Chapter V: Introduction (4)

Attracted by the serenity of the evening, my friend and I lately went to gaze upon the company in one of the public walks near the city. Here we sauntered together for some time, either praising the beauty of such as were handsome, or the dresses of such as had nothing else to recommend them. We had gone thus deliberately forward for some time, when, stopping on a sudden, my friend caught me by the elbow and led me out of the public walk. I could perceive by the quickness of his pace, and by his frequently looking behind, that he was attempting to avoid somebody who followed; we now turned to the right, then to the left; as we went forward, he still went faster, but in vain; the person whom he attempted to escape hunted us through every doubling, and gained upon us each moment, so that at last we fairly stood still, resolving to face what we could not avoid.

Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance. “My dear Drybone,” cries he, shaking my friend’s hand, “where have you been hiding this half a century? Positively I had fancied you were gone to cultivate matrimony and your estate in the country.” During the reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the appearance of our new companion: his hat was pinched up with peculiar smartness; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp; round his neck he wore a broad black riband, and in his bosom a buckle studded with glass; his coat was trimmed with tarnished twist; he wore by his side a sword with a black hilt, and his stockings of silk, though newly washed, were grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged with the peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter part of my friend’s reply, in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste of his clothes and the bloom in his countenance. “Pshaw, pshaw, Will,” cried the figure, “no more of that, if you love me; you know I hate flattery,--on my soul, I do; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with the great will improve one’s appearance, and a course of venison will fatten; and yet, faith, I despise the great as much as you do; but there are a great many damn’d honest fellows among them, and we must not quarrel with one half because the other wants weeding. If they were all such as my Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of their admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly’s. My lord was there. ‘Ned,’ says he to me; ‘Ned,’ says he, ‘I’ll hold gold to silver I can tell where you were poaching last night?’ ‘Poaching, my lord?’ says I; ‘faith, you have missed already; for I stayed at home, and let the girls poach for me. That’s my way: I take a fine woman as some animals do their prey--stand still, and swoop, they fall into my mouth.’”

“Ah! Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow,” cried my companion, with looks of infinite pity; “I hope your fortune is as much improved as your understanding in such company?” “Improved!” replied the other; “you shall know,--but let it go no farther--a great secret--five hundred a year to begin with--my lord’s word of honour for it. His lordship took me down in his own chariot yesterday, and we had a _tête-à-tête_ dinner in the country, where we talked of nothing else.” “I fancy you forget, sir,” cried I, “you told us but this moment of your dining yesterday in town.” “Did I say so?” replied he, coolly; “to be sure, if I said so, it was so. Dined in town; egad, now I do remember I did dine in town; but I dined in the country, too; for you must know, my boys, I eat two dinners. By-the-bye, I am grown as nice as the devil in my eating. We were a select party of us to dine at Lady Grogram’s,--an affected piece, but let it go no farther--a secret. Well, there happened to be no asafœtida in the sauce to a turkey, upon which says I, ‘I’ll hold a thousand guineas, and say done first, that---- ’ But, dear Drybone, you are an honest creature; lend me half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till--but hearkee, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may be twenty to one but I forget to pay you.”

* * * * *

My little Beau yesterday overtook me again in one of the public walks, and, slapping me on the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most perfect familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, except that he had more powder in his hair, wore a dirtier shirt, a pair of temple spectacles, and his hat under his arm.

As I knew him to be a harmless, amusing little thing, I could not return his smiles with any degree of severity; so we walked forward on terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes discussed all the usual topics preliminary to particular conversation. The oddities that marked his character, however, soon began to appear; he bowed to several well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of returning the compliment, appeared perfect strangers. At intervals he drew out a pocket-book, seeming to take memorandums before all the company, with much importance and assiduity. In this manner he led me through the length of the whole walk, fretting at his absurdities, and fancying myself laughed at not less than him by every spectator. When we were got to the end of our procession, “Blast me,” cries he, with an air of vivacity, “I never saw the Park so thin in my life before! There’s no company at all to-day; not a single face to be seen.” “No company!” interrupted I, peevishly; “no company where there is such a crowd? why, man, there’s too much. What are the thousands that have been laughing at us but company?” “Lord, my dear,” returned he with the utmost good-humour, “you seem immensely chagrined; but, blast me, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at the world, and so we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash the Creolian, and I, sometimes make a party at being ridiculous; and so we say and do a thousand things for the joke’s sake. But I see you are grave, and if you are for a fine, grave, sentimental companion, you shall dine with me and my wife to-day; I must insist on’t. I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifications as any in nature; she was bred (but that’s between ourselves) under the inspection of the Countess of All-Night. A charming body of voice; but no more of that,--she will give us a song. You shall see my little girl, too, Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Tibbs, a sweet, pretty creature! I design her for my Lord Drumstick’s eldest son; but that’s in friendship--let it go no farther: she’s but six years old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar immensely already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possible in every accomplishment. In the first place, I’ll make her a scholar; I’ll teach her Greek myself, and learn that language purposely to instruct her; but let that be a secret.”

Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me by the arm and hauled me along. We passed through many dark alleys and winding ways; for, from some motives to me unknown, he seemed to have a particular aversion to every frequented street; at last, however, we got to the door of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of the town, where he informed me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air. We entered the lower door, which ever seemed to lie most hospitably open; and I began to ascend an old and creaking staircase, when, as he mounted to show me the way, he demanded whether I delighted in prospects; to which, answering in the affirmative, “Then,” says he, “I shall show you one of the most charming in the world out of my window; you shall see the ships sailing and the whole country for twenty miles round, tip top, quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten thousand guineas for such a one; but, as I sometimes pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep my prospects at home, that my friends may visit me the oftener.”

By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would permit us to ascend, till we came to what he was facetiously pleased to call the first floor down the chimney; and knocking at the door, a voice from within demanded, “Who’s there?” My conductor answered that it was him. But this not satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated the demand; to which he answered louder than before; and now the door was opened by an old woman with cautious reluctance. When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house with great ceremony, and turning to the old woman, asked where was her lady. “Good troth,” replied she in a peculiar dialect, “she’s washing your twa shirts at the next door, because they have taken an oath against lending out the tub any longer.” “My two shirts!” cried he in a tone that faltered with confusion, “what does the idiot mean?” “I ken what I mean weel enough,” replied the other; “she’s washing your twa shirts at the next door, because----” “Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid explanations!” cried he; “go and inform her we have got company. Were that Scotch hag,” continued he, turning to me, “to be for ever in my family, she would never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous accent of hers, or testify the smallest specimen of breeding or high life; and yet it is very surprising, too, as I had her from a parliament man, a friend of mine from the Highlands, one of the politest men in the world; but that’s a secret.”

We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs’ arrival, during which interval I had a full opportunity of surveying the chamber and all its furniture, which consisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he assured me were his wife’s embroidery; a square table that had been once japanned; a cradle in one corner, a lumbering cabinet in the other; a broken shepherdess, and a mandarine without a head, were stuck over the chimney; and round the walls several paltry unframed pictures, which, he observed, were all his own drawing. “What do you think, sir, of that head in the corner, done in the manner of Grisoni? there’s the true keeping in it; it is my own face, and though there happens to be no likeness, a Countess offered me a hundred for its fellow; I refused her, for, hang it, that would be mechanical, you know.”

The wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and a coquette; much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She made twenty apologies for being seen in such odious deshabille, but hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night with the Countess, who was excessively fond of the horns. “And, indeed, my dear,” added she, turning to her husband, “his lordship drank your health in a bumper.” “Poor Jack!” cries he, “a dear, good-natured fellow; I know he loves me. But I hope, my dear, you have given orders for dinner; you need make no great preparations neither, there are but three of us; something elegant, and little, will do,--a turbot, an ortolan, a----” “Or what do you think, my dear,” interrupts the wife, “of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own sauce?” “The very thing!” replies he; “it will eat best with some smart bottled beer; but be sure to let us have the sauce his Grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat; that is country all over; extremely disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with high life.” By this time my curiosity began to abate and my appetite to increase: the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us melancholy; I therefore pretended to recollect a prior engagement, and after having shown my respect to the house, according to the fashion of the English, by giving the old servant a piece of money at the door, I took my leave; Mrs. Tibbs assuring me that dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in less than two hours.

_Oliver Goldsmith._

_THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY._

I am a friar of orders grey:
As down the valley I take my way,
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
Good store of venison does fill my scrip:
My long bead-roll I merrily chaunt,
Where’er I walk, no money I want;
And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell--
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire
Or knight of the shire
Lives half so well as a holy friar!

After supper, of heaven I dream,
But that is fat pullet and clouted cream.
Myself, by denial, I mortify
With a dainty bit of a warden pie:
I’m clothed in sackcloth for my sin:
With old sack wine I’m lined within:
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper bell is my bowl’s ding dong.
What baron or squire
Or knight of the shire
Lives half so well as a holy friar!

_John O’Keeffe_ (1747–1833).

_THE TAILOR AND THE UNDERTAKER._

(_The two tradesmen call for orders respecting a supposed
corpse._)

_Enter_ SHEARS, _a tailor_, _and_ GRIZLEY, _a servant_.

_Griz._ Mr. Shears, sir,--I’ll tell him, sir.

_Shears._ Yes, Mr. Shears, to take orders for his mourning. (_Exit_ GRIZLEY.) A bailiff shall carry them home, tho’--yet no tailor in town so complacently suits his own dress to the present humour of his employer--to a brisk bridegroom, I’m white as a swan, and here, to this woful widower, I appear black--black as my own goose.

_Enter_ UNDERTAKER.

_Under._ “Hearse--mourning-coaches--scarfs--pall.” Um--ay--if the cash was plenty this might turn out a pretty sprightly funeral.

_Shears._ Servant, sir.

_Under._ Scarfs--a merry death--coffin--um--ay----

_Shears._ A sudden affair this, sir.

_Under._ Sudden--ah! I’m always prepared for death.

_Shears._ Sign of a good liver.

_Under._ No tradesman within the bills of mortality lives better.

_Shears._ You’ve many customers then, sir?

_Under._ Not one breathing.

_Shears._ You disoblige them, perhaps?

_Under._ Why, the truth is, sir, tho’ my friends would die to serve me, yet I can’t keep one three days without turning up my nose at him--Od so! I forgot to take measure of the body.

_Shears_ (_aside_). Oh, oh!--a brother tailor--you measure nobody here.

_Under._ Yes, I shall--Mr. Sandford’s body.

_Shears._ For what, pray?

_Under._ For a wooden surtout lined with white satin.

_Shears_ (_aside_). Odd sort of mourning!--But, sir, I have the business of this family.

_Under._ You! I know I have had it since St. James’s churchyard was set on fire by old Mattack the grave-digger, twenty years last influenza business. I have nineteen bodies under lock and key this moment.

_Shears._ You may have bodies, skirts, cuffs, and buttons--my business!--ask my foreman--I don’t set a stitch--I’m merely an undertaker.

_Under._ Undertaker! so am I!--and for work----

_Shears._ Now I do no work--I cut out indeed----

_Under._ Cut out! oh, you embowel ’em, perhaps--can you make a mummy in the Egyptian fashion?

_Shears._ I never made masquerade habits.

_Under._ What! could you stuff a person of rank, to send him sweet over sea?

_Shears._ Stuff! persons of rank--Irish tabinets are in style for people of rank.

_Under._ Nothing like sage, thyme, pepper and salt.

_Shears._ Pepper and salt!--thunder and lightning!--for a colour!

_Under._ Thunder and lightning! why, you are in the clouds, man--in one word, could you pickle a Duke?

_Shears._ I pickle a Duke!

_Under._ Could you place a lozenge over a window, or make out a coat for a hatchment, without the help of a herald?

_Shears._ Mr. Hatchment! never made a coat for a gentleman of that name.

_Under._ Mr. Hatchment--you’ve a skull as thick as a tombstone.

_Shears._ Mayhap so, but I’ll let you know no cross-legg’d and bandy button-making, Bedford-bury, shred-seller shall rip a customer from me.

_Under._ Friend, depart in peace--or my cane shall make you a _memento mori_ to all impertinent rascals.

_Shears._ Here’s a cowardly advantage! to attack a naked man--lay by your cane, and I’ll talk to you.

(_The_ UNDERTAKER _throws down his cane, which_
SHEARS _takes up and beats him with._)

_Under._ Oh, death and treachery! help! murder!

_Enter_ DENNIS.

_Den._ Hey! what’s all this?

_Under._ A villain!--why, here’s another undertaker insists that he’s to bury your master.

_Shears._ Oh, thread and needles! I bury a gentleman! but, egad, you’re a frolicsome tailor.

_Under._ Tailor! oh, you son of a sexton! call you me tailor? a more capital undertaker than yourself.

_Shears._ Zounds, man, I’m no undertaker! I’m a tailor.

_Under._ And, zounds, man--tailor, I mean--I’m an undertaker.

_Den._ (_aside_). I perceive this mistake. One word, good gentlemen mechanics--Mr. Tailor!

_Shears._ Sir!

_Den._ My lady is not dead.

_Shears._ Your lady not dead!

_Den._ No, nor my master neither.

_Under._ Your master not dead!

_Den._ No.

_Under._ Then perhaps he don’t want to be buried!

_Den._ Not alive, I believe.

_Under._ The most good-for-nothing family in the parish.

_Shears._ By these shears, parchment of mine shall never cross a shoulder in it. [_Exit._

_Under._ Zounds, I’ll go home and bury myself for the good of my family. [_Exit._

_John O’Keeffe._

_TOM GROG._

_Present_--TOM GROG _and_ RUPEE.

_Rupee._ I drink tea at Sir Toby Tacit’s this evening. Tom, you’ll come--I’ll introduce you to the ladies; you’ll see my intended sposa, Cornelia.

_Grog._ Ay, give me her little waiting-maid, Nancy. If I can get her to my berth in the Minories, I shall be as happy as an Admiral.

_Rupee._ Admiral! _apropos_--I shall be married to-morrow--Tom, you’ll dress to honour my wedding?

_Grog._ Ay, if the tailor brings home my new rigging. But now you talk of a wife, the first time I ever saw my wife, the pretty Peggy, was on Portsmouth ramparts, full dress’d, streamers flying, gay as a commissioner’s yacht at a naval review--What cheer, my heart! says I--she bore away; love gave signal for chase, so I crowded sail, threw a salute shot across her fore-foot to make her bring-to; prepared for an engagement, we came to close quarters, grappled. I threw a volley of kisses at her round-top, she struck--next day, with a cheer, I took my prize in tow to Farum Church, and the parson made out my warrant for command--captain of the Pretty Peggy fifteen years; then she foundered in Blanket Bay--Death took charge, and left me to swim thro’ life, and keep my chin above water as long as I cou’d.

_Rupee._ Tom, you may be chin-deep, but water can never reach your lips unless mixed with brandy--brandy! _apropos_, now for the ladies.

_Grog._ Well, sheer off; d’ye see, I have business at the Admiralty, and then I bear away for Tower Hill, to meet some Hearts of Oak.

_Rupee._ Adieu, my Man of War; my _vis-a-vis_ is at St. James’ Gate, so, Tom, farewell; and now, hey for the land of love.

[_Exit._

_Grog._ Now must I cruise in the channel of Charing Cross, to look out for this lubber that affronted me aboard the _Dreadnought_. I heard he put in at the Admiralty--Hold! is Rupee gone? If he thought I went to fight, mayhap he’d bring the Master-at-Arms upon me, and have me in the bilboes--Smite my timbers! there goes the enemy.

_Enter_ STERN (_crossing_).

I’ll hail him--yo! ho!

_Stern._ What cheer?

_Grog._ You’re Sam Stern?

_Stern._ Yes.

_Grog._ Do you remember me?

_Stern._ Remember! Yes, though you’re rich now, you’re still Tom Grog.

_Grog._ You affronted me aboard the _Dreadnought_; the Spaniards were then in view, and I didn’t think it time to resent private quarrels when it is our duty to thrash the enemies of our country; but, Sam Stern, you are the man that affronted Tom Grog.

_Stern._ Mayhap so.

_Grog._ Mayhap you’ll fight me?

_Stern._ I will--when and where?

_Grog._ The _where_ is here, and _when_ is now; and slap’s the word. (_Lays his hand on his hanger._) But hold, we must steer off the open sea into some creek.

_Stern._ But I’ve neither cutlash nor pistols.

_Grog._ I saw a handsome cutlash and a pretty pair of barking-irons in a pawnbroker’s window; come, it lies on our way to the War Office.

_Stern._ I should like to touch at the _Victualling_ Office in our voyage.

_Grog._ Why, ha’n’t you dined?

_Stern._ I’ve none to eat.

_Grog._ A seaman in England without a dinner! that’s hard, d--d hard! there’s money--pay me when you can. (_Gives a handful of money._)

_Stern._ How much?

_Grog._ I don’t know--get your dinner--buy the arms--meet me in two hours at Deptford, and, shiver me like a biscuit, if I don’t blow your head off.

_Stern._ Then I can’t pay you your money.

_Grog._ True; but mayhap you may take off mine; and if so, I shall have no occasion for it.

_Stern._ Right, I forgot that.

(_Wipes his eyes with his sleeve._)

_Grog._ What do you snivel for?

_Stern._ What a dog am I to use a man ill, and now be obliged to him for a meal’s meat.

_Grog._ Then you own you’ve used me ill! Ask my pardon.

_Stern._ I’ll be d--d if I do.

_Grog._ Then take it without asking. You’re cursed saucy, but you’re a good seaman; and hark ye, Sam, the brave man, though he scorns the fear of punishment, is always afraid to deserve it. Come, when you’ve stowed your bread-room, a bowl of punch shall again set friendship afloat. (_Shake hands._)

_Stern._ Oh, I’m a lubber!

_Grog._ Avast! Swab the spray from your bows! poor fellow! don’t heed, my soul! whilst you’ve the heart of a lion, never be ashamed of the feelings of a man.

_John O’Keeffe._

_BULLS._

In a speech on the threatened French invasion into Ireland, made, like the rest, in the Irish House of Commons, Sir Boyle Roche said--

“Mr. Speaker, if we once permitted the villainous French masons to meddle with the buttresses and walls of our ancient constitution, they would never stop nor stay, sir, till they brought the foundation-stones tumbling down about the ears of the nation.... Here, perhaps, sirs, the murderous Marshellaw men (Marseillais) would break in, cut us to mincemeat, and throw our bleeding heads upon that table, to stare us in the face.”

When a member had committed a breach of privilege, and the sergeant-at-arms was censured for letting him escape, he said--

“How could the sergeant-at-arms stop him in the rear, while he was catching him in the front? Could he, like a bird, be in two places at once?”

In opposing a proposed grant for some public works, he said--

“What, Mr. Speaker, and so we are to beggar ourselves for the fear of vexing posterity? Now, I would ask the honourable gentleman, and this still more honourable house, why we should put ourselves out of our way to do anything for posterity; for what has posterity done for us! (Laughter.) I apprehend gentlemen have entirely mistaken my words. I assure the house that by posterity I do not mean my ancestors, but those who are to come immediately after them.”

_Sir Boyle Roche_ (1740?--1807).

_THE MONKS OF THE SCREW._

When St. Patrick this order established,
He called us the “Monks of the Screw”;
Good rules he revealed to our abbot
To guide us in what we should do.
But first he replenished our fountain
With liquor the best from on high;
And he said, on the word of a saint,
That the fountain should never run dry.

Each year, when your octaves approach,
In full chapter convened let me find you;
And when to the convent you come,
Leave your favourite temptation behind you.
And be not a glass in your convent--
Unless on a festival--found;
And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it
One festival all the year round.

My brethren, be chaste--till you’re tempted;
While sober, be grave and discreet;
And humble your bodies with fasting,
As oft as you’ve nothing to eat.
Yet, in honour of fasting, one lean face
Among you I’d always require;
If the abbot should please, he may wear it,
If not, let it come to the prior.

Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren,
And with due devotion, prepare,
With hands and with voices uplifted,
Our hymn to conclude with a prayer.
May this chapter oft joyously meet,
And this gladsome libation renew,
To the saint, and the founder, and abbot,
And prior, and Monks of the Screw.

_John Philpot Curran_ (1750–1817).

_ANA._

One day, when out riding with Lord Norbury, they came to a gallows, and pointing to it the judge said, “Where would you be, Curran, if that scaffold had its due?” “Riding alone, my lord,” was Curran’s prompt reply.

The same judge (noted for his merciless severity) was seated opposite Curran at dinner on another occasion, and asked, “Is that _hung_ beef before you, Curran?” “Do you try it, my lord,” replied the advocate, “and it is sure to be.”

A blustering Irish barrister once told the little man he would put him in his pocket if he provoked him further. “Egad, if you do, you’ll have more law in your pocket than ever you had in your head.”

“Do you see anything ridiculous in my wig, Curran?” asked a vain barrister, whose displaced head-gear had caused some merriment in court. “Nothing, _except the head_, sir,” answered Curran.

Another judge had the habit of continually shaking his head during Curran’s addresses to the jury, and the counsel, fearing the jury might be influenced, assured them that the judge was not expressing dissent--“when he shakes his head, _there’s nothing in it_.”

When he had to meet a notorious duellist named Bully Egan, whose girth was twice that of Curran’s, Egan complained that the advantages were all on one side, inasmuch as he could barely see Curran’s diminutive person, while Curran could hardly fail to hit him. “Oh!” said Curran, “we can soon arrange that. Let the size of my body be chalked on Mr. Egan’s, and I am willing all shots outside the marks should not be counted.”

_THE CRUISKEEN LAWN._

Let the farmer praise his grounds,
Let the huntsman praise his hounds,
The farmer his sweet-scented lawn;
While I, more blest than they,
Spend each happy night and day
With my smiling little cruiskeen lawn.
_Gra-ma-chree-ma cruiskeen,
Slainte geal ma vourneen,
Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn, bawn, bawn,
Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn!_

Immortal and divine,
Great Bacchus, god of wine,
Create me by adoption your son,
In hope that you’ll comply
That my glass shall ne’er run dry,
Nor my smiling little cruiskeen lawn.
Gra-ma-chree, etc.

And when grim Death appears,
After few but happy years,
And tells me my glass it is run,
I’ll say, “Begone, you slave!
For great Bacchus gave me leave
Just to fill another cruiskeen lawn.”
Gra-ma-chree, etc.

Then fill your glasses high,
Let’s not part with lips a-dry,
Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn;
And since we can’t remain,
May we shortly meet again
To fill another cruiskeen lawn.
Gra-ma-chree, etc.

_Anonymous._

_THE SCANDAL-MONGERS._

_Scene_--LADY SNEERWELL’S HOUSE.

_Present_--LADY SNEERWELL, MARIA, MRS. CANDOUR, _and_
JOSEPH SURFACE.

_Mrs. C._ My dear Lady Sneerwell, how have you been this century? Mr. Surface, what news do you hear? though indeed it is no matter, for I think one hears nothing else but scandal.

_Joseph._ Just so, indeed, ma’am.

_Mrs. C._ (_to Maria_). Oh, Maria! child, what! is the whole affair off between you and Charles? His extravagance, I presume; the town talks of nothing else.

_Maria._ I am very sorry, ma’am, the town has so little to do.

_Mrs. C._ True, true, child; but there’s no stopping people’s tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it, as I indeed was to learn, from the same quarter, that your guardian, Sir Peter, and Lady Teazle, have not agreed lately as well as could be wished.

_Maria._ ’Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves so.

_Mrs. C._ Very true, child; but what’s to be done? People will talk, there’s no preventing it. Why, it was but yesterday I was told that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filigree Flirt. But, lord! there’s no minding what one hears; though, to be sure, I had this from very good authority.

_Maria._ Such reports are highly scandalous.

_Mrs. C._ So they are, child; shameful, shameful! But the world is so censorious, no character escapes. Lord, now, who would have suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion? Yet such is the ill-nature of people that they say her uncle stopped her last week, just as she was stepping into the York mail with her dancing-master.

_Maria._ I’ll answer for’t, there are no grounds for that report.

_Mrs. C._ Ay, no foundation in the world, I dare swear; no more, probably, than for the story circulated last month of Mrs. Festino’s affair with Colonel Cassino; though, to be sure, that matter was never rightly cleared up.

_Joseph._ The licence of invention some people take is monstrous, indeed.

_Maria._ ’Tis so; but, in my opinion, those who report such things are equally culpable.

_Mrs. C._ To be sure they are; tale-bearers are as bad as tale-makers; ’tis an old observation, and a very true one; but what’s to be done, as I said before? how will you prevent people from talking? To-day, Mrs. Clackit assured me Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife, like the rest of their acquaintance. She likewise hinted that a certain widow in the next street had got rid of her dropsy, and recovered her shape in a most surprising manner. And at the same time Miss Tattle, who was by, affirmed that Lord Buffalo had discovered his lady at a house of no extraordinary fame; and that Sir Harry Bouquet and Tom Saunter were to measure swords on a similar provocation. But, lord! do you think I would report these things? No, no! tale-bearers, as I said before, are just as bad as tale-makers.

_Joseph._ Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your forbearance and good nature!

_Mrs. C._ I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear people attacked behind their backs; and when ugly circumstances come out against our acquaintance, I own I always love to think the best. (LADY SNEERWELL _and_ MARIA _retire_.) By-the-bye, I hope ’tis not true that your brother is absolutely ruined?

_Joseph._ I am afraid his circumstances are very bad, indeed, ma’am.

_Mrs. C._ Ah! I heard so. But you must tell him to keep up his spirits; everybody almost is in the same way. Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas Splint, and Mr. Nickit--all up, I hear, within this week; so if Charles be undone, he’ll find half his acquaintance ruined, too; and that, you know, is a consolation.

_Joseph._ Doubtless, ma’am: a very great one.

_Enter_ SERVANT.

_Serv._ Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite. [_Exit._

_Lady S._ So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you; positively, you shan’t escape.

_Enter_ CRABTREE _and_ SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE.

_Crab._ Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand! Mrs. Candour, I don’t believe you are acquainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin Backbite? Egad, ma’am, he has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet, too; isn’t he, Lady Sneerwell?

_Sir B._ Oh, fie, uncle!

_Crab._ Nay, egad! it is true; I back him at a rebus or a charade against the best rhymer in the kingdom. Has your ladyship heard the epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle’s feather catching fire. Do, Benjamin, repeat it, or the charade you made last night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie’s conversazione. Come now; your first is the name of a fish, your second a great naval commander, and----

_Sir B._ Uncle, now--pr’ythee----

_Crab._ I’faith, ma’am, ’twould surprise you to hear how ready he is at these things.

_Lady S._ I wonder, Sir Benjamin, you never publish anything.

_Sir B._ To say the truth, ma’am, ’tis very vulgar to print; and as my little productions are mostly satires and lampoons on particular people, I find they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the friends of the parties. However, I have some love elegies, which, when favoured with this lady’s smiles, I mean to give the public.

_Crab._ ’Fore heaven, ma’am, they’ll immortalise you! you will be handed down to posterity, like Petrarch’s Laura, or Waller’s Sacharissa.

_Sir B._ Yes, madam, I think you will like them, when you shall see them on a beautiful quarto page, where a neat rivulet of text shall meander through a meadow of margin. ’Fore gad! they will be the most elegant things of their kind.

_Crab._ But, ladies, have you heard the news?

_Mrs. C._ What, sir, do you mean the report of----

_Crab._ No, ma’am, that’s not it--Miss Nicely is going to be married to her own footman.

_Mrs. C._ Impossible!

_Crab._ Ask Sir Benjamin.

_Sir B._ ’Tis very true, ma’am; everything is fixed, and the wedding liveries bespoke.

_Crab._ Yes; and they do say there were very pressing reasons for it.

_Lady S._ Why, I have heard something of this before.

_Mrs. C._ It can’t be; and I wonder any one should believe such a story of so prudent a lady as Miss Nicely.

_Sir B._ Oh, lud! ma’am, that’s the very reason ’twas believed at once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that everybody was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.

_Mrs. C._ Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the credit of a prudent lady of her stamp, as a fever is generally to those of the strongest constitutions. But there is a sort of puny sickly reputation that is always ailing, yet will outlive the robuster characters of a hundred prudes.

_Sir B._ True, madam; there are true valetudinarians in reputation as well as constitution; who, being conscious of their weak part, avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by care and circumspection.

_Mrs. C._ Well, but this may be all a mistake. You know, Sir Benjamin, very trifling circumstances often give rise to the most injurious tales.

_Crab._ That they do, I’ll be sworn, ma’am. Did you ever hear how Miss Piper came to lose her lover and her character last summer at Tunbridge? Sir Benjamin, you remember it?

_Sir B._ Oh, to be sure; the most whimsical of circumstances.

_Lady S._ How was it, pray?

_Crab._ Why, one evening at Miss Ponto’s assembly, the conversation happened to turn on the breeding Nova Scotia sheep in this country. Says a young lady in company, I have known instances of it; for Miss Letitia Piper, a first cousin of mine, had a Nova Scotia sheep that produced her twins. What! cries the lady dowager Dundizzy (who you know is as deaf as a post), has Miss Piper had twins? This mistake, as you may imagine, threw the whole company into a fit of laughter. However, ’twas the next day everywhere reported, and in a few days believed by the whole town, that Miss Letitia Piper had actually been brought to bed of a fine boy and girl; and in less than a week there were some people who could name the father, and the farmhouse where the babies were put to nurse.

_Lady S._ Strange, indeed!

_Crab._ Matter of fact, I assure you. Oh, lud! Mr. Surface, pray is it true that your uncle, Sir Oliver, is coming home?

_Joseph._ Not that I know of, indeed, sir.

_Crab._ He has been in the East Indies a long time. You can scarcely remember him, I believe? Sad comfort, whenever he returns, to hear how your brother has gone on.

_Joseph._ Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure; but I hope no busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him. He may reform.

_Sir B._ To be sure he may; for my part, I never believed him to be so utterly void of principle as people say; and though he has lost all his friends, I am told nobody is better spoken of by the Jews.

_Crab._ That’s true, egad! nephew. If the Old Jewry were a ward, I believe Charles would be an alderman: no man more popular there, ’fore gad! I hear he pays as many annuities as the Irish tontine; and that whenever he is sick, they have prayers for the recovery of his health in all the synagogues.

_Sir B._ Yet no man lives in greater splendour. They tell me, when he entertains his friends, he will sit down to dinner with a dozen of his own securities; have a score of tradesmen waiting in the ante-chamber, and an officer behind every guest’s chair.

_Joseph._ This may be entertainment to you, gentlemen, but you pay very little regard to the feelings of a brother.

_Maria._ Their malice is intolerable. Lady Sneerwell, I must wish you a good morning. I’m not very well. [_Exit._

_Mrs. C._ Oh, dear! she changes colour very much.

_Lady S._ Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her: she may want your assistance.

_Mrs. C._ That I will, with all my soul, ma’am. Poor dear girl, who knows what her situation may be? [_Exit._

_Lady S._ ’Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear Charles reflected on, notwithstanding their difference.

_Sir B._ The young lady’s _penchant_ is obvious.

_Crab._ But, Benjamin, you must not give up the pursuit for that; follow her, and put her into good humour. Repeat her some of your own verses. Come, I’ll assist you.

_Sir B._ Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you; but depend on’t, your brother is utterly undone.

_Crab._ Oh, lud! ay, undone as ever man was. Can’t raise a guinea!

_Sir B._ And everything sold, I’m told, that was movable.

_Crab._ I have seen one that was at his house. Not a thing left but some empty bottles that were overlooked, and the family pictures, which I believe are framed in the wainscot!

_Sir B._ And I’m very sorry, also, to hear some bad stories against him.

_Crab._ Oh! he has done many mean things, that’s certain.

_Sir B._ But, however, as he’s your brother----

_Crab._ We’ll tell you all another opportunity.

[_Exit with_ SIR BENJAMIN.

_R. B. Sheridan_ (1751–1816).

_CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE’S SUBMISSION._

_Scene_--CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE’S LODGINGS.

_Present_--CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE AND HIS FATHER.

_Capt. Absolute._ Now for a parental lecture. I hope he has heard nothing of the business that has brought me here. I wish the gout had held him fast in Devonshire, with all my soul!

_Enter_ SIR ANTHONY.

Sir, I am glad to see you here, and looking so well!--your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.

_Sir Anth._ Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are recruiting here, eh?

_Capt. A._ Yes, sir, I am on duty.

_Sir Anth._ Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long.

_Capt. A._ Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty, and I pray fervently that you may continue so.

_Sir Anth._ I hope your prayers may be heard with all my heart. Well then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit.

_Capt. A._ Sir, you are very good.

_Sir Anth._ And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence.

_Capt. A._ Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army?

_Sir Anth._ Oh! that shall be as your wife chooses.

_Capt. A._ My wife, sir!

_Sir Anth._ Ay, ay, settle that between you; settle that between you.

_Capt. A._ A wife, sir, did you say?

_Sir Anth._ Ay, a wife; why, did not I mention her before?

_Capt. A._ Not a word of her, sir.

_Sir Anth._ Od so! I mustn’t forget her though--Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage; the fortune is saddled with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference.

_Capt. A._ Sir, sir, you amaze me!

_Sir Anth._ Why, what the devil’s the matter with the fool? Just now you were all gratitude and duty.

_Capt. A._ I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a fortune, but not a word of a wife.

_Sir Anth._ Why, what difference does that make? Ods life, sir! if you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands.

_Capt. A._ Pray, sir, who is the lady?

_Sir Anth._ What’s that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and to marry her directly.

_Capt. A._ Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of!

_Sir Anth._ I am sure, sir, ’tis more unreasonable in you to object to a lady you know nothing of.

_Capt. A._ You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that in this point I cannot obey you.

_Sir Anth._ Harkye, Jack! I have heard you for some time with patience, I have been cool, quite cool; but take care; you know I am compliance itself,--when I am not thwarted! No one more easily led,--when I have my own way; but don’t put me in a frenzy.

_Capt. A._ Sir, I must repeat it,--in this I cannot obey you.

_Sir Anth._ Now, d--n me! if ever I call you Jack again, while I live!

_Capt. A._ Nay, sir, but hear me.

_Sir Anth._ Sir, I won’t hear a word, not a word; not one word: so give me your promise by a nod; and I’ll tell you what, Jack (I mean, you dog!), if you don’t, by----

_Capt. A._ What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness!----

_Sir Anth._ Zounds, sirrah! the lady shall be as ugly as I choose: she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull’s in Cox’s museum; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew; she shall be all this, sirrah! yet, I’ll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty.

_Capt. A._ This is reason and moderation, indeed!

_Sir Anth._ None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jackanapes!

_Capt. A._ Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour for mirth in my life.

_Sir Anth._ ’Tis false, sir; I know you are laughing in your sleeve! I know you’ll grin when I am gone, sirrah!

_Capt. A._ Sir, I hope I know my duty better.

_Sir Anth._ None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if you please; it won’t do with me, I promise you.

_Capt. A._ Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life.

_Sir Anth._ ’Tis a confounded lie! I know you are in a passion at your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog; but it won’t do.

_Capt. A._ Nay, sir, upon my word----

_Sir Anth._ So you will fly out! Can’t you be cool, like me? What the devil good can passion do? passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! don’t provoke me! but you rely upon the mildness of my temper; you do, you dog! you play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet, take care; the patience of a saint may be overcome at last. But mark!--I give you six hours and a half to consider of this: if you then agree, without any condition, to do every thing on earth that I choose, why--confound you! I may in time forgive you. If not, zounds! don’t enter into the same hemisphere with me! don’t dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I’ll strip you of your commission! I’ll lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest. I’ll disown you, I’ll disinherit you, I’ll unget you! and d--n me! if ever I call you Jack again! [_Exit_.]

_Capt. A._ Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hands.

_Enter_ FAG.

_Fag._ Assuredly, sir, your father is wroth to a degree; he comes downstairs eight or ten steps at a time, muttering, growling, or thumping the banisters all the way; I and the cook’s dog stand bowing at the door--rap! he gives me a stroke on the head with his cane; bids me carry that to my master; then kicking the poor turnspit into the area, d--ns us all for a puppy triumvirate! Upon my credit, sir, were I in your place, and found my father such very bad company, I should certainly drop his acquaintance.

_Capt. A._ Cease your impertinence, sir; did you come in for nothing more? Stand out of the way.

[_Pushes him aside, and exit._

_Fag._ So! Sir Anthony trims my master; he is afraid to reply to his father, then vents his spleen on poor Fag! When one is vexed by one person, to revenge one’s self on another who happens to come in the way, shows the worst of temper, the basest----

_Enter_ ERRAND BOY.

_Boy._ Mr. Fag! Mr. Fag! your master calls you.

_Fag._ Well, you little, dirty puppy, you needn’t bawl so: the meanest disposition, the----

_Boy._ Quick, quick, Mr. Fag!

_Fag._ Quick, quick, you impudent jackanapes! am I to be commanded by you, too? you little, impertinent, insolent, kitchen-bred---- [_Kicks him off, and exit._

_Scene_--THE NORTH PARADE.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.

_Capt. A._ ’Tis just as Fag told me, indeed. Whimsical enough, ’faith. My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plotting to run away with. He must not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these matters; however, I’ll read my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, indeed; but, I can assure him, it is very sincere. So, so, here he comes; he looks plaguy gruff. (_Steps aside._)

_Enter_ SIR ANTHONY.

_Sir Anth._ No--I’ll sooner die than forgive him! Die, did I say? I’ll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his impudence had almost put me out of temper; an obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! Who can he take after? This is my return for getting him before all his brothers and sisters! for putting him at twelve years old into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since! But I’ve done with him; he’s anybody’s son for me: I never will see him more, never, never; never, never.

_Capt. A._ Now for a penitential face! (_Advances._)

_Sir Anth._ Fellow, get out of the way!

_Capt. A._ Sir, you see a penitent before you.

_Sir Anth._ I see an impudent scoundrel before me.

_Capt. A._ A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will.

_Sir Anth._ What’s that?

_Capt. A._ I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me.

_Sir Anth._ Well, sir?

_Capt. A._ I have been likewise weighing and balancing what you were pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority.

_Sir Anth._ Well, puppy?

_Capt. A._ Why, then, sir, the result of my reflections is, a resolution to sacrifice every inclination of my own to your satisfaction.

_Sir Anth._ Why, now you talk sense, absolute sense; I never heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound you! you shall be Jack again.

_Capt. A._ I am happy in the appellation.

_Sir Anth._ Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you silly fellow, prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture--prepare. What think you of Miss Lydia Languish?

_Capt. A._ Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire?

_Sir Anth._ Worcestershire! no. Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were last ordered to your regiment?

_Capt. A._ Malaprop! Languish! I don’t remember ever to have heard the names before. Yet stay, I think I do recollect something--Languish--Languish--She squints, don’t she? A little red-hair’d girl!

_Sir Anth._ Squints! A red-hair’d girl! Zounds! no!

_Capt. A._ Then I must have forgot; it can’t be the same person.

_Sir Anth._ Jack! Jack! what think you of blooming love-breathing seventeen?

_Capt. A._ As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent; if I can please you in the matter, ’tis all I desire.

_Sir Anth._ Nay, but Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently wild! so bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! Oh, Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion! and, if not smiling, more sweetly pouting--more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack, her neck! Oh, Jack! Jack!

_Capt. A._ And which is to be mine, sir, the niece or her aunt?

_Sir Anth._ Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you. When I was of your age, such a description would have made me fly like a rocket! The aunt, indeed! Ods life! when I ran away with your mother, I would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire.

_Capt. A._ Not to please your father, sir?

_Sir Anth._ To please my father--Zounds! not to please--Oh, my father--Odso!--yes, yes; if my father, indeed, had desired--that’s quite another matter. Though he wasn’t the indulgent father that I am, Jack.

_Capt. A._ I dare say not, sir.

_Sir Anth._ But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so beautiful?

_Capt. A._ Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, ’tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind; now, without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back: and though one eye may be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always run in favour of two, I should not wish to affect a singularity in that article.

_Sir Anth._ What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you are an anchorite! a vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! You’re a walking block, fit only to dust the company’s regimentals on! Ods life! I’ve a great mind to marry the girl myself!

_Capt. A._ I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady,--’tis the same to me, I’ll marry the niece.

_Sir Anth._ Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great hypocrite, or--but, come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a lie--I’m sure it must--come now, d--n your demure face; come, confess, Jack, you have been lying--ha’n’t you? You have been playing the hypocrite, eh?--I’ll never forgive you, if you ha’n’t been lying and playing the hypocrite.

_Capt. A._ I’m sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you should be so mistaken.

_Sir Anth._ Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me. I’ll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you--come along: I’ll never forgive you, if you don’t come back stark mad with rapture and impatience--if you don’t, egad, I’ll marry the girl myself. [_Exeunt._

_R. B. Sheridan._

_ANA._

When some one proposed to tax milestones, Sheridan protested that it would not be constitutional or fair, as they could not meet to remonstrate.

Lord Lauderdale having declared his intention to circulate some witticism of Sheridan’s, the latter hastily exclaimed, “Pray don’t, my dear Lauderdale; a joke in your mouth is no laughing matter!”

Lord Erskine on one occasion said that “a wife was only a tin canister tied to one’s tail.” Lady Erskine was justly annoyed at this remark, and Sheridan dashed off this impromptu:--