Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding

by Henry Fielding

  [Exit.

  MRS. BELLAMANT. Her misfortunes move my compassion.

  MR. GAYWIT. It is generous in you, madam, to pity the misfortunes of a woman whose faults are more her husband’s than her own.

  SCENE XIII.

  LORD RICHLY, MR. MODERN, MR. GAYWIT, MR. BELLAMANT, CAPTAIN MERIT, MRS. BELLAMANT, EMILIA.

  LORD RICHLY. Mr. Gaywit, upon my word, you have the most splendid levee I have seen.

  MR. GAYWIT. I am sorry, my lord, you have increased it by one who should only grace the keeper of Newgate’s levee; a fellow whose company is scandalous to your lordship, as it is odious to us all.

  MR. BELLAMANT. His lordship is not the only man who goes abroad with his cuckold.

  LORD RICHLY. Mcthinks you have invited the gentleman to a very scurvy entertainment.

  MR. GAYWIT. You’ll know, my lord, very shortly, wherefore he was invited, and how much you yourself are obliged to his kind endeavours: for would his wife have consented to his entreaties, this pretended discovery had fallen on you, and you had supplied that gentleman’s place.

  LORD RICHLY. A discovery fallen on me!

  CAPTAIN MERIT. Yes, my lord, the whole company are witnesses to Mrs. Modern’s confession of it: that he betrayed her to your embraces with a design to discover you in them.

  MR. MODERN. My lord, this is a base design to ruin the humblest of your creatures in your lordship’s favour.

  LORD RICHLY. How it should have that effect, I know not; for I do not understand a word of what these gentlemen mean.

  MR. GAYWIT. We shall convince your lordship. — In the mean time I must beg you to leave this apartment: you may prosecute what revenge you please; but at law we shall dare to defy you. The damages will not be very great which are given to a voluntary cuckold.

  EMILIA. Though I see not why; for it is surely as much a robbery to take away a picture unpaid for from the painter who would sell it, as from the gentleman who would keep it.

  MR. MODERN. You may have your jest, madam; but I will be paid severely for it. I shall have a time of laughing in my turn. My lord, your most obedient servant.

  SCENE XIV.

  LORD RICHLY, MR. GAYWIT, MR. BELLAMANT, CAPTAIN BELLAMANT, LADY CHARLOTTE GAYWIT, MRS. BELLAMANT, EMILIA.

  MR. GAYWIT. He will find his mistake and our conquest soon enough. And now, my lord, I hope you will ratify that consent you gave me this morning, and complete my happiness with this lady.

  LORD RICHLY. Truly, nephew, you misunderstood me, if you imagined I promised any such thing. However, though you know I might insist on my brother’s will, yet let Mr. Bellamant give his daughter a fortune equal to yours, and I shall not oppose it: and till then I shall not consent.

  MR. GAYWIT. Ha!

  CAPTAIN BELLAMANT. I hope your lordship has not determined to deny every request; and therefore I may hope your blessing. [Kneels.

  LORD RICHLY. What does this mean?

  CAPTAIN BELLAMANT. Lady Charlotte, my lord has given me this right. — Your daughter —

  LORD RICHLY. What of her?

  CAPTAIN BELLAMANT. IS my wife.

  LORD RICHLY. Your wife!

  CAPTAIN BELLAMANT. Nay, if you will not give me your blessing you may let it alone: I would not kneel any longer to you though you were the Great Mogul.

  LORD RICHLY. Very well! This is your doing, Mr. Bellamant, or rather my own. Confusion! my estate, my title, and my daughter, all contribute to aggrandize the man I must hate, because he knows I would have wronged him! Well, sirs, whatever pleasures you may seem to take at my several disappointments, I shall take very little trouble to be revenged on any of you; being heartily convinced that in a few months you will be so many mutual plagues to one another.

  SCENE THE LAST.

  MR. Gaywit, MR. Bellamant, Captaix Bellamant, Lady Charlotte Gaywit, Mrs. Bellamant, Emilia.

  MR. BELLAMANT. Methinks I might have been consulted on this affair.

  LADY CHARLOTT GAYWIT. We had no time for consultation; our amour has been of a very short date.

  CAPTAIN BELLAMANT. All our love is to come, Lady Charlotte.

  LADY CHARLOTTE GAYWIT. I expect a deal of love after marriage for what I have baited you before it.

  CAPTAIN BELLAMANT. I never asked you the question till I was sure of you.

  LADY CHARLOTTE GAYWIT. Then you knew my mind better than myself; for I never resolved to have you till I had you.

  MR. GAYWIT. NOW, my dear Emilia, there is no bar in our way to happiness. Lady Charlotte has made my lord’s consent unnecessary too. Your father has already blessed me with his; and it is now in your power to make me the happiest of mankind.

  EMILIA. I suppose you follow my brother’s method, and never ask till you are sure of obtaining?

  MR. BELLAMANT. Gaywit, my obligations to you are beyond my power of repaying; and while I give you what you ask, I am still heaping greater favours on myself.

  MR. GAYWIT. Think not so, when you bestow on me more than any man can merit.

  MR. BELLAMANT. Then take the little all I have: and may you be as happy with her as I am in these arms [Embracing

  MRS. Bellamant] — whence the whole world should never estrange me more.

  MRS. BELLAMANT. I am too happy in that resolution.

  MR. GAYWIT. Lady Charlotte, I made a promise this day to your father in your favour, which I am resolved to keep, though he hath broken his. I know your good nature and good sense will forgive a fault which love has made me commit — Love, which directs our inclinations, in spite of equal and superior charms.

  LADY CHARLOTTE GAYWIT. No excuses, dear sir; my inclinations were as whimsical as yours.

  CAPTAIN BELLAMANT. You have fairly got the start, Lady Charlotte.

  MR. GAYWIT. My Bellamant! my friend! my father! what a transport do I feel from the prospect of adding to your future happiness! Let us henceforth be one family, and have no other contest but to outvie in love.

  MR. BELLAMANT. My son! Oh, what happiness do I owe to thy friendship! And may the example of my late misfortune warn thee to fly all such encounters: and, since we are setting out together in the road to happiness, take this truth from an experienced traveller:

  However slight the consequence may prove

  Which waits unmarried libertines in love,

  Be from all vice divorced before you wed,

  And bury falsehood in the bridal bed.

  EPILOGUE

  WRITTEN BY COLLEY CIBBER, ESQ.; SPOKEN BY MRS. HERON

  As malefactors, on their dying day,

  Have always something, at the tree, to say;

  So I, before to exile I go down,

  With my hard hapless fate would warn the town.

  Fatal Quadrille! Fly! fly the tempting evil!

  For when our last stake’s lost, ‘tis sure the devil!

  With curst Quadrille avoid my fatal shame,

  Or if you can’t — at least — play all the game.

  Of spotless fame, be chary as your lives!

  Keep wide of proof, and you’re the best of wives!

  Husbands most faults, not public made, connive at;

  The trip’s a trifle — when the frailty’s private.

  What can a poet hope, then, that reveals ‘em?

  The fair might like the play, whose plot conceals ‘em!

  For who would favour plays to be thus used?

  None ever were by operas abused!

  Or could they warble scandal out at random,

  Where were the harm, while none could understand ‘em?

  But I no more must hear those melting strains,

  Condemned, alas! to woods and lonely plains!

  Gay masquerades now turned to country fairs,

  And croaking rooks supply soft eunuch airs.

  No Ring, no Mall — no rat, tat, tat, at doors;

  And, O hard fate! for dear Quadrille — All fours.

  No more new plays! but that’s a small offence,

  Your taste will shortly banish them from h
ence.

  Yet ere I part, methinks, it were to wrong you,

  Not to bequeath some legacies among you.

  My reputation I for prudes intend,

  In hopes their strictness what’s amiss will mend.

  My young gallants let ancient maidens kill,

  And take my husband — any soul that will!

  Our author to the spotless fair I give,

  For his chaste wife to grant him a reprieve.

  Whatever faults to me may be imputed,

  In her you view your virtues unpolluted.

  In her sweet mind even age and wandering youth

  Must own the transports of connubial truth:

  Thus each extreme is for instruction meant

  And ever was the stage’s true intent,

  To give reward to virtue, vice its punishment.

  EPILOGUE

  SPOKEN BY MRS. HERON

  IN dull retirement ere I go to grieve,

  Ladies, I am returned to take my leave.

  Prudes, I suppose, will, with their old good nature,

  Show their great virtue, and condemn the creature:

  They fail not at th’ unfortunate to flout,

  Not because naughty — but because — found out.

  Why, faith — if these discoveries succeed,

  Marriage will soon become a trade, indeed!

  This trade, I’m sure, will flourish in the nation,

  ‘Twill be esteemed below no man of fashion,

  To be a member of the — Cuckold’s corporation.

  What interest will be made! what mighty doing!

  To be directors for the year ensuing!

  And ‘tis exceeding difficult to say

  Which end of this chaste town would win the day.

  Oh! should no chance this corporation stop,

  Where should we find one house without a shop?

  How would a wife, hung out, draw beaus in throngs!

  To hire your dears, like Dominos, at Long’s!

  There would be dainty days! when every ninny

  Might put them on and off — for half a guinea!

  Oh! to behold th’ embroidered trader grin,

  “My wife’s at home — Pray, gentlemen, walk in!”

  Money alone men will no more importune,

  When every beauty makes her husband’s fortune!

  While juries value virtue at this rate,

  Each wife is (when discovered) an estate!

  A wife with gold is mixing gall with honey;

  But here you lose your wife by what you get your money.

  And now, t’ obey a dull poetic sentence,

  In lonely woods I must pursue repentance!

  Ye virgins pure, ye modest matrons, lend

  Attentive ears to your departing friend.

  If fame unspotted be the thing you drive at,

  Be virtuous, if you can; if not, be private —

  But hold! — Why should I leave my sister-sinners,

  To dwell ‘mongst innocents, or young beginners?

  Frailty will better with the frail go down:

  So, hang the stupid Bard! — I’ll stay in town.

  THE COVENT-GARDEN TRAGED Y

  First appearing on 1 June 1732 at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, this play presents a love triangle involving two prostitutes in a brothel. While they are portrayed satirically, they are imbued with sympathy as their relationship develops. The play is a mockery of tragedy in general, though the characters contain realistic qualities separating them from other characters within Fielding’s plays. The use of such realism conflicts with the comedic nature, creating an unsettling atmosphere through much of the drama. The play was a failure and ended its run after its first night, in part because it was set in a brothel, causing much scandal at the time.

  The plot introduces us to the two prostitutes, Kissinda and Stormandra, and they are pursued by Captain Bilkum, who is eventually killed during a duel. The play also presents the interesting character Mother Punchbowl, who functions as a mother figure to prostitutes and those who frequent the brothels. Throughout the play, Fielding emphasises the importance of Hogarth’s satire and makes references to his works, especially to A Harlot’s Progress. Many of Fielding’s characters are modeled after Hogarth’s: his Mother Punchbowl, the brothel mistress, is modeled on Mother Needham, and Kissinda and Stormandra are modelled on the Harlot.

  The Daily Post wrote on 5 June 1732: “We are assured the Comedy call’d The Old Debauchees, did meet with universal Applause; but the Covent Garden Tragedy will be Acted no more, both the Author and the Actors being unwilling to continue any Piece contrary to the Opinion of the Town.” The Grub-Street Journal reprinted this on 8 June with the addition “For unwilling read unable” and later declared on 15 June that “It would be ridiculous to aim any sort of criticism upon so shameful a Piece”. The review continued to insinuate that Fielding had experience with brothels, sparking a battle between Fielding and The Grub-Street Journal.

  The original title page

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  PROLOGUE

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  ACT I.

  ACT II.

  EPILOGUE

  PREFACE

  IT hath been customary with authors of extraordinary merit to prefix to their works certain commendatory epistles in verse and prose, written by a friend, or left with the printer by an unknown hand; which arc of notable use to an injudicious reader, and often lead him to the discovery of beauties which might otherwise have escaped his eye. They stand like champions at the head of a volume, and bid defiance to an army of Critics.

  As I have not been able to procure any such panegyrics on the following scenes from my friends, nor leisure to write them myself, I have, in an unprecedented manner, collected such criticisms as I could meet with on this tragedy, and have placed them before it; but I must at the same time assure the reader that he may shortly expect an answer to them.

  The first of these pieces, by its date, appears to be the production of some fine gentleman, who plays the Critic for his diversion, though he has not spoiled his eyes with too much reading. The latter will be easily discovered to come from the hands of one of that club which hath determined to instruct the world in arts and sciences, without understanding any; who

  “With less learning than makes felons ‘scape

  Less human genius than God gives an ape,”

  are resolved

  — “in spite

  Of nature, and their stars, to write.”

  ‘‘DEAR JACK, — Since you have left the town, and no rational creature except myself in it, I have applied myself pretty much to my books: I have, besides the Craftsman and Grub Street Journals, read a good deal in Mr. Pope’s Rape of the Lock, and several pages in the History of the King of Sweden, which is translated into English; but fancy I should understand more of it if I had a better map; for I have not been able to find out Livonia in mine.

  “I believe you will be surprised to hear I have not been twice at the playhouse since your departure. But alas! what entertainment can a man of sense find there now? The Modern Husband, which we hissed the first night, had such success, that I began to think it a good play, till the Grub Street Journal assured me it was not. The Earl of Esses, which you know is my favourite of all Shakespeare’s plays, was acted the other night; but I was kept from it by a damned farce, which I abominate and detest so much that I have never either seen it or read it.

  “Last Monday came out a new Tragedy, called the Covent Garden Tragedy, which, I believe, I may affirm to be the worst that ever was written. I will not shock your good judgment by any quotations out of it. To tell you the truth, I know not what to make of it: one would have guessed, from the audience, it had been a Comedy; for I saw more people laugh than cry at it. It adds a very strong confirmation to your opinion, That it is impossible any thing worth reading should be written in this age.

  “I am, &c.

  “St. James’s Coff
ee House.”

  A CRITICISM ON THE COVENT GARDEN TRAGEDY, ORIGINALLY INTENDED FOR THE GRUB STREET JOURNAL.

  I have been long sensible that the days of poetry are no more, and that there is but one of the moderns (who shall be nameless) that can write either sense, or English, or grammar. For this reason I have passed by unremarked, generally unread, the little, quaint, short-lived productions of my contemporaries: for it is a maxim with my bookseller, that no criticism on any work can sell, when the work itself does not.

  But when I observe an author growing into any reputation; when I see the same play, which I had liberally hissed the first night, advertised for a considerable number of nights together, I then begin to look about me, and to think it worth criticising on. A play, that runs twelve nights, will support a temperate critic as many days.

  The success of The Tragedy of Tragedies and the Modern Husband did not only determine me to draw my pen against those two performances, but hath likewise engaged my criticism on every thing which comes from the hands of that author, of whatever nature it be,

  “Seu Grœcum sive Latinum.”

  The Covent Garden Tragedy bears so great an analogy to the Tragedy of Tom Thumb, that it needs not the author’s name to assure us from what quarter it had its original. I shall beg leave, therefore, to examine this piece a little, even before I am assured what success it will meet with. Perhaps what I shall herein say may prevent its meeting with any.