SCENE I.-WHITTLE's house. ACT I. Enter BATES and Servant. Bates. Is he gone out? his card tells me to come directly-I did but lock up some papers, take my hat and cane, and away I hurried. Ser. My master desires you will sit down, he will return immediately: he had some business with his lawyer, and went out in great haste, leaving the message I have delivered. Here is my young master. [Exit Servant. Enter NEPHEW. Bates, What, lively Billy!-hold, I beg your pardon-melancholy William, I think-Here's a fine revolution-I hear your uncle, who was last month all gravity, and you all mirth, have changed characters; he is now all spirit, and you are in the dumps, young man. Neph. And for the same reason. This journey to Scarborough will unfold the riddle. Bates. Come, come, in plain English, and before your uncle comes, explain the matter. Neph. In the first place, I am undone. Bates. In love, I know--I hope your uncle is not undone, too-that would be the devil! Neph. He has taken possession of him in every sense. In short, he came to Scarborough to see the lady I had fallen in love with Bates. And fell in love himself? Neph. O, Mr. Bates! when I thought my hap piness complete, and wanted only my uncle's consent, to give me the independence he so often has promised me, he came to Scarborough for that purpose, and wished me joy of my choice; but in less than a week, his approbation turned into a passion for her: he now hates the sight of me, and is resolved, with the consent of the father, to make her his wife directly. Bates. So he keeps you out of your fortune, won't give his consent, which his brother's foolish will requires, and he would marry himself the same woman, because right, title, conscience, nature, justice, and every law, divine and human, are against it! Neph. Thus he tricks me at once both of wife and fortune, without the least want of either. Bates. Well said, friend Whittle! but it can't be, it shan't be, and it must not be !-this is murder and robbery in the strongest sense, and he shan't be hanged in chains, to be laughed at by the whole town, if I can help it. Neph. I am distracted, the widow is distressed, and we both shall run mad! Bates. A widow, too! 'gad a mercy, threescore and five! Neph. But such a widow? She is now in town with her father, who wants to get her off his hands; 'tis equal to him who has her, so she is provided for-I hear somebody coming -I must away to her lodgings, where she waits for me to execute a scheme directly for our delivery. Bates. What is her name, Billy? Bates. Brady! Is not she daughter to sir Patrick O'Neale? Neph. The same. She was sacrificed to the most senseless drunken profligate in the whole country: He lived to run out his fortune; and the only advantage she got from the union was, he broke that and his neck before he had broke her heart. Bates. The affair of marriage is, in this country, put upon the easiest footing; there is neither love or hate in the matter; necessity brings them together they are united at first for their mutual convenience, and separated ever after for their particular pleasures-O rare matrimony!Where does she lodge? Neph. In Pall Mall, near the hotel. Bates. I'll call in my way, and assist at the consultation: I am for a bold stroke, if gentle methods should fail. Neph. We have a plan, and a spirited one, if my sweet widow is able to go through it-pray let us have your friendly assistance-ours is the cause of love and reason. Bates. Get you gone, with your love and reason! they seldom pull together nowa-days. I'll give your uncle a dose first, and then I'll meet you at the widow's-What says your uncle's privy counsellor, Mr. Thomas, to this? Neph. He is greatly our friend, and will enter sincerely into our service-he is honest, sensible, ignorant, and particular; a kind of half coxcomb, with a thorough, good heart-but he's here. Bates. Do you go about your business, and leave the rest to me. [Exit NEPHEW, Enter THOMAS. Bates. Mr. Thomas, I am glad to see you; upon my word, you look charmingly-you wear well, Mr. Thomas. Tho. Which is a wonder, considering how times go, Mr. Bates-they'll wear and tear me too, if I don't take care of myself-my old master has taken the nearest way to wear himself out, and all that belong to him. Bates. Why, surely this strange story about town is not true, that the old gentleman is fallen in love? Tho. Ten times worse than that! Tho. And his horns going to be married! Tho. You never saw such an altered man in your born days!-he's grown young again; he frisks, and prances, and runs about, as if he had a new pair of legs--he has left off his brown camlet surtout, which he wore all the summer, and now, with his hat under his arm, he goes open breasted, and he dresses and powders, and smirks, so that you would take him for the mad Frenchman in Bedlam-something wrong in his upper story-Would you think it?-he wants me to wear a pig-tail! Bates. Then he is far gone, indeed! Tho. As sure as you are there, Mr. Bates, a pig-tail! we have had sad work about it~I made a compromise with him to wear these ruffled shirts which he gave me; but they stand in my way-I am so listless with themthough I have tied up my hands for him, I won't tie up my head, that I am resolute. Bates. This it is to be in love, Thomas? Tho. He may make free with himself, he shan't make a fool of me-he has got his head into a bag, but I won't have a pig-tail tacked to mine-and so I told him. Bates. What did you tell him? Tho. That as I and my father, and his father before me, had wore their own hair as heaven had sent it, I thought myself rather too old to set up for a monkey at my time of life, and wear a pig-tail-he, he, he!--he took it. Bates. With a wry face, for it was wormwood. Tho. Yes, he was frumped, and called me old blockhead, and would not speak to me the rest of the day-but the next day he was at it again-he then put me into a passion—and I could not help telling him, that I was an Englishman born, and had my prerogative as well as he; and that as long as I had breath in my body, I was for liberty, and a strait head of hair! Bates. Well said, Thomas!-he could not answer that. Tho. The poorest man in England is a match for the greatest, if he will but stick to the laws of the land, and the statute books, as they are delivered down to us from our forefathers. Bates. You are right-we must lay our wits together, and drive the widow out of your old master's head, and put her into your young master's hands. Tho. With all my heart!-nothing can be more meritorious-marry at his years! what a terrible account would he make of it, Mr. Bates! -Let me see on the debtor side sixty-fiveand per contra creditor, a buxom widow of twenty-three-He'll be a bankrupt in a fortnighthe, he, he! Bates. And so he would, Mr. Thomas-what have you got in your hand? Tho. A pamphlet my old gentleman takes in -he has left off buying histories and religious pieces by numbers, as he used to do; and since he has got this widow in his head, he reads nothing but the Amorous Repository, Cupid's Revels, Call to Marriage, Hymen's Delights, Love lies a Bleeding, Love in the Suds, and such like tender compositions. Bates. Here he comes, with all his folly about him. Tho. Yes, and the first fool from Vanity-fair -Heaven help us!-love turns man and woman topsy turvy! [Exit THOMAS. Whit. [Without.] Where is he? where is my good friend? Enter WHITTLE. Ha! here he is-give me your hand. Bates. I am glad to see you in such spirits, my old gentleman. Whit. Not so old neither-no man ought to be called old, friend Bates, if he is in health, spirits, and Bates. In his senses-which I should rather doubt, as I never saw you half so frolicksome in my life. Whit. Never too old to learn, friend; and if I don't make use of my philosophy now, I may wear it out in twenty years I have been always bantered as of too grave a cast-you know, when I studied at Lincoln's Inn, they used to call me Young Wisdom. Bates. And if they should call you Old Folly, it will be a much worse name. Whit. No young jackanapes dares to call me so, while I have this friend at my side. [Touches his sword.] Whit. I believe you never saw me look better, Frank, did you? Bates. O yes, rather better forty years ago. Whit. What, when I was at Merchant Taylors' School? Bates. At Lincoln's-Inn, Tom. Whit. It can't be--I never disguise my age, and next February I shall be fifty-four. Bates. Fifty-four! Why I am sixty, and you always licked me at school--though I believe I could do as much for you now, and 'ecod I believe you deserve it too. Whit. I tell you I am in my fifty-fifth year. Bates. O, you are?-let me see-we were together at Cambridge, anno domini twenty-five, which is near fifty years ago—you came to the college, indeed, surprisingly young; and what is more surprising, by this calculation, you went to school before you was born-you was always a forward child. Whit. I see there is no talking or consulting with you in this humour; and so, Mr. Bates, when you are in temper to show less of your wit, and more of your friendship, I shall consult with you. Bates. Fare you well, my old boy-young fellow, I mean-when you have done sowing your wild oats, and have been blistered into your right senses; when you have half killed yourself with being a beau, and return to your woollen caps, flannel waistcoats, worsted stockings, cork soles, and gallochies, I am at your service again. So bon jour to you, Monsieur Fifty-four--ha, ha! [Exit. Whit. He has certainly heard of my affairbut he is old and peevish--he wants spirits, and strength of constitution to conceive my happiness---I am in love with the widow, and must have her: Every man knows his own wants--let the world laugh, and my friend stare! let them call me imprudent, and mad, if they please—I live in good times, and among people of fashion; so none of my neighbours, thank Heaven, can have the assurance to laugh at me. -- Enter OLD KECKSEY. Kec. What, my friend Whittle! joy, joy, to you, old boy-you are going, a going, a going! Bates. A hero, too! what in the name of a fine widow has bid for you, and will have you common sense is come to you, my friend?— hah, friend? all for the best-there is nohigh spirits, quick honour, a long sword, and thing like it-hugh, hugh, hugh !---a good wife is a bag!--you want nothing but to be terribly a good thing, and a young one is a better--hah in love, and then you may sally forth Knight--who's afraid? If I had not lately married of the Woeful Countenance. Ha, ha, ha! one, I should have been at death's door by this time-hugh, hugh, hugh! Whit. Mr. Bates-the ladies, who are the best judges of countenances, are not of your opinion; and unless you'll be a little serious, I must beg pardon for giving you this trouble, and I'll open my mind to some more attentive friend. Bates. Well, come! unlock then, you wild, handsome, vigorous young dog you-I will please you if i can. Whit. Thank, thank you, friend! I was coming to advise with you-I am got into the pound again-in love up to the ears---a fine woman, faith; and there's no love lost between usAm I right, friend? Kec. Right! ay, right as my leg, Tom! Life's nothing without love-hugh, hugh! I am happy as the day's long! my wife loves gadding, N Neph. Thou charming, adorable woman! what shall we do then? I never wished for a fortune till this moment. and I can't stay at home; so we are both of a fried in England some time, and lived among my mind-She's every night at one or other of the betters. garden places; but among friends, I am a little afraid of the damp; hugh, hugh, hugh! She has got an Irish gentleman, a kind of cousin of hers, to take care of her; a fine fellow, and so good-natured!-It is a vast comfort to have such a friend in a family! Hugh, hugh, hugh! Whit. You are a bold man, cousin Kecksey. Kec. Bold! ay, to be sure; none but the brave deserve the fair-Hugh, hugh! who's afraid? Whit. Why, your wife is five feet ten! Kec. Without her shoes. I hate your little shrimps; none of your lean, meagre French frogs for me; I was always fond of the majestic: give me a slice of a good English surloin! cut and come again; hugh, hugh, hugh! that's my taste. Whit. I'm glad you have so good a stomach-And so you would advise me to marry the widow directly? Kec. To be sure !-you have not a moment to lose; I always mind what the poet says, 'Tis folly to lose time, When man is in his prime: Hugh! hugh! hugh ! Whit. You have an ugly cough, cousin. Kec. Marriage is the best lozenge for it. Whit. You have raised me from the dead-I am glad you came-Frank Bates had almost killed me with his jokes-but you have comforted me, and we will walk through the Park; and I will carry you to the widow in Pall-Mall. Kec. With all my heart!I'll raise her spirits, and yours too. Courage, Tom-come along who's afraid? [Exeunt. SCENE II.-The WIDOW's lodgings. Enter WIDOW, NEPHEW, and BATES. Bates. Indeed, madam, there is no other way but to cast off your real character, and assume a feigned one; it is an extraordinary occasion, and requires extraordinary measures; pluck up a spirit, and do it for the honour of your sex. Neph. Only consider, my sweet widow, that our all is at stake. Wid. Could I bring my heart to act contrary to its feelings, would not you hate me for being a hypocrite, though it is done for your sake? Neph, Could I think myself capable of such ingratitude Wid. Don't make fine specches! You men are strange creatures! you turn our heads to your purposes, and then despise us for the folly you teach us. 'Tis hard to assume a character contrary to my disposition: I cannot get rid of my unfashionable prejudices till I have been mar Wid. Could we live upon affection, I would give your fortune to your uncle, and thank him for taking it; and then Neph. What then, my sweet widow? Wid. I would desire you to run away with me as fast as you can- -What a pity it is, that this money, which my heart despises, should binder its happiness, or that, for want of a few dirty acres, a poor woman must be made miserable, and sacrificed twice to those who have them! Neph. Heaven forbid! these exquisite scntiments endear you more to me, and distract me with the dread of losing you. Bates. Young folks; let an old man, who is not quite in love, and yet will admire a fine woman to the day of his death, throw in a little advice among your flames and darts. Wid. Though a woman, a widow, and in love too, I can hear reason, Mr. Bates. Bates. And that's a wonder-You have no time to lose; for want of a jointure you are still your father's slave; he is obstinate, and has promised you to the old man: Now, madam, if you will not rise superior to your sex's weakness, to secure a young fellow instead of an old one, your eyes are a couple of hypocrites. Wid. They are a couple of traitors, I'm sure, which all her wit cannot release her. and have led their mistress into a toil, from uncle adored, and fell in love with you for your Neph. But it can, if you will but exert it. My beauty, softness, and almost speechless reserve. Now, if, amidst all his rapturous ideas of your delicacy, you would bounce upon him a wild, ranting, buxom widow, he will grow sick of his bargain, and give me a fortune to take you off his hands. Wid. I shall make a very bad actress. Neph. You are an excellent mimic; assume but the character of your Irish female neighbour in the country, with which you astonished us so ag eeably at Scarborough; you will frighten my uncle to terms; and do that for us which neither it. my love nor your virtue can accomplish without Wid. Now for a trial-[Mimicking a strong brogue.]-Fait and trot, if you will be after bringing me before the old jontleman, if he loves music, I will trate his ears with a little of the brogue, and some dancing too, into the bargain, if he loves capering-O bless me ! my heart fails me, and I am frightened out of my wits; I can never go through it. [NEPHEW and BATES both laugh.Neph. [Kneeling and kissing her hand.] Oh, 'tis admirable! Love himself inspires you, and we shall conquer. What say you, Mr. Bates? Bates. I'll insure you success; I can scarce believe my own ears such a tongue and a brogue would make Hercules tremble at fiveand-twenty! But away, away, and give him the first broadside in the Park; there you'll find him hobbling with that old cuckold, Kecksey. Wid. But will my dress suit the character I play? Neph. The very thing! Is your retinue ready, and your part got by heart? Wid. All is ready; 'tis an act of despair to punish folly and reward merit; 'tis the last effort of pure, honourable love; and if every woman would exert the same spirit for the same out-of-fashion rarity, there would be less business for Doctors'-Commons. Now let the critics laugh at me, if they dare. [Exit with spirit. Neph. Bravo! bravissimo! sweet widow ! [Exit after her. Bates. Huzza! huzza! [Exit. SCENE III-The Park. Enter WHITTLE and KECKSEY. Whit. Yes, yes, she is Irish; but so modest, so mild, and so tender, and just enough of the accent to give a peculiar sweetness to her words, which drop from her in monosyllables, with such a delicate reserve, that I shall have all the comfort, without the impertinence of a wife. Kec. There our taste differs, friend; I am for a lively smart girl in my house, hugh! hugh! to keep up my spirits, and make me merry. I don't admire dumb waiters, not I; no still life for me; I love the prittle prattle; it sets me to sleep, and I can take a sound nap, while my Sally and her cousin are running and playing about the house like young cats. Whit. I am for no cats in my house; I cannot sleep with a noise; the widow was made on purpose for me; she is so bashful, has no acquaintance, and she never would stir out of doors, if her friends were not afraid of a consumption, and so force her into the air: Such a delicate creature! you shall see her; you were always for a tall, chattering, frisky wench; now, for my part, I am with the old saying, Wife a mouse, Quiet house; Wife a cat, Dreadful that! Keck. I don't care for your sayings-who's afraid? Whit. There goes Bates: let us avoid him, he will only be joking with us; when I have taken a serious thing into my head, I can't bear to have it laughed out again. This way, friend Kecksey-What have we got here? Keck. [Looking out.] Some fine prancing wench, with her lovers and footmen about her; she's a gay one, by her motions. Whit. Were she not so flaunting, I should take it for-No, it is impossible; and yet is not that my nephew with her? I forbad him speaking to her; it can't be the widow! I hope it is not. Enter WIDOW, followed by NEPHEW, three Footmen, and a black Boy. Wid. Don't bother me, young man, with your darts, your cupids, and your pangs; if you had half of them about you that you swear you have, they would have cured you, by killing you long ago. Would you have me faitless to your uncle, hah! young man? Was not I faitful to you, 'till I was ordered to be faitful to him? but I must know more of your English ways, and live more among the English ladies, to learn how to be faitful to two at a time—and so there's my answer for you. Neph. Then I know my relief, for I cannot live without you. [Exit. Wid. Take what relief you plase, young jontleman, what have I to do with dat! He is certainly mad, or out of his sinses, for he swears he can't live without me, and yet he talks of killing himself? how does he make out dat? if a countryman of mine had made such a blunder, they would have put it into all the news-papers, and Faulkner's Journal beside; but an Englishman may look over the hedge, while an Irishman must not stale a horse. Kec. Is this the widow, friend Whittle? Whit. I don't know: [Sighing.] it is, and it is not. Wid. Your servant, Mr. Whittol; I wish you would spake to your nephew not to be whining and dangling after me all day in his green coat, like a parrot: it is not for my reputation that he should follow me about like a beggarman, and ask me for what I had given him long ago, but have since bestowed upon you, Mr. Whittol. Whit. He is an impudent beggar, and shall be really so for his disobedience. Wid. As he can't live without me, you know, it will be charity to starve him: I wish the poor young man dead with all my heart, as he thinks it will do him a grate deal of good. Kec. [To WHITTLE.] She is tender, indeed! and I think she has the brogue a little-hugh! hugh! it. Whit. It is stronger to day than ever I heard [Staring. Wid. And are you now talking of my brogue! It is always the most fullest when the wind is aesterly; it has the same effect upon me as upon stammering people-they can't spake for their impediment, and my tongue is fixed so loose in my mouth, I can't stop it for the life of me. Whit. What a terrible misfortune, friend Kecksey! |