all have our weak moments; and I am convinced, a girl with my Fanny's understanding, could not be so alarmed at a very trifling circumstance; therefore proceed, my love; I will promise not to fall asleep over the recital."

"Sitting in my dressing room at work, I was surprised by a very hasty tap at the door, which I opened, when Monsieur l'Abbe appeared before me, with his hair erect, his eyes starting from their sockets, and his whole frame so convulsed with terror, that I momentarily expected the wax taper which he bore in his hand would make a somerset on my muslin dress. I begged him to inform me if he was ill? whether any thing had alarmed him? if I should ring for his servant? He shook his head in token of disapprobation of my last interrogatory, and in broken and almost inarticulate accents, begged I would indulge him with a moment's hearing. He then, with much difficulty, addressed me as follows:——

"You know Miss Godfrey, I am the last man in the world to be frightened at bugbears, or in other words, superstition and I were ever sworn enemies: I think, then, after reprobating this weakness in others for fifty years, I have this evening become its victim; for to that alone must I ascribe my fears. Listen then to the cause of this weakness in me. I was deeply immersed in Horace, when I heard a knocking against the partition that separates the rooms. I paid little or no attention to it at first, when a second time the knocks were repeated with more violence. I then arose, and proceeded to the room where the noise issued; and directing my eyes towards the bed, to my infinite surprise I perceived the bell-rope making rapid and extensive strides from one side of the partition to the other. After viewing it for a moment, I thought I would take the liberty of stopping the marble breasted gentleman's progress; I grasped the bell-rope, it yielded to my embrace, and became quiescent; I sat a moment to observe it; it remained quiet, and I returned to my studies. The instant I was seated, the same noise was repeated with increased violence; I entered the room a second time, and a second time saw the bell-rope in rapid motion. I then examined every corner of the room, without discovering the least trace by which I might elucidate this singular appearance. I again grasped the rope, and again it was motionless: I sat two or three minutes in the room, I believe, during which every thing was perfectly quiet. I returned to my room, when scarcely had I seated myself, ere the same noise met my ear, with a sort of hard breathing. This was more than even my philosophy could bear at that moment, and must plead my excuse for appearing before you in the disordered state which you have just witnessed." "You must pardon me, my good sir, for smiling," I remarked, but I really have scarcely had patience to hear you out, so anxious am I to be introduced to this ghost in the shape of a bell-rope! lead me to the haunted room, and you will gratify me beyond measure!"

"Magnanimous courage! exclaimed Monsieur, with such a guide, I'd face e'en Beelzebub himself;" when each embracing our taper, we proceeded to the mysterious room. My eager eye sought the bell-rope; but no sooner did I perceive its motion (for it was moving as Monsieur had described) than all my boasted philosophy forsook me. Ashamed to confess as much, I begged my companion to once more stop its progress, and suppressing my emotions, I assisted Monsieur in searching the room. Nothing, however, which possessed animation could we discover, (ourselves excepted) and indeed we could scarcely be said to possess it. Monsieur prevailed on me to retire to his sitting room, when perhaps, he observed, we should hear the noise repeated. I acquiesced, when to my inexpressible horror our ears were assailed by a tremendous knocking, accompanied by a terrific scream. This was more than human nature could bear. I rang the bell with unusual violence, which brought up two of the female servants. Without communicating my fears, I requested that the groom might be called: he came, and thus, in a body we once more ventured to enter this terror striking room, every corner of which was searched without success; when the groom accidentally moving the bed, out sprung our—black cat! She had so completely concealed herself in the head curtain of the bed, that all our endeavours to discover anything were fruitless; and each time we left the room, she amused herself with patting the pull of the bell, which occasioned its motion to the infinite terror of a French philosopher, and an heroic maiden.

"The 'terrific scream,' was a faint groan, proceeding from a servant who was ill in the house."



COMMUNICATIONS.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE DRAMATIC MISCELLANY.

Sir,

I send you herewith the first number of a series of Papers, the continuance of which will probably depend upon your opinion of their tendency to amuse or gratify your readers.

That they may not be tried by too rigid rules of criticism—and that more may not be expected from the writer than he means to perform, I deem it necessary to premise that the future numbers, like the present, are intended to consist of such anecdotes respecting the drama and dramatic writers, as I have heretofore, or hereafter may meet with in the course of a very desultory course of reading—of such information of that description, as I have collected in my progress through life—and of such remarks and reflections as they may excite in my mind.

With sincere wishes for the success of your undertaking, I am, Yours, &c. DRAMATICUS.

Every One has his Fault.

Among the best dramatic performances that have appeared during the last half of the eighteenth century, I have no hesitation in giving this admirable comedy, by Mrs. Inchbald, a conspicuous place. For strongly marked characters, interesting incidents, correct sentiments, and chaste language, I know none to be preferred to it. It appeared here, at the opening of the New Theatre in 1793, under as much advantage, as if the authoress had actually studied the force of the company, and written the parts for the respective performers. I was somewhat dissatisfied at first with one particular character, lord Norland. I thought it hardly possible such a being could have been drawn from nature. A further view of mankind, has convinced me that I was in error. I annex the dramatis personae, and leave the reader to judge whether a higher dramatic feast can probably be found at Covent Garden or Drury Lane.

Lord Norland, Mr. Whitlock, Capt. Irwin, Mr. Fennel, Sir Robert Ramble, Mr. Chalmers, Mr. Placid, Mr. Moreton, Harmony, Mr. Bates, Solus, Mr. Morris, Edward, Mrs. Marshal. Lady Erwin, Mrs. Whitlock, Mrs. Placid, Mrs. Shaw, Miss Woburn, Mrs. Morris, Miss Spinster, Mrs. Bates.

It may be heresy and schism to institute the most distant comparison between any modern writer and Shakspeare. But if so, I cannot help being a heretic and schismatic, for I believe that the scene between lord Norland, lady Irwin, and Edward, in which the latter abandons his grandfather, and flies into the arms of his mother, then newly discovered to him, is actually equal, for pathos and interest, to any scene ever represented in the English or any other language. Mrs. Inchbald, it is said, intended this drama for a tragedy, and made captain Irwin suffer death: but by the advice of her friends converted it into a comedy.

Prostitution of the Theatre.

Those who do not look beyond the mere surface of things, are prone to censure managers with great severity, when Theatres, which ought to be held sacred for exhibiting the grandest effusions of the human mind, are prostituted to puppet-shows, rope dancing, pantomimes and exhibitions of elephants, &c. Whatever of censure is due to this preposterous perversion, attaches elsewhere. It falls on those who frequent theatres. Dr. Johnson, in a prologue which he wrote for Garrick, places this idea in the strongest point of light.

"Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice: The stage but echoes back the public voice. The drama's laws the drama's patrons give: For those who live to please, must please to live."

And therefore if Romeo and Juliet, the Clandestine Marriage, the West Indian, the Gamester, Every one has his fault, and other dramatic works of this order, fail to afford attractions equal to Mother Goose, Cinderilla, the Forty thieves, an elephant, or a band of Indians, can it be a subject of surprise if the managers furnish those bills of fare, which possess the greatest gratification for that public on whom they depend?

Samuel Foote.

It is an old and trite maxim that ridicule is by no means a test of truth—and yet it is an equally ancient remark, that many a serious truth has been put out of countenance by ridicule, and that ridicule unsupported by wit or humour.

In a song sung by Mrs. Cibber, there was this line—

"The roses will bloom when there's peace in the breast."

Of the justice of which no man can entertain a doubt. The wicked wit Foote parodied the line, thus

"The turtles will coo when there's pease in their craws,"

And actually destroyed the popularity of the song.

A spirited manager.

The latter part of the following interesting anecdote of Garrick is unaccountably omitted in his life, by his biographer, Arthur Murphy.

In the year 1755, the English Roscius expended large sums of money in preparing what he termed a Chinese Festival, a grand spectacle, on a most magnificent scale. He imported a large number of Swiss and Italians to appear in it, which excited considerable jealousy among the London populace, as a French war had then begun, and all foreigners were indiscriminately regarded as Frenchmen. There was considerable opposition made the first and second nights of its being exhibited—and the 3d night, November 18, there was a large party formed, who were determined to have it suppressed. Violent riots took place—"the rioters tore up the benches, broke the lustres, threw down the partitions of the boxes, and mounting the stage, demolished the Chinese scenery." The injury sustained by the manager was very considerable, and required several days, and a very large sum of money to repair.

Some nights after, Garrick appeared on the stage in the character of Archer, and was imperiously and unjustly called upon to beg pardon of the audience. At this, his indignation was enkindled, and he advanced resolutely forward, stating the injury his property had sustained, and assuring them that "he was above want, superior to insult, and unless he was that night permitted to perform his duty to the best of his abilities, he would never—never appear upon the stage again." The audience were struck with the justice and propriety of what he said—felt ashamed of the vile scenes that had taken place, and of the indignity that had been offered to an old, a tried, and a deserving favourite; and by an instantaneous burst of applause, bore a strong testimony against the rioters and in favour of the respectable manager.

Moody.

The preceding anecdote leads me to give another of the same description, respecting Moody, a very valuable performer, one of Garrick's company.

In the beginning of the year 1763, very considerable riots took place in Drury-Lane, in consequence of an effort on the part of Garrick to abolish a shabby practice that had prevailed in London from time immemorial. This was, to admit persons into the theatre after the third act, at half price. Great devastation was committed on every thing that could be destroyed in the theatre. A wicked villain took a light, and was deliberately setting fire to the scenes, which might have caused the death of a portion of the misguided agents in this disgraceful outrage. Moody fortunately perceived him, resolutely interposed, and prevented the perpetration of his nefarious design. The next night that he appeared, he was instantly called upon to beg pardon, for an act which merited the highest gratitude. Moody addressed the audience—"Gentlemen, if by hindering the house from being burned, and saving many of your lives, I have given you cause of displeasure, I ask your pardon." This exasperated them still further, and there was an universal outcry that he should beg pardon on his knees. Moody had too much spirit, and too high a sense of his own dignity, to comply—and resolutely addressed them once more—"Gentlemen, I will not degrade myself so low, even in your opinion. By such an act, I should be an abject wretch, unfit ever to appear before you again." This said, and having made his bow, he retired. Garrick "received him with open arms," and applauded him for his spirited conduct. The riot still continued, and the manager being called for, he went before the audience, and a loud clamour having been made to dismiss Moody for what was unjustly styled his insolence, Garrick assured them that he should not perform on that stage while he remained under their displeasure. He then went behind the scenes; and, once more embracing Moody, pledged himself to pay his salary, notwithstanding his temporary exile.

Theatrical Licenses.

Although it is generally known that no new dramatic performance can be introduced on the stage in England, without the previous license of the Lord Chamberlain, it is not by any means equally well known to what cause this regulation owes its origin. Henry Fielding composed a theatrical representation to which he gave the name of Pasquin, the object of which was to satirize some of the most conspicuous characters in England, and among the number were the minister and many of his friends. This satirical performance became very popular, and was exhibited to crowded audiences for fifty successive nights. The exasperated minister, Robert Walpole, was determined to repress the licentiousness of the stage, and accordingly had a bill brought into parliament to prohibit the representation of any dramatic performance whatever, unless it had received the permission of the Lord chamberlain. This act, which was carried in spite of the utmost opposition, took from the crown the power of licensing any more theatres, and inflicted considerable penalties on those who should violate its restrictions.[E]

Mrs. Centlivre. The Busy Body.

The theatrical history affords numberless instances of the fallacy and folly of dogmatic decisions, and premature judgments. It were endless to relate the cases of dramatic performances, which, previous to their being acted, were regarded by managers and actors as execrable, and certain of condemnation—and yet have lived a century beyond the existence of their judges. And the instances are at least as numerous of managers forming the most flattering anticipations of the success, and the consequent emoluments of performances which were, to use the technical term of the theatre, damned by the unanimous consent of the audience.

The Busy Body, by Mrs. Centlivre, is a very remarkable case in point. It was decried before its appearance by all the players—Mr. Wilkes, the Garrick of his day, for a time absolutely refused to take a part in it—And the audience went to the theatre, so far prejudiced against it, as to contemplate its condemnation. Yet it was so favourably received, that it had a run of thirteen nights; and, after a lapse of an entire century, for it was first represented in 1709, it is still received with applause, and ranks deservedly high among the stock plays.

Gay.——Beggar's opera.

There is a still more striking illustration of the position I laid down in the preceding paragraph, than that afforded by the Busy Body. The Beggar's opera was offered to Cibber and the other managers of Drurylane theatre, and after examination was rejected by them, as not likely to prove successful. The managers of the other theatre had a more correct anticipation of the issue of this production, and hailed it with joy and gladness. The event justified their opinion—for never was there a more extraordinary degree of success than attended this rejected performance. It had the unprecedented run of fifty three nights, I believe successively, the first season in London—It spread into every town in the three kingdoms, where there was a theatre, and was every where received with unbounded applause. The songs were printed on ladies' fans—and Miss Fenton, who performed the part of Polly, and who, previous to her appearance in that character was in an inferior grade, became a first rate favourite, and was so high in the public opinion, that she was finally married to a peer of the realm. Gay's profits by this piece were above two thousand pounds sterling, or nearly nine thousand dollars.[F]

A Wine merchant.

Garrick, soon after his arrival in London, went into partnership with his brother Peter, in the wine trade. Their circumstances were very moderate. Foote, with whom it was a universal rule, never to spoil a good story by a scrupulous adherence to truth; very often, at a subsequent period, excited merriment at the expense of the modern Roscius, by the narrative of his adventures at that era of his life. He used to amuse his companions by telling them, that he remembered the time when little Davy lived in Durham court, with three quarts of vinegar in his cellar, and took upon himself the style and title of a wine merchant.

Garrick once more.

It is mortifying to reflect how the fairest fame may be destroyed, and the best character be travestied in the public estimation, by a jest, a bon mot, or an epigram, which contains any very pointed allusion. The story tells to advantage. It is no diminution of its chance of progress, that it is in the very last degree void of even the shadow of foundation. Its wit, its humour, or its malignity embalms it, and saves it from destruction. It enlivens social circles—It spreads abroad, and gathers strength as it goes: It is received as complete evidence almost as if it had been judicially established.

These ideas are excited by the excellent and revered character, whose name I have prefixed to this sketch. Of his avarice Foote circulated some droll stories, which have had considerable currency, and found their way into most of the jest books that have been published for these thirty years. And it has been in consequence pretty generally believed that Garrick was a miserable, narrow-souled creature, whom the auri sacra fames would lead to any kind of meanness, and who was incapable of a liberal or munificent action. Of him I acknowledge I had formed this opinion: and such has been the opinion of most of my acquaintances. It gives me great pleasure to find that the charge is totally groundless; and that few men ever made a better use of their wealth—none were more ready with their purse on every occasion where distress or misfortune petitioned for assistance, or when any public spirited undertaking had a fair claim upon private liberality.

Malone's sketch of his life, and Boswell's life of Johnson, contain numberless illustrious instances of his beneficence. Johnson, who was much in the habit of collecting money among his friends for the relief of persons in distress or embarrassment, repeatedly declared, that Garrick was always ready on these occasions, and that his contributions exceeded those of other persons in equal circumstances.

Garrick's liberality in the establishment of the fund for the relief of superannuated actors, would alone be sufficient to rescue him from the charge of avarice. He gave a benefit play yearly for that purpose, in which he always acted a leading character. He bestowed on the association two houses for the meetings of the managers;—and when the latter resolved to sell them, as unnecessary, Garrick bought them at the valuation which was set upon them. He afterwards bequeathed them by his will to the increase of the fund.

As it was damned.

One of Henry Fielding's farces having been hissed from the stage, the author, when he published it, instead of the usual annunciation, "as it was performed at the theatre royal," &c. substituted a more correct reading, "as it was damned at the theatre royal, Drury Lane." This laudable example of candor has never since been copied by any of the bards whose performances have experienced the same awful fate.

Vindication of Lord Rochester.

A miscreant of the name of Fishbourne in the reign of Charles II. published a vile play, called Sodom, so detestably obscene, that the earl of Rochester, then in the full career of licentiousness and debauchery, finding it ascribed to him, thought it necessary publicly to disclaim the infamy of the authorship. This circumstance, coupled with the gross tendency of most of even the best plays of that time, must convey to the reader a tolerably correct idea how far the wretched author had outstripped his companions in the career of turpitude.

An elegant translation.

One Gordon (not Thomas Gordon, the translator of Tacitus) translated Terence in the year 1752, and rendered the words, ignarum artis meretricis, "quite a stranger to the trade of these b——s."

Beware of a too free use of the bottle.

One Henry Higden, a dramatic writer about the close of the seventeenth century, wrote a comedy, called the Wary Widow, in which he introduced so many drinking scenes, that the actors were completely drunk before the end of the third act, and being therefore unable to proceed with the play, they dismissed the audience.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] See Baker's companion to the playhouse. Vol. I, page 21, 2.

[F] See Baker, Vol. I. page 185.



DRAMATIC CENSOR.

I have always considered those combinations which are formed in the playhouse as acts of fraud or cruelty. He that applauds him who does not deserve praise, is endeavouring to deceive the public. He that hisses in malice or in sport is an oppressor and a robber.

Dr. Johnson's Idler, No. 25.

DOMESTIC CRITICISM.

In dramatic criticism the leading characters of the play, and the actors who perform them, lay claim to the first and most particular investigation. Those upon whom the more enlightened part of the public have bestowed the greatest approbation, require the most severe scrutiny, since they only can affect the public taste. Birds of passage too who like Mr. Cooper and Master Payne "come like shadows, so depart," are entitled to priority of attention; we therefore in our last number, travelled with Mr. Cooper through the characters he performed on his first visit to Philadelphia, without adverting to the other performers, except in a few instances, in which the sterling merit of Mr. Wood impressed itself so strongly on our minds, that we could not resist our desire to do it justice, and his characters were so closely connected with those of Mr. Cooper, that we thought they could not well be separated. It would indeed be difficult to discuss Mr. Cooper's merits in Zanga or Pierre, without dwelling upon the able support he received in them, from Mr. Wood's Alonzo and Jaffier. We cannot, however, drop Mr. Wood there, since we rather glanced at, than reviewed his performances. The public no doubt expect something more from us on that gentleman's subject: the rapid advances he makes to professional excellence, and the large space he now fills in public estimation, leave to the critic no discretion. Such as the actor is, he must be shown. It is a duty which we could not evade if we would; and we should be sorry to be so deficient in taste, as not to discharge it with pleasure.

Of no actor with whom we are acquainted can it with more truth be said than it may of Mr. Wood, that he never performs a character positively ill. A judgment clear, sound, and in general severely correct, with exemplary labour and industry, secure him completely, even in those characters for which he is least fitted, from offending the taste of his auditors, or rendering his performance ridiculous; an assertion we would hazard on the head of very few if any actors in America. This is to put our opinion of him at once at the lowest: yet even that would appear something to any one who could conceive the disgust with which it often falls to our lot to turn from the scene before us.

There is not in the whole catalogue of acting plays a character more disadvantageous to an actor, than that of Alonzo. A compound of imbecility and baseness, yet an object of commiseration: an unmanly, blubbering, lovesick, querulous creature; a soldier, whining, piping and besprent with tears, destitute of any good quality to gain esteem, or any brilliant trait or interesting circumstance to relieve an actor under the weight of representing him. In addition to this, there are so many abrupt variations and different transitions that it requires great talents in an actor to get through it, without incurring a share of the contempt due to the character. Viewing him in this way, we could not help regretting that it should devolve upon a young actor, who could scarcely expect to escape unhurt in it. Our surprise was great, nor was our pleasure less, to find in Mr. Wood's performance, a pleasing marked delineation of the best features of Alonzo, with the worst considerably softened and relieved. Seldom is a character so indebted to the aid of an actor as this to the judgment of Mr. Wood. Dr. Young's muse flags most dolefully in this part, and Mr. Wood did more than could be expected to bear her up. We could not help wishing upon the occasion that Alonzo could have bartered a portion of his judgment for a share of the physical powers of Zanga; both would profit by the exchange.

In the Copper Captain Mr. Wood had a character very favourable to the actor, and well suited to his powers and talents. Michael, however, is one of those vigorous productions of the old comic muse in which a player incurs the danger of overshooting the mark in his efforts not to fall short of it. One in which while the judicious actor luxuriates, and gives a force to his whole comic powers, he finds it difficult to observe very strictly the ne quid nimis of the critic. The correct and chaste judgment of Mr. Wood kept the bridle so firm on his performance of it, that we do not think he once "o'erstepped the modesty of nature."

In his performance of Iago we thought Mr. Wood inferior to himself. How could he or any actor be expected to get through his business under the circumstances of the theatre on that evening. A band of drunken butchers had got into two of the front boxes, and converted them into a grog-shop!

In the prince of Wales in Henry IV. Mr. Wood displayed the versatility of his talents. In the gay, thoughtless, trifling rake, the "madcap" prince, he was spirited, and playful without puerility; in the serious parts, whether as the penitent apologizing son, or the martial hero, he was judicious, impressive, and not deficient in military importance.

Where we see so much merit, merit so entirely his own, we advert to faults with great reluctance. But it is our duty and we must do it. Of the contagious nature of the KEMBLE PLAGUE in acting we cannot adduce a more lamentable proof than that it sometimes taints even this very judicious performer. How has it been endured by the British public, how can it be reconciled to common sense, that players who are supposed to represent human beings, and who assume to speak and act as men in real existence, speak and act in the commerce of the world, should constantly utter the lines set down for them, in such a manner as no rational creature in real life ever yet did utter them, or ever will? Does it give force, interest or dignity to the lines of a speech to take up twice or thrice as much time in speaking them as the most formal, deliberate, or pompous prig of an orator would employ upon them? Why will not actors condescend to speak "like the folks of this world," particularly as they pretend to imitate them? We never were at a royal levee—but we have been at the pains to ask several persons who have been, whether any king, or prince, or peer spoke there, as Mr. Kemble or as Mr. Holman, or Mr. Pope after him, speak in Hamlet, Richard, Macbeth, &c. and the uniform answer has been that the great men at court speak just like all gentlemen in private society. As to public orators, we can say that Mr. Kemble and his disciples occupy one third, or at least one fourth more time in delivering any given number of words than ever the stately William Pitt in his most slow and solemn exordiums. Yet this they call speaking naturally—imitating the conduct of men.

We do not allude to proper pauses, in the duration of which the actor may be allowed some little license—and an extension of which is frequently a beauty. Thus when Balthazar informs Romeo of Juliet's death, Mr. Cooper maintained a pause of great length with the most felicitous effect. He stood overwhelmed, stupified, and bereft of speech with horror and astonishment, then said

"Is it even so?—then I defy you stars!"

and paused again. Here like a great artist he filled up the picture of which Shakspeare only gave the outlines: but when, afterwards he expostulated with the apothecary, we could see no reason why he should deliver out the lines syllable by syllable like drops of blood reluctantly given from the heart.

Art—thou—so—bare—and—full—of—wretchedness And—fear'st—to—die?

To us the last appeared as ludicrous as the former was beautiful and affecting. But, "in the name of all the gods at once," why this? Though Mr. Wood sometimes falls into this error, a few of the first lines of his Jaffier smacked of it wofully. We should find no apprehension of laying any sum upon it, if the thing could possibly be ascertained, that in pronouncing the words

Not hear me! by my sufferings but you shall! My lord—my lord! I'm not that abject wretch You think me.

he occupied full double the time that Barry did, or even the late Hodgkinson, whose good fortune it was not to have studied, or seen, or drawn one drop of his professional sap from the great root of these abuses. It is said by some of Mr. Kemble's advocates that he speaks in that manner from necessity—that he does it to nurse his voice in the beginning, which else would flag before the end of a long performance. If this were a sufficient excuse for Mr. K. we should not disallow it in the case of any other gentleman who labours under the disadvantage of a weak voice. But we think it is not; it would be infinitely better for the audience to compound with the actor and allow him resting between the speech times. The majestic Spranger Barry when we last saw him was not only so decrepit that he hobbled along the stage, and so bent in the middle that his body formed an angle with his lower limbs, almost as acute as that of a mounted telescope, but was so encumbered by infirmity and high living that upon any violent exertion of the lungs he puffed very painfully; yet even in that state we have heard him speak the part of Rhadamistus in Zenobia, with all the fire, rapidity, and animation of youth, his fine person all the time raised erect for the purpose: but as soon as the speech was over, down he sunk again to his angle, and puffed and blowed, while the audience, with emotions mixed up of admiration and grief gazed in a kind of melancholy delight on the finest ruin that ever time made in the works of nature: thunders and shouts of plaudits filled the house; every female was seen gazing upon the wonderful man as if her eyes were nailed upon their axes, and were melting away with floods of tears, while he, from a face of almost divine sweetness, gave back their love and their indulgence with interest. He was allowed to take his own time—not in the speeches, but between them.

Though these remarks are introduced in a part of our criticism dedicated to the performances of Mr. Wood, we by no means would have it understood that it applies exclusively, or even particularly to him. There is no performer on the American stage, perhaps, to whom they less frequently apply; but we have started the subject with him purposely to point out by an instance a fortiori how dangerous it is to a young actor, not to guard against a great imperfection. When he whose sound judgment and industry may reasonably be supposed to secure him from such errors, insensibly falls into them, actors of inferior capacity and less industry will see, or at least ought to see the necessity of standing upon a more vigilant guard.

Since the subject is started we will proceed with it, though perhaps to the exclusion from this number of some other matter originally intended for it. Can those, who, loving the drama, and feeling its beauties with a true classic spirit, wish to see the public taste won over to the tragic muse, hope that it can be accomplished, or can they be surprised that on the contrary, tragedy so often excites merriment when they reflect upon the way dramatic poetry is often delivered upon the stage. Let the first three men who pass by the playhouse door be called in, one of them taken from the highest order of life, a second from the middle order, and the third from the very lowest class—let them hear a tragedy through, or even some parts of a comedy, and let them then give their verdict as on oath, whether what they heard, resembled anything they had ever heard before out of a playhouse, or perchance a madhouse, and they must answer in the negative or perjure themselves.

This was one of the evils which Garrick had the glory of eradicating. Just before him, actors spoke in the ti-tum-ti monotonous sing-song way of the new school. Old Macklin some years ago, assured the writer of this, that except in some few declamatory speeches, or in the ghost of Hamlet, QUIN would not be endured at that time in tragedy: and what said this Quin himself when he was prevailed upon to go to Goodman's Fields to see Garrick for the first time? "I dont know what to say," he replied to one who asked his opinion of the young actor, "but if he be right, we have all been wrong." Quin's integrity would not let him deny a truth which his judgment told him in the very teeth of his prejudices.

Absurd and unnatural as this miserable mode of speech is, it is very difficult to be got rid of, when it once becomes habitual to an actor; a memorable instance of which was old MR. WIGNELL of Covent garden, the father of our late manager. He was one of the Quin school, and if now alive and able to act, would once more hitch in very handsomely with the recitativers of the new academy of acting, for, says the author of the Thespian dictionary, "He possessed the singular talent of imparting stateliness to comic dialogues, and merriment to tragic scenes." Of this gentleman many anecdotes are recorded, curious in themselves, and well deserving the consideration of young actors.

Upon the revival of the tragedy of Cato in London (Cato by Sheridan) Mr. Wignell was put forward in his old established part of Portius. In the first scene he stepped forward in his accustomed strut and began

The dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs And heavily with clouds brings on the day.

At this moment the audience began to vociferate "prologue, prologue, prologue," when Wignell finding them resolute without moving from the spot, without pausing, or changing his tone of voice, but in all the pomposity of tragedy, went on as if it were part of the play.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there has been no Prologue spoken to this play these twenty years— The great, the important day, big with the fate Of Cato and of Rome."——

This wonderful effusion put the audience in good humour—they laughed incontinently—clapped and shouted bravo, and Wignell proceeded with his usual stateliness, self-complacency, and composure.

Mr. Wignell's biographer above mentioned relates the following anecdote. "During a rehearsal of the suspicious husband, Mr. Garrick exclaimed "pray Mr. Wignell, why cannot you enter and say, "Mr. Strictland, sir, your coach is ready", without all the declamatory pomp of Booth or Quin?"—"Upon my soul, Mr. Garrick," replied poor Wignell, "I thought I had kept the sentiment down as much as possible."" When Macklin performed Macbeth Wignell played the doctor, and in this serious character provoked loud fits of laughter.

The above facts contain a valuable lesson to actors, some of whom can, no more than Mr. Wignell, get the sentiment down, when they have an event of such importance to announce as the coach being ready. In serious truth we are persuaded that the fulsome, bombastical ridiculous stateliness of some actors, tends to bring tragedy into disrepute, to deprive it of its high preeminence, and must ultimately disgust the multitude with some of the noblest productions of the human mind.

Two other characters of the tragedies already alluded to, demand from the justice of criticism the most full and unmixed praise. Falstaff in Henry IV. and Cacafogo in Rule a Wife and have a Wife, had in Mr. Warren a most able representative. Having seen several—the select ones of the last five and thirty years—we can truly say, without entering into nice comparisons, that if we were to sit to those two plays a hundred times in America or Great Britain, we could be well contented with just such a Falstaff and just such a Cacafogo as Mr. Warren.

The Foundling of the Forest.

In our first number we made a few observations on this comedy. They were not very favourable to it; and, notwithstanding its great success in representation, we are not at all disposed to retract any of them, because our opinion of the intrinsic value of the piece is not in the least altered. In representation it is all—in the closet nothing. This arises from the conduct of the plot, which indeed constitutes the whole of its merit. In Europe, as in America, the judgment of every critic is at variance with the decision of the multitude upon it, for while at the Lyceum it has been applauded by "the million," it has been lashed by the judicious, in various respectable publications.

The time has been, nor has it long passed by, when that body in the community who decided the fate of every literary performance, far from being contented with EFFECT upon the stage, condemned it, if it were not produced by an adequate CAUSE in nature. To that body the Farrago of Melodrame, written spectacle, and mysterious agency, would have been objects of ridicule or disapprobation, and the just influence of their opinions upon the public would have driven back the German muse with all her paraphernalia of tempests, castles, dungeons, and murderers, to rave on her native ground: except in their proper place (farce or pantomime) they would not have been tolerated. To write only to the passions, to expose human beings to circumstances that cannot in the natural course of life occur, and release them by means which outrage all probability, and to those ends to urge vice and virtue beyond all possible bounds, and fabricate extreme characters such as have rarely or never existed, characters either better than saints, or worse than devils, for the mere purpose of producing horror and astonishment, and hanging up the feelings of the multitude on the tenterhooks of fearful suspense and painful apprehension—to violate all the rules prescribed by nature and experience, and place heroes and heroines in situations so far out of the course of human conduct, that the poet cannot get them out again by rational, feasible means, but is compelled to leave their fate to the guess of the spectators by picturesque grouping and dropping the curtain. What is this but to reverse the very nature of the drama, "Whose end," says its father Shakspeare, "both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twere the mirror up to Nature, to show Virtue her own feature, Scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the Time his form and pressure."

By such miserable expedients as these, the fascinating effects of the Foundling of the Forest are produced. But in the management of those materials, the author has displayed unparalleled skill. The story in its original outline is certainly interesting, and the plot is not only skilfully developed but artfully contrived as a vehicle for stage effect—for such merely, has the author evidently intended it; his arrangement of the machinery, such as it is, demands warm praise for its perspicuity and just order, and if the alarming and horrific be legitimate objects for a dramatist, Mr. Dimond has succeeded most marvellously.

The sorriest critic, however, knows that horror ought not to be produced on the stage. The boundary that separates terror from horror, is the lawful limit—the line not to be broken—the Rubicon which when the poet passes, he commits treason against the sovereign laws of the drama. The mighty magician of Udolpho, as the author of the pursuits of Literature calls Mrs. Radcliff, with powers almost beyond human, infused into the British public a taste for the horrible which has not yet been palled by the nauseous draughts of it, poured forth by her impotent successors. One would think that, like Macbeth, the novel and play reading world had by this time, supped full of horrors; but not so—every season brings forth a new proof that that taste so far from being extinguished, has grown to an appetite canine and ravenous which devours with indiscriminating greediness the elegant cates of the sumptuous, board and the offal of the shambles; provided only that they have sufficient of the German haut-gout of the marvellous and horrible.

"Plot—plot—plot," says an enlightened British critic, "have been Mr. Dimond's three studies." But what shall be said of the characters. To any one who frequents the theatre, the characters of Longueville, L'Eclair, Gaspard, Rosabelle, and perhaps more, are quite familiar. They are among the worn out slippers of the modern dramatists. The character of Bertrand is a moral novelty on the stage, and not less unnatural than novel. Unnatural, not because he repents with a remorse truly horrible, but because, while filled with that remorse, he submits to be a murderer and a villian rather than violate an oath he had made to perpetrate any crime Longueville should command. This unfortunate wretch is kept in torments through the whole play, and after having by an act of bold and resolute virtue expiated his crimes and brought about the happy catastrophe of the piece, is left to sneak off unrewarded. As to Florian, though obviously intended for the hero of the tale, he is a strange nondescript, in whose language the author has given buffoonery by way of wit, and bombast by way of dignity. The Count De Valmont is a most interesting personage, and so is the countess Eugenia.

Of the acting we can with truth speak more favourably than of the writing. The characters throughout were well supported; but Mr. Wood in De Valmont and Mr. M'Kenzie in Bertrand were so striking and impressive that the critic's attention was chiefly attracted by them. Mr. Wood's performance was exquisitely fine even on the first night, and every repetition disclosed augmented excellence. In the second scene of the second act, where Bertrand prostrates himself before Eugenia, Mr. M'Kenzie presented in his posture of supplication, such a natural yet terrible, picture of the humiliating effects of guilt and consequent remorse, as could not fail to make an awful impression on the most hardened and unfeeling sinner. In Longueville Mr. Warren was, as he always is, correct and respectable, and Mr. Cone made much more of the ticklish part of Florian than we had a right to expect. In L'Eclair Mr. Jefferson was, as he seldom fails to be, diverting: But on a future occasion we propose saying a few words, by way of friendly expostulation with this powerful actor, who, yielding to the baneful itch for gallery applause, is gradually sullying some of the finest talents, once the chastest, too, upon the stage. In his Rosabelle (Mrs. Wilmot) he might see admirable comic powers, and great histrionic skill, which the public applause of years has not yet misled into the vulgar track—"the pitiful ambition of setting on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh" by buffoonery.

Mrs. Wood maintained her long acknowledged claim upon the respect and approbation of her audience, and gained for the lovely sufferer Eugenia, all the sympathy which the author could have hoped to excite. Always highly interesting, one can't tell why—never incorrect or indifferent—often extremely impressive in characters of a serious cast, we think that comedy is her forte. In several parts, some too indeed which verged upon the lower comedy, we have noticed enough to convince us, that by a studious, and as far as might be, exclusive attention to the comic muse, Mrs. W. would soon become one of her most distinguished favourites.

* * * * *

In our next number Mr. COOPER'S second series of performances will be attended to—particularly his Orsino, in which it gives us pleasure to observe that we could not discover a fault, but all was uniform excellence. This character we consider as making an era in the history of Mr. Cooper's acting. ALPHONSO is a tragedy which merits frequent repetition.



A

NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS,

A COMEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

BY PHILIP MASSINGER, ESQ.

PRINTED FOR BRADFORD AND INSKEEP, NO. 4, SOUTH THIRD-STREET, PHILADELPHIA; INSKEEP AND BRADFORD, NEW-YORK; AND WILLIAM M'ILHENNY, BOSTON, BY SMITH AND M'KENZIE.

1810.



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Lord Lovell. Sir Giles Overreach. Justice Greedy. Wellborn. Allworth. Marall. Order. Furnace. Amble. Tapwell. Welldo. Watchall. Vintner. Tailor. Creditors. Lady Allworth. Margaret. Froth. Bridget. Barbara.



ACT I.

SCENE I.—The Outside of a Village Alehouse.

Enter Wellborn, Tapwell, and Froth, from the House.

Wellb. No liquor? nor no credit?

Tap. None, sir, for you; Not the remainder of a single can, Left by a drunken porter.

Froth. Not the dropping of the tap for your morning's draught, sir: 'Tis verity, I assure you.

Wellb. Verity, you brach! The devil turn'd precisian! Rogue, what am I?

Tap. Troth! durst I trust you with a looking-glass, To let you see your trim shape, you would quit me, And take the name yourself.

Wellb. How? dog!

Tap. Even so, sir. And I must tell you, if you but advance a foot, There dwells, and within call (if it please your worship,) A potent monarch, call'd the constable, That does command a citadel, call'd the stocks; Such as with great dexterity will haul Your poor tatter'd——

Wellb. Rascal! slave!

Froth. No rage, sir.

Tap. At his own peril! Do not put yourself In too much heat; there being no water near To quench your thirst: and sure, for other liquor, I take it, You must no more remember; not in a dream, sir.

Wellb. Why, thou unthankful villain, dar'st thou talk thus? Is not thy house, and all thou hast, my gift?

Tap. I find it not in chalk; and Timothy Tapwell Does keep no other register.

Wellb. Am not I he Whose riots fed and cloth'd thee? Wert thou not Born on my father's land, and proud to be A drudge in his house?

Tap. What I was, sir, it skills not; What you are, is apparent. Now, for a farewell: Since you talk of father, in my hope it will torment you, I'll briefly tell your story. Your dead father, My quondam master, was a man of worship; Old Sir John Wellborn, justice of peace, and quorum; And stood fair to be custos rotulorum: Bore the whole sway of the shire; kept a great house: Reliev'd the poor, and so forth: but he dying, And the twelve hundred a-year coming to you, Late Mr. Francis, but now forlorn Wellborn——

Wellb. Slave, stop! or I shall lose myself.

Froth. Very hardly, You cannot be out of your way.

Tap. But to my story; I shall proceed, sir: You were then a lord of acres, the prime gallant, And I your under-butler: note the change now; You had a merry time of't: Hawks and hounds; With choice of running horses; mistresses, And other such extravagancies; Which your uncle, Sir Giles Overreach, observing, Resolving not to lose so fair an opportunity, On foolish mortgages, statutes, and bonds, For a while supplied your lavishness; and Having got your land, then left you. While I, honest Tim Tapwell, with a little stock, Some forty pounds or so, bought a small cottage; Humbled myself to marriage with my Froth here; Gave entertainment——

Wellb. Yes, to whores and pickpockets.

Tap. True; but they brought in profit; And had a gift to pay what they call'd for; And stuck not like your mastership. The poor income I glean'd from them, hath made me, in my parish, Thought worthy to be scavenger; and, in time, May rise to be overseer of the poor: Which if I do, on your petition, Wellborn, I may allow you thirteen-pence a quarter; And you shall thank my worship.

Wellb. Thus, you dog-bolt—— And thus—— [Beats him.

Tap. Cry out for help!

Wellb. Stir, and thou diest: Your potent prince, the constable, shall not save you. Hear me, ungrateful hell-hound! Did not I Make purses for you? Then you lick'd my boots And thought your holiday coat too coarse to clean them. 'Twas I, that when I heard thee swear, if ever Thou couldst arrive at forty pounds, thou wouldst Live like an emperor; 'twas I that gave it, In ready gold. Deny this, wretch!

Tap. I cannot, sir.

Wellb. They are well rewarded That beggar themselves to make such rascals rich. Thou viper, thankless viper! But since you are grown forgetful, I will help Your memory, and beat thee into remembrance; Not leave one bone unbroken.

Tap. Oh!

Enter Allworth.

Allw. Hold; for my sake, hold! Deny me, Frank? they are not worth your anger?

Wellb. For once thou hast redeem'd them from this sceptre: [Shaking his Cudgel. But let them vanish; For if they grumble, I revoke my pardon.

Froth. This comes of your prating, husband! you presum'd On your ambling wit, and must use your glib tongue, Though you are beaten lame for't.

Tap. Patience, Froth, There's no law to cure our bruises.

[They go off into the House.

Wellb. Sent for to your mother?

Allw. My lady, Frank! my patroness! my all! She's such a mourner for my father's death, And, in her love to him, so favours me, That I cannot pay too much observance to her. There are few such stepdames.

Wellb. 'Tis a noble widow, And keeps her reputation pure, and clear From the least taint. Pr'ythee, tell me Has she no suitors?

Allw. Even the best of the shire, Frank, My lord excepted: such as sue, and send, And send, and sue again; but to no purpose. Their frequent visits have not gain'd her presence; Yet, she's so far from sullenness and pride, That, I dare undertake, you shall meet from her A liberal entertainment.

Wellb. I doubt it not: but hear me, Allworth, And take from me good counsel, I am bound to give it.—— Thy father was my friend; and that affection I bore to him, in right descends to thee: Thou art a handsome, and a hopeful youth, Nor will I have the least affront stick on thee, If I with any danger can prevent it.

Allw. I thank your noble care; but, pray you, in what Do I run the hazard?

Wellb. Art thou not in love? Put it not off with wonder.

Allw. In love?

Wellb. You think you walk in clouds, but are transparent. I have heard all, and the choice that you have made; And with my finger, can point out the north star, By which the loadstone of your folly's guided. And, to confirm this true, what think you of Fair Margaret, the only child, and heir Of cormorant Overreach? Dost blush and start, To hear her only nam'd? Blush at your want Of wit and reason.

Allw. Howe'er you have discovered my intents, You know my aims are lawful; and if ever The queen of flowers, the glory of the Spring, The sweetest comfort to our smell, the rose, Sprang from an envious briar, I may infer, There's such disparity in their conditions, Between the goddess of my soul, the daughter, And the base churl her father.

Wellb. Grant this true, As I believe it; canst thou ever hope To enjoy a quiet bed with her, whose father Ruin'd thy state?

Allw. And yours, too.

Wellb. I confess it, Allworth. But, I must tell you as a friend, and freely, Where impossibilities are apparent. Canst thou imagine (let not self-love blind thee) That Sir Giles Overreach (that, to make her great In swelling titles, without touch of conscience, Will cut his neighbour's throat, and, I hope, his own too) Will e'er consent to make her thine? Give o'er, And think of some course suitable to thy rank, And prosper in it.

Allw. You have well advis'd me. But, in the meantime, you that are so studious Of my affairs, wholly neglect your own. Remember yourself, and in what plight you are.

Wellb. No matter! no matter!

Allw. Yes, 'tis much material: You know my fortune, and my means; yet something I can spare from myself, to help your wants.

Wellb. How's this?

Allw. Nay, be not angry. There's eight pieces To put you in better fashion.

Wellb. Money from thee? From a boy? a dependant? one that lives At the devotion of a step-mother, And the uncertain favour of a lord? I'll eat my arms first. Howsoe'er blind Fortune Hath spent the utmost of her malice on me; Though I am thrust out of an alehouse, And thus accoutred; know not where to eat, Or drink, or sleep, but underneath this canopy; Although I thank thee, I disdain thy offer. And as I, in my madness, broke my state, Without the assistance of another's brain, In my right wits I'll piece it. At the worst, Die thus, and be forgotten. [Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.—A Chamber in Lady Allworth's House.

Enter Furnace, Amble, Order, and Watchall.

Order. Set all things right; or as my name is Order, Whoever misses in his function, For one whole week makes forfeiture of his breakfast, And privilege in the wine-cellar.

Amble. You are merry, Good master steward.

Fur. Let him; I'll be angry.

Amble. Why, fellow Furnace, 'tis not twelve o'clock yet, Nor dinner taking up: then 'tis allow'd, Cooks by their places, may be choleric.

Fur. You think you have spoken wisely, goodman Amble, My lady's go-before.

Order. Nay, nay, no wrangling.

Fur. Twit me with the authority of the kitchen? At all hours, and at all places, I'll be angry: And, thus provok'd, when I am at my prayers I will be angry.

Amble. There was no hurt meant.

Fur. I am friends with thee, and yet I will be angry.

Order. With whom?

Fur. No matter whom: yet, now I think on't, I'm angry with my lady.

Amble. Heaven forbid, man!

Order. What cause has she given thee?

Fur. Cause enough, master steward: I was entertained by her to please her palate; And, till she foreswore eating, I perform'd it. Now, since our master, noble Allworth, died, Though I crack'd my brains to find out tempting sauces, And raise fortifications in the pastry, When I am three parts roasted, And the fourth part parboil'd, to prepare her viands, She keeps her chamber, dines with a panada, Or water-gruel, my skill never thought on.

Order. But your art is seen in the dining room.

Fur. By whom? By such as pretend to love her; but come To feed upon her. Yet, of all the harpies That do devour her, I am out of charity With none so much, as the thin-gutted squire, That's stolen into commission.

Order. Justice Greedy?

Fur. The same, the same. Meat's cast away upon him; It never thrives. He holds this paradox, Who eats not well, can ne'er do justice well. His stomach's as insatiate as the grave.

Watch. One knocks.

[Allworth knocks, and enters.

Order. Our late young master.

Amble. Welcome, sir.

Fur. Your hand— If you have a stomach, a cold bake-meat's ready. We are all your servants.

All. At once, my thanks to all: This is yet some comfort. Is my lady stirring?

Enter Lady Allworth.

Order. Her presence answers for us.

Lady A. Sort those silks well. I'll take the air alone.

Fur. You air, and air; But will never taste but spoon meat more: To what use serve I?

Lady A. Pr'ythee, be not angry, I shall, ere long: i'th' mean time, there Is gold for thee.

Fur. I am appeas'd—and Furnace now grows cold.

Lady A. And, as I gave directions, if this morning I am visited by any, entertain them As heretofore: but say, in my excuse, I am indispos'd.

Order. I shall, madam.

Lady A. Do, and leave me.

[Exeunt Order, Amble, Watchall and Furnace.

Nay, stay you, Allworth.

Allw. I shall gladly grow here, To wait on your commands.

Lady A. So soon turn'd courtier?

Allw. Style not that courtship, madam, which is duty, Purchased on your part.

Lady A. Well, you shall o'ercome; I'll not contend in words. How is it With your noble master?

Allw. Ever like himself. No scruple lessen'd in the full weight of honour: He did command me (pardon my presumption), As his unworthy deputy, To kiss your ladyship's fair hands.

Lady A. I am honour'd in His favour to me. Does he hold his purpose For the Low Countries?

Allw. Constantly, good madam: But he will, in person, first present his service.

Lady A. And how approve you of his course? You are yet Like virgin parchment, capable of any Inscription, vitious or honourable. I will not force your will, but leave you free To your own election.

Allw. Any form you please I will put on: but might I make my choice, With humble emulation, I would follow The path my lord marks to me.

Lady A. 'Tis well answer'd, And I commend your spirit: you had a father, (Bless'd be his memory) that some few hours Before the will of Heaven took him from me, Did commend you, by the dearest ties Of perfect love between us, to my charge: And, therefore, what I speak, you are bound to hear With such respect, as if he liv'd in me.

Allw. I have found you, Most honour'd madam, the best mother to me; And with my utmost strength of care and service, Will labour that you never may repent Your bounties shower'd upon me.

Lady A. I much hope it. These were your father's words: If e'er my son Follow the war, tell him it is a school Where all the principles tending to honour Are taught, if truly follow'd: But for such As repair thither, as a place in which They do presume, they may with license practise Their lusts and riots, they shall never merit The noble name of soldiers. To dare boldly In a fair cause, and for the country's safety, To run upon the cannon's mouth undaunted; To obey their leaders, and shun mutinies; To bear with patience the winter's cold, And summer's scorching heat— Are the essential parts make up a soldier; Not swearing, dice, or drinking.

Allw. There's no syllable You speak, but it is to me an oracle; Which but to doubt were impious.

Lady A. To conclude— Beware ill company; for, often, men Are like to those with whom they do converse: And from one man I warn you, and that's Wellborn: Not cause he's poor, that rather claims your pity; But that he's in his manners so debauch'd, And hath to vitious courses sold himself. 'Tis true your father lov'd him, while he was Worthy the loving; but, if he had liv'd To have seen him as he is, he had cast him off, As you must do.

Allw. I shall obey in all things.

Lady A. Follow me to my chamber; you shall have gold To furnish you like my son, and still supplied As I hear from you. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.—A Hall in Lady Allworth's House.

Enter Overreach, Greedy, Order, Amble, Furnace, Watchall, and Marall.

Greedy. Not to be seen?

Sir G. Still cloister'd up?—Her reason, I hope, assures her, though she makes herself Close prisoner for ever for her husband's loss, 'Twill not recover him.

Order. Sir, it is her will: Which we, that are her servants, ought to serve, And not dispute. Howe'er, you are nobly welcome: And if you please to stay, that you may think so, There came, not six days since, from Hull, a pipe Of rich Canary; which shall spend itself For my lady's honour.

Greedy. Is it of the right race?

Order. Yes, Mr. Greedy.

Amble. How his mouth runs o'er!

Fur. I'll make it run, and run. 'Save your good worship!

Greedy. Honest Mr. Cook, thy hand; again!—How I love thee! Are the good dishes still in being? speak, boy.

Fur. If you have a mind to feed there is a chine Of beef, well season'd.

Greedy. Good.

Fur. A pheasant larded—

Greedy. That I might now give thanks for't!

Fur. Other kickshaws. Besides, there came last night, from the forest of Sherwood, The fattest stag I ever cook'd.

Greedy. A stag, man?

Fur. A stag, sir; part of it is prepar'd for dinner, And bak'd in puff-paste.

Greedy. Puff-paste too, Sir Giles! A ponderous chine of beef! a pheasant larded! And red deer too, Sir Giles, and bak'd in puff-paste! All business set aside, let us give thanks here.

Sir G. You know, we cannot.

Mar. Your worships are to sit on a commission, And if you fail to come, you lose the cause.

Greedy Cause me no causes: I'll prove't, for such a dinner, We may put off a commission; you shall find it Henrici decimo quarto.

Sir G. Fie, Mr. Greedy! Will you lose me a thousand pounds for a dinner? No more, for shame! We must forget the belly, When we think of profit.

Greedy Well, you shall o'er-rule me. I could even cry now. Do you hear, Mr. Cook? Send but a corner of that immortal pasty; And I, in thankfulness, will, by your boy, Send you a brace of three-pences.

Fur. Will you be so prodigal?

Sir G. Remember me to your lady.

Enter Wellborn.

Who have we here?

Wellb. Don't you know me?

Sir G. I did once, but now I will not; Thou art no blood of mine. Avaunt, thou beggar! If ever thou presume to own me more, I'll have thee cag'd and whipt.

Greedy. I'll grant the warrant. [Exit Marall. I do love thee, Furnace, E'en as I do malmsey in a morning. Think of pye-corner, Furnace!

[Exeunt Sir Giles and Greedy.

Watch. Will you out, sir? I wonder how you durst creep in.

Order. This is rudeness, And saucy impudence.

Amble. Cannot you stay To be serv'd among your fellows from the basket, But you must press into the hall?

Fur. Pr'ythee, vanish Into some outhouse, though it be the pigsty; My scullion shall come to thee.

Enter Allworth.

Wellb. This is rare: Oh, here is Tom Allworth! Tom!

Allw. We must be strangers; Nor would I have seen you here for a million.

[Exit.

Wellb. Better and better. He contemns me too.

Enter Woman and Chambermaid.

Woman. Oh! what a smell's here? What thing is this?

Cham. Oh! a filthy creature! Let us hence, for love's sake, or I shall swoon!

Woman. I begin to faint, too. [Exeunt.

Watch. Will you know your way?

Amble. Or shall we teach it you, By the head and shoulders?

Wellb. No; I will not stir: Do you mark, I will not. Let me see the wretch That dares attempt to force me. Why, you slaves Created only to make legs, and cringe; To carry in a dish, and shift a trencher; That have not souls to hope a blessing Beyond your master's leavings; you that were born Only to consume meat and drink; Who advances? Who shows me the way?

Order. Here comes my lady.

Enter Lady Allworth.

Lady A. What noise is this?

Wellb. Madam, my designs bear me to you.

Lady A. To me?

Wellb. And though I have met with But ragged entertainment from your groom here, I hope from you to receive that noble usage, As may become the true friend of your husband; And then I shall forget these.

Lady A. I am amaz'd, To see and hear this rudeness. Dar'st thou think, Though sworn, that it can ever find belief, That I, who to the best men of this country Denied my presence since my husband's death, Can fall so low as to change words with thee?

Wellb. Scorn me not, good lady; But, as in form you are angelical, Imitate the heavenly natures, and vouchsafe At least awhile to hear me. You will grant, The blood that runs in this arm is as noble As that which fills your veins; your swelling titles, Equipage and fortune; your men's observance, And women's flattery, are in you no virtues; Nor these rags, with my poverty, in me vices. You have a fair fame, and, I know, deserve it; Yet, lady, I must say, in nothing more Than in the pious sorrow you have shown For your late noble husband.

Order. How she starts!

Wellb. That husband, madam, was once in his fortune, Almost as low as I. Want, debts, and quarrels, Lay heavy on him: let it not be thought A boast in me, though I say, I reliev'd him. 'Twas I that gave him fashion; mine the sword That did on all occasions second his; I brought him on and off with honour, lady: And when in all men's judgments he was sunk, And in his own hopes not to be buoyed up; I stepp'd unto him, took him by the hand, And brought him to the shore.

Fur. Are not we base rogues That could forget this?

Wellb. I confess you made him Master of your estate; nor could your friends. Though he brought no wealth with him, blame you for't: For he had a shape, and to that shape a mind Made up of all parts, either great or noble, So winning a behaviour, not to be Resisted, madam.

Lady A. 'Tis most true, he had.

Wellb. For his sake then, in that I was his friend, Do not contemn me.

Lady A. For what's past excuse me; I will redeem it. Order, give this gentleman an hundred pounds.

Wellb. Madam, on no terms: I will not beg nor borrow sixpence of you; But be supplied elsewhere, or want thus ever. Only one suit I make, which you deny not To strangers; and 'tis this: pray give me leave.

[Whispers to her.

Order. [Aside.] What means this, I trow?

Fur. Mischief to us, if he has malice To return our favour to him.

Order. Be still, and let us mark.

Lady A. Fie, nothing else?

Wellb. Nothing; unless you please to charge your servants To throw away a little respect upon me.

Lady A. What you demand is yours. If you have said all, When you please you may retire.

Wellb. I thank you, lady.

[Exit Lady Allworth.

Now what can be wrought out of such a suit, Is yet in supposition. [Servants bow,] Nay, all's forgotten, all forgiven.

All. Good, dear, sweet, merry Mr. Wellborn!

Exit Servants.

Wellb. 'Faith, a right worthy and a liberal lady, Who can, at once, so kindly meet my purposes, And brave the flouts of censure, to redeem Her husband's friend! When, by this honest plot, The world believes she means to heal my wants With her extensive wealth, each noisy creditor Will be struck mute, and I be left at large To practise on my uncle Overreach; Whose foul, rapacious spirit, (on the hearing Of my encouragement from this rich lady,) Again will court me to his house and patronage. Here I may work the measure to redeem My mortgag'd fortune, which he stripped me of, When youth and dissipation quell'd my reason. The fancy pleases—if the plot succeed, 'Tis a new way to pay old debts indeed!

[Exit.



ACT II.

SCENE I.—Sir Giles's House.

Enter Sir Giles Overreach and Marall.

Sir G. He's gone, I warrant thee; this commission crush'd him.

Mar. Your worship has the way on't, and ne'er miss To squeeze these unthrifts into air; and yet The chap-fallen justice did his part, returning For your advantage the certificate, Against his conscience and his knowledge too; (With your good favour) to the utter ruin Of the poor farmer.

Sir G. 'Twas for these good ends I made him a justice. He, that bribes his belly, Is certain to command his soul.

Mar. I wonder. Why, your worship having The power to put this thin-gut in commission, You are not in't yourself.

Sir G. Thou art a fool: In being out of office, I am out of danger; Where, if I were a justice, besides the trouble, I might, or out of wilfulness, or error, Run myself finely into a praemunire: And so become a prey to the informer. No, I'll have none of't: 'tis enough I keep Greedy at my devotion: so he serve My purposes, let him hang, or damn, I care not; Friendship is but a word.

Mar. You are all wisdom.

Sir G. I would be worldly wise; for the other wisdom, That does prescribe us a well-govern'd life, And to do right to others, as ourselves, I value not an atom.

Mar. What course take you, (With your good patience) to hedge in the manor Of your neighbour, Mr. Frugal? As 'tis said, He will not sell, nor borrow, nor exchange; And his land lying in the midst of your many lordships, Is a foul blemish.

Sir. G. I have thought on't, Marall; And it shall take. I must have all men sellers, And I the only purchaser.

Mar. 'Tis most fit, sir.

Sir G. I'll, therefore, buy some cottage near his manor; Which done, I'll make my men break ope' his fences, Ride o'er his standing corn, and in the night Set fire to his barns, or break his cattle's legs. These trespasses draw on suits, and suits, expenses; Which I can spare, but will soon beggar him. When I have hurried him thus, two or three years, Though he was sue forma pauperis, in spite Of all his thrift and care, he'll grow behind hand.

Mar. The best I ever heard! I could adore you!

Sir G. Then, with the favour of my man of law, I will pretend some title; want will force him To put it to arbitrement; then, if he sell For half the value, he shall have ready money, And I possess the land.

Mar. Wellborn was apt to sell, and needed not These fine arts, sir, to hook him in.

Sir G. Well thought on. This varlet, Wellborn, lives too long, to upbraid me With my close cheat put upon him. Will nor cold Nor hunger kill him?

Mar. I know not what to think on't. I have us'd all means; and the last night I caus'd His host, the tapster, to turn him out of doors; And have been since with all your friends and tenants, And on the forfeit of your favour, charg'd them, Tho' a crust of mouldy bread would keep him from starving, Yet they should not relieve him.

Sir G. That was something, Marall, but thou must go farther; And suddenly, Marall.

Mar. Where, and when you please, sir.

Sir G. I would have thee seek him out; and, if thou canst, Persuade him, that 'tis better steal, than beg; Then, if I prove he has but robb'd a henroost, Not all the world shall save him from the gallows. Do anything to work him to despair, And 'tis thy masterpiece.

Mar. I will do my best, sir.

Sir G. I am now on my main work, with the Lord Lovell; The gallant-minded, popular Lord Lovell, The minion of the people's love. I hear He's come into the country; and my aims are To insinuate myself into his knowledge, And then invite him to my house.

Mar. I have you. This points at my young mistress.

Sir G. She must part with That humble title, and write honourable; Right honourable, Marall; my right honourable daughter; If all I have, or e'er shall get, will do it. I will have her well attended; there are ladies Of errant knights decay'd, and brought so low, That, for cast clothes, and meat, will gladly serve her. And 'tis my glory, though I come from the city, To have their issue, whom I have undone, To kneel to mine, as bond slaves.

Mar. 'Tis fit state, sir.

Sir G. And, therefore, I'll not have a chambermaid That ties her shoes, or any meaner office, But such, whose fathers were right worshipful. 'Tis a rich man's pride! there having ever been More than a feud, a strange antipathy, Between us, and true gentry.

Enter Wellborn.

Mar. See! who's here, sir?

Sir G. Hence, monster! prodigy!

Wellb. Call me what you will, I am your nephew, sir.

Sir G. Avoid my sight! thy breath's infectious, rogue! I shun thee as a leprosy, or the plague. Come hither, Marall, this is the time to work him.