Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding

by Henry Fielding

  Untried, unheard: while guiltless crowds expire,

  Martyrs to spleen! in each poetic fire;

  Nor characters, nor worth, nor sex, nor age,

  Nor sacred majesty escapes her rage;

  Against example who shall dare commend?

  Avow good-nature or confess a friend?

  Hard is the task, in such a soil, to raise

  From her decay the long-lost art of praise;

  Where the sharp thistle springs t’ implant the corn,

  Or graft the rose upon the spiny thorn.

  Willing, yet weak, and fearful of the fight,

  In vain I mourn the abuse I cannot right;

  Yet this remains — with cheerful warmth to pay

  To real worth this tributary lay.

  Accept then, Fielding! from a heart sincere,

  A gift commended by its being rare,

  Unfeigned applause! by no mean motive swayed

  Nor yet to thee, but to thy merit paid.

  Long have I seen, with sorrow and surprise,

  Unhelped, unheeded, thy strong genius rise,

  To form our manners and amend our laws,

  And aid, with artful hand, the publie cause.

  When modern crimes, to elder times unknown,

  With worse than Sodom’s guilt pollute this town,

  Tied to old rules, though Westminster must aid,

  The shame and scandal of the nuptial bed,

  Thy equitable muse asserts her claim,

  To mark the monster with eternal shame,

  Thy brute appears, in the most just decree,

  Triumphant only in his infamy.

  But see! the politician mounts the stage,

  The bane and weakness of our clime and age!

  Who can unmoved behold th’ instructive scene?

  Indulge his laughter? or contain his spleen?

  When he reflects that such grave heads, so late,

  Controlled our senate, and inflamed our state!

  Oh! had the muse a due attention found,

  Her flights encouraged, and her labours crowned;

  Each busy knave had felt her vengeful hand,

  And laughter branded whom the laws should brand!

  In vain we wish! — and the compliant bard,

  The public taste must sway, that must reward;

  To that conforming, he must fill the scene,

  With puppets, players, Henley, harlequin;

  Farce, mask, and opera, Grub Street and the Court,

  Linked of nonsense must club to make us sport.

  Yet here, even here, what sense! with how much art,

  He courts the head, since we deny the heart;

  Mark, in his mirth how innocent he plays!

  And while he mimes the mimic, hurts not Bayes —

  Though much provoked, no base ill-nature stains,

  With murderous dye, his unpolluted strains.

  Proceed, even thus proceed, blessed youth! to charm,

  Divert our heats, and civil rage disarm,

  Till fortune, once not blind to merit, smile

  On thy desert, and recompense thy toil:

  Or Walpole, studious still of Britain’s fame,

  Protect thy labours, and prescribe the theme,

  On which, in ease and affluence, thou mayst raise

  More noble trophies to thy country’s praise.

  EPILOGUE

  UPON THE REVIVAL OF THE AUTHOR’S FARCE SPOKEN BY MRS. CLIVE

  As when some ancient, hospitable seat,

  Where plenty oft has given the jovial treat,

  Where in full bowls each welcome guest has drowned

  All sorrowing thoughts, while mirth and joy went round,

  Is by some wanton worthless heir destroyed,

  Its once full rooms grown a deserted void;

  With sighs, each neighbour views the mournful place;

  With sighs, each recollects what once it was.

  So does our wretched theatre appear;

  For mirth and joy once kept their revels here.

  Here, the Beau-monde in crowds repaired each day,

  And went well pleased and entertained away.

  While Oldfield here hath charmed the listening age,

  And Wilks adorned, and Booth hath filled the stage;

  Soft eunuchs warbled in successless strain,

  And tumblers showed their little tricks in vain.

  Those boxes still the brighter circles were,

  Triumphant toasts received their homage there.

  But now, alas! how altered is our case!

  I view with tears this poor deserted place;

  None to our boxes now in pity stray,

  But poets free o’ th’ house, and beaus who never pay.

  No longer now, we see our crowded door

  Send the late corner back again at four.

  At seven now into our empty pit

  Drops from his counter some old prudent cit,

  Contented with twelve-pennyworth of wit.

  — Our author, of a generous soul possessed,

  Hath kindly aimed to succour the distressed:

  To-night, what he shall offer in our cause

  Already hath been blest with your applause

  Yet this, his muse maturer hath revised,

  And added more to that which once so much you prized.

  We sue, not mean to make a partial friend,

  But without prejudice at least attend.

  If we are dull, e’en censure; but we trust,

  Satire can ne’er displease you when ‘Tis just.

  Nor can we fear a brave, a generous, town

  Will join to crush us, when we’re almost down.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  MEN

  Goodall — Mr. Jones.

  Valentine — Mr. Stoppelaer.

  Lord Pride — Mr. Hewson.

  Lord Puff — Mr. Charles Jones.

  Colonel Bluff — Mr. Mecklin.

  Oldcastle — Mr. Norris.

  Rakeit — Mr. Mullart.

  Marquis — Mdlle. Grognet.

  Slap. — Mr. Topham.

  Trick — Mr. Hallam.

  Security — Mr. Giles.

  WOMEN

  Mrs. Highman — Mrs. Mullart.

  Charlotte — Mrs. Atherton.

  Lettice — Mrs. Clive.

  Ladies, Constables, Servants, — &c.

  SCENE. — LONDON

  ACT I.

  SCENE I.

  Covent Garden.

  MRS. HIGHMAN, LETTICE.

  MRS. HIGHMAN. Oh! Mrs. Lettice, is it you? I am extremely glad to see you; you are the very person I would meet.

  LETTICE. I am much at your service, madam.

  MRS. HIGHMAN. Oh! madam, I know very well that; and at every one’s service, I dare swear, that will pay you for it. But all the service, madam, that I have for you is to carry a message to your master — I desire, madam, that you would tell him from me, that he is a very great villain, and that I entreat him never more to come near my doors; for if I find him within ‘em, I will turn my niece out of them.

  LETTICE. Truly, madam, you must send this by another messenger; but pray, what has my master done to deserve it should be sent at all?

  MRS. HIGHMAN. He has done nothing yet, I believe; I thank Heaven and my own prudence: but I know what he would do.

  LETTICE. He would do nothing but what becomes a gentleman, I am confident.

  MRS. HIGHMAN. Oh! I dare swear, madam, debauching a young lady is acting like a very fine gentleman; but I shall keep my niece out of the hands of such fine gentlemen.

  LETTICE. You wrong my master, madam, cruelly; I know his designs on your niece are honourable.

  MRS. HIGHMAN. You know!

  LETTICE. Yes, madam, no one knows my master’s heart better than I do. I am sure, were his designs otherwise, I would not be accessory to ‘em: I love your niece too much, madam, to carry on an amour in which she should be a loser. But as I know that my master i
s heartily in love with her, and that she is heartily in love with my master; and as I am certain they will be a very happy couple, I will not leave one stone unturned to bring them together.

  MRS. HIGHMAN. Rare impudence! Hussy, I have another match for her; she shall marry Mr. Oldcastle.

  LETTICE. Oh! then, I find it is you that have a dishonourable design on your niece.

  MRS. HIGHMAN. How, sauciness!

  LETTICE. Yes, madam, marrying a young lady, who is in love with a young fellow, to an old one whom she hates, is the surest way to bring about I know what, that can possibly be taken.

  AIR I. Soldier Laddy.

  When a virgin in love with a brisk jolly lad

  You match to a spark more fit for her dad,

  ‘Tis as pure, and as sure, and secure as a gun,

  The young lover’s business is happily done:

  Though it seems to her arms he takes the wrong rout,

  Yet my life for a farthing,

  Pursuing

  His wooing,

  The young fellow finds, though he got round about,

  It’s only to come

  The nearest way home.

  MRS. HIGHMAN. I can bear this no longer. I would advise you, madam, and your master both, to keep from my house, or I shall take measures you won’t like. [Exit.

  LETTICE. I defy you; we have the strongest party, and I warrant we’ll get the better of you. But here comes the young lady herself.

  SCENE II.

  LETTICE, CHARLOTTE.

  CHARLOTTE. So, Mrs. Lettice!

  LETTICE. ‘Tis pity you had not come a little sooner, madam; your good aunt is but just gone, and has left positive orders that you should make more frequent visits at our house.

  CHARLOTTE. Indeed!

  LETTICE. Yes, madam; for she has forbid my master ever visiting at yours, and I know it will be impossible for you to live without seeing him.

  CHARLOTTE. I assure you! Do you think me so fond then?

  LETTICE. Do I! I know you are; you love nothing else, think of nothing else all day; and, if you will confess the truth, I dare lay a wager that you dream of nothing else all night.

  CHARLOTTE. Then to show you, madam, how well you know me — the devil take me — if you are not in the right.

  LETTICE. Ah! madam, to a woman practised in love, like me, there is no occasion for confession: for my part, I don’t want words to assure me of what the eyes tell me. Oh! if the lovers would but consult the eyes of their mistresses, we should not have such sighing, languishing, and despairing, as we have.

  AIR II. Bush of Boon.

  What need he trust your words precise

  Your soft desires denying,

  When, oh! he reads within your eyes

  Your tender heart complying?

  Your tongue may cheat,

  And with deceit

  Your softer wishes cover

  But, oh! your eyes,

  Know no disguise,

  Nor ever cheat your lover.

  SCENE III.

  LETTICE, CHARLOTTE, VALENTINE.

  VALENTINE. My dearest Charlotte, this is meeting my wishes, indeed! for I was coming to wait on you.

  LETTICE. It is very lucky that you do meet her here; for her house is forbidden ground: you have seen your last of that, Mrs. Highman swears.

  VALENTINE. Ha! not go where my dear Charlotte is? What danger could deter me? What difficulty prevent me? Not cannon, nor plagues, nor all the most frightful forms of death, should keep me from her arms.

  CHARLOTTE. Nay, by what I can find, you are not to put your valour to any proof; the danger is to be mine: I am to be turned out of doors, if ever you are seen in them again.

  VALENTINE. The apprehensions of your danger would, indeed, put it to the severest proof. But why will my dearest Charlotte continue in the house of one who threatens to turn her out of it? ‘Why will she not know another home, one where she would find a protector from every kind of danger?

  CHARLOTTE. How can you pretend to love me, Valentine, and ask me that in our present desperate circumstances?

  LETTICE. Nay, nay, don’t accuse him wrongfully. I won’t indeed insist that he gives you any great instance of his prudence by it; but I’ll swear it is a very strong one of his love; and such an instance, as when a man has once shown, no woman of any honesty, or honour, or gratitude, can refuse him any longer. For my part, if I had ever found a lover who had not wicked mercenary views upon my fortune, I should have married him, whatever he had been.

  CHARLOTTE. Thy fortune?

  LETTICE. My fortune! Yes, madam, my fortune. I was worth fifty-six pounds before I put into the lottery; what it will be now, I can’t tell; but you know somebody must get the great lot, and why not I?

  VALENTINE. Oh, Charlotte, would you had the same sentiments with me! For, by Heavens! I apprehend no danger but that of losing you; and, believe me, Love will sufficiently reward us for all the hazards we run on his account.

  AIR III. Fanny, blooming fair, &c.

  Let bold ambition lie

  Within the warrior’s mind;

  False honours let him buy,

  With slaughter of mankind:

  To crowns a doubtful right

  Lay thousands in their grave;

  While wretched armies fight

  Which master shall enslave.

  Love took my heart with storm,

  Let him there rule alone,

  In Charlotte’s charming form,

  Still sitting on his throne.

  How will my soul rejoice

  At his commands to fly;

  If spoken in that voice,

  Or looked from that dear eye.

  To universal sway

  Love’s title is the best;

  Well, shall we him obey,

  Who makes his subjects blest?

  If heaven for human good

  Did empire first design,

  Love must be understood

  To rule by right divine.

  LETTICE. Hist! hist! get you both about your business. Mr. Oldcastle is just turned the corner; and, if he should see you together, you are undone.

  [Exeunt Valentine and Charlotte.

  Now will I banter this old coxcomb severely: for I think it is a most impertinent thing in these old fumblers to interpose in young people’s sport.

  SCENE IV.

  LETTICE, OLDCASTLE.

  OLDCASTLE. Hem, hem! I profess it is a very severe easterly wind; and, if it was not to see a mistress, I believe I should scarce have stirred abroad all day.

  LETTICE. Mr. Oldcastle, your very humble servant.

  OLDCASTLE. Your humble servant, madam: I ask your pardon; but I profess I have not the honour of knowing you.

  LETTICE. Men of your figure, sir, are known by more than they are themselves able to remember. I am a poor handmaid of a young lady of your acquaintance, Miss Charlotte Highman.

  OLDCASTLE. Oh! your very humble servant, madam; I hope your lady is well.

  LETTICE. Hum! so, so. She sent me, sir, of a small message to you.

  OLDCASTLE. I am the happiest man in the world.

  LETTICE. To desire a particular favour of you.

  OLDCASTLE. She honours me with her commands.

  LETTICE. She begs, if you have the least affection for her, that she may never see you here again.

  OLDCASTLE. What! what!

  LETTICE. She is a very well-bred, civil, good-natured lady, and does not care to send a rude message; therefore only bids me tell you, she hates you, scorns you, detests you more than any creature upon the earth; that if you are resolved to marry, she would recommend to you a certain excellent dry nurse, who might possibly be brought by your money to do any thing, but go to bed with you; and lastly, she bids me tell you, in this cold weather, never to go to bed without a good warm posset, and never to lie without, at least, a pair of flannel shirts.

  OLDCASTLE. Hold your impertinent, saucy tongue!

  LETTICE. Nay, sir, don’t be angry with me. I only d
eliver my message; and that too in as civil and concise a manner as possible.

  OLDCASTLE. Your mistress is a pert young hussy, and I shall tell her mother of her.

  LETTICE. That will never do; you had better trust to her own good-nature; ‘Tis I am your friend, and, if we can get over three little obstacles, I don’t despair of marrying you to her yet.

  OLDCASTLE. What are those obstacles?

  LETTICE. Why, sir, there is, in the first place, your great age; you are at least some sixty-six.

  OLDCASTLE. It’s a lie: I want several — months of it.

  LETTICE. If you did not, I think we may get over this: one half of your fortune makes a very sufficient amends for your age.

  OLDCASTLE. We sha’n’t fall out about that.

  LETTICE. Well, sir, then there is, in the second place, your terrible, ungenteel air: this is a grand obstacle with her, who is dotingly fond of every thing that is fine and foppish; and yet I think we may get over this too, by the other half of your fortune. — And now there remains but one, which, if you can find any thing to set aside, I believe I may promise you, you shall have her; and that is, sir, that horrible face of yours, which it is impossible for any one to see without, being frightened.

  OLDCASTLE. Ye impudent baggage! I’ll tell your mistress. I’ll have you turned off.

  LETTICE. That will be well repaying me, indeed, for all the services I have done you.