MR. MUTABLE. Ay, sir, this is the worthy lord, sir, to whose sister I was to have married my son, till, by good luck, sir, I found my Lord Truelove to be no lord, but a certain wild young vagabond, who goes by the name of Millamour.
MR. STEDFAST. What’s this I hear?
MILLAMOUR. Ay, ‘Tis so, — the house is infected, and every man is mad that comes into it.
MR. MUTABLE. Mad! You young dog, you have made a fool of me, I thank you.
MR. STEDFAST. I am a fine one, truly, if Doctor Gruel be a cheat.
MRS. PLOTWELL. Mr. Millamour!
MILLAMOUR. Nay, then, ‘tis in vain to contend. And it requires less impudence to confess all than to deny it. My dear Mrs. Plotwell. [Millamour and Mrs. Plotwell talk apart, and then go out together.
MR. MUTABLE. Mr. Stedfast, if you please, we’ll make no longer delay of the wedding.
MR. STEDFAST. Sir, I hate the name of wedding.
MR. MUTABLE. Hey-day! I hope you are not capable of breaking your resolution.
MR. STEDFAST. Sir, I shall break my heart. A man that is married is capable of every thing but being happy.
MR. MUTABLE. Come, come, I’m sorry for what’s past, and am willing to show my repentance, to put it out of my power to offend any more. What signify delays? Let us have the wedding to-night.
MR. STEDFAST. Whenever you please, sir.
MR. MUTABLE. If your daughter be ready, my son is.
MR. STEDFAST. I have no daughter, sir.
MR. MUTABLE. Ha, ha, ha! You’re a merry man.
MR. STEDFAST. Lookye, gentlemen, if one of you will take my wife, the other shall have my daughter. [To them, Millamour.]
MILLAMOUR. O, sir! the luckiest news: Your lady is recovered, her distemper left her in a moment, as by a miracle, at the sight of Mrs. Plotwell.
MR. STEDFAST. My distemper is not removed.
MILLAMOUR. Take courage, sir, I’ll warrant I cure you — What are you sick of?
MR. STEDFAST. What you are sick of too, by this time — my wife.
MILLAMOUR. Is that all?
MR. STEDFAST. This insult, sir, is worse than your first injury: but the law shall give me a reparation for both.
MILLAMOUR. Here comes a better friend to you than the law. If your wife be all your illness, she will do what the law can seldom do, unmarry you again. I don’t know how uneasy you may be for marrying my mistress; but I am sure you ought to be so for marrying your own daughter.
SCENE XII.
To them, CLARINDA, CHARLOTTE, HEARTFORT.
MRS. PLOTWELL. Start not at that word, but thank the watchful care of Heaven, which hath sent me here this day to prevent your fall, even at the brink of ruin — And, with a joy becoming so blest an occasion, receive your daughter to your arms.
CLARINDA. My father, — I am resolved to call you by that name.
MR. STEDFAST. Call me any thing but husband.
MRS. PLOTWELL. She is indeed your daughter — the pledge of our loves — the witness of your treachery and my shame, whom that wicked woman seduced from the nunnery, where I thought I had placed her in safety.
CLARINDA. Sir, I kneel for your blessing, nor will I rise till you have given it me.
MR. STEDFAST. Take it, my child, and be assured no father ever gave it more gladly. This is indeed a happy discovery — I have found my daughter, and I have lost my wife.
MRS. PLOTWELL. My child, let me again embrace thee. This is happiness indeed!
MR. MUTABLE. What, have you more daughters than one,
MR. Stedfast?
MR. STEDFAST. Even as you see, sir.
MR. MUTABLE. Why then, sir, I hope you will not take it amiss, that I desire all farther treaty may cease between us.
MR. STEDFAST. Sir, I would not marry a daughter of mine into your family, was your estate ten times as large as it is. So now you have my resolution. I should expect by such a match, to become grandfather to a weather-cock.
MR. MUTABLE. Very well, sir, very well — there’s no harm done — my son is in statu quo, and as fine a gentleman as ever he was.
HEARTFORT. Your honour, sir, is now disengaged. You will give me leave once more to mention my ambition, especially if another child is to share my Charlotte’s fortune, I may appear at least worthier of her in your eyes.
MR. STEDFAST. Here! — Take her — take her —
CHARLOTTE. I told you sir. I would obey my father; but I hope you will never expect me to obey my husband.
HEARTFORT. When I expect more obedience than you are willing to pay, I hope you will punish me by rebellion.
CHARLOTTE. Well, I own I have not deserved so much constancy; but I assure you, if I can get gratitude enough, I will pay you, for I hate to be in debt.
MILLAMOUR. You was pleased, sir, this day to promise me, that on the recovery of your lady’s senses you would give me whatever I should ask.
MR. STEDFAST. Ay, sir, you shall have her before you ask. There she is, she hath given you her inclinations, and so I give you the rest of her. Heaven be praised, I am rid of them both. Stay, here is another woman still. Will nobody have her, and clear my house of them? for it is impossible for a man to keep his resolutions while he hath one woman in it.
MILLAMOUR. My Clarinda! Oh! transporting ecstasy!
CLARINDA. My Millamour! my ever loved!
MILLAMOUR. Heartfort, your hand. I am now the happiest of mankind. I have, on the very point of losing it, recovered a jewel of inestimable value. Oh, Clarinda! my former follies may, through an excess of good fortune, prove advantageous to both in our future happiness. While I, from the reflection on the danger of losing you, to which the wildness of my desires betrayed me, shall enjoy the bliss with doubled sweetness: and you from thence may derive a tender and a constant husband.
From my example, let all rakes be taught
To shun loose pleasure’s sweet but poisonous draught.
Vice, like a ready harlot, still allures;
Virtue gives slow, but what she gives secures.
EPILOGUE
WRITTEN BY A FRIEND, AND SPOKEN BY MRS. WOFFINGTON
THE trial ended, and the sentence o’er,
The criminal stands mute, and pleads no more.
Sunk in despair, no distant hope he views,
Unless some friendly tongue for mercy sues.
So too our bard (whatever be his fate)
Hath sent me here compassion to create:
If damned, to blunt the edge of critic’s laws;
If saved, to beg continuance of applause.
All this the frighted Author bid me say.
— But now for my own comments on his play.
This Millamour, for aught I could discover,
Was no such dangerous, forward, pushing lover:
Upon the bull I, like Europa, ventured.
Entered his closet — where he never entered;
But left me, after all my kindness shown,
In a most barbarous manner, quite alone:
Whilst I, with patience to our sex not common,
Heard him prescribing to another woman:
But, though quite languishing, and vastly ill
She was, I could not find she took one pill.
Though her disease was high, though fierce the attack,
You saw he was an unperforming quack:
But soon as marriage altered his condition,
He cured her as a regular physician.
My father Stedfast took it in his head
To keep all resolutions which he made:
As the great point of life, this seemed to strike him:
His daughter Charlotte’s very much unlike him:
The only joys (and let me freely speak them)
I know in resolutions is to break ‘em.
I think without much flattery I may say
There’s strict poetic justice through this play.
You heard the fool despised; the bawd’s just sentence
Heartfort’s reward, and Millamour’s repent
ance:
And such repentance must forgiveness carry;
Sure there’s contrition with it when we marry.
THE FATHERS, OR THE GOOD-NATUR’D MA N
CONTENTS
ADVERTISEMENT
PROLOGUE
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
ACT V.
EPILOGUE
ADVERTISEMENT
The Comedy now published was written by the late HENRY
Fielding some years before his death. The Author had shown it to his friend Mr. Garrick; and entertaining a high esteem for the taste and critical discernment of Sir Charles Williams, he afterwards delivered the manuscript to Sir Charles for his opinion. At that time appointed Envoy Extraordinary to the Court of Russia, Sir Charles had not leisure to examine the play before he left England. Whether it has had the honour to travel with the Envoy into Russia, or was left behind that it might not interfere with the intrigues of the Embassy, we cannot determine. Sir Charles died in
Russia, and the manuscript was lost.
As MR. FIELDING has often mentioned this, affair, many inquiries were made, after his decease, of several branches of Sir Charles’s family, but did not produce any tidings of the comedy.
About two years ago, Thomas Johnes, Esq., member for Cardigan, received from a young friend, as a present, a tattered manuscript play, bearing indeed some tokens of antiquity, else the present had been of little worth, since the young gentleman assured Mr. Johnes, that it was “a damned thing!” — Notwithstanding this unpromising character, Mr. Johnes took the dramatic foundling to his protection with much kindness; read it; determined to obtain Mr. Garrick’s opinion of it; and for that purpose sent to Mr. Wallis of Norfolk Street, who waited upon Mr. Garrick with the manuscript, and asked him, if he knew whether the late Sir Charles Williams had ever written a play? — Mr. Garrick cast his eye upon it— “The lost sheep is found! — This is Harry Fielding’s Comedy!” cried Mr. Garrick, in a manner that evinced the most friendly regard for the memory of the Author.
This recognition of the play was no sooner communicated to Mr. Johnes, than he, with the most amiable politeness, restored his foundling to the family of MR. FIELDING.
Two gentlemen, of the most distinguished dramatic talents of the age, have shown the kindest attention to the fragment thus recovered. To the very liberal and friendly assistance of Mr. Sheridan, and to the Prologue and Epilogue, written by Mr. Garrick, is to be attributed much of that applause with which the Public have received “THE FATHERS; OR, THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.”
TO HIS GRACE
THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND
LORD LIEUTENANT OF THE COUNTY OF MIDDLESEX, AND
MASTER OF THE HORSE TO THE KING
MY LORD, — The Author of this Play was an upright, useful, and distinguished magistrate for the County of Middlesex; and by his publications laid the foundation of many wholesome laws for the support of good order and subordination in this metropolis, the efforts of which have been, and now are, forcibly felt by the Public. His social qualities made his company highly entertaining. His genius, so universally admired, has afforded delight and instruction to thousands.
The memory of such a man calls for respect; and to have that respect shown him by the great and praiseworthy must do him the highest honour.
Under these circumstances this little orphan posthumous work, replete with humour and sound sense, looks up to your Grace for protection, as a nobleman who makes rank and affluence answer the great purposes of displaying true dignity and beneficence. Thus adorned by accomplishments, and enriched by manly sentiments, it is the interest of society to join with me in the warmest wishes for the continuance of your Grace’s health, and of all those powers so liberally and so constantly exerted by your Grace for the good of mankind.
I have the honour to be,
MY LORD,
Your Grace’s respectful and
Obedient Servant,
JOHN FIELDING.
Brompton Place.
PROLOGUE
WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK, SPOKEN BY MR. KING
WHEN from the world departs a son of fame,
His deeds or works embalm his precious name;
Yet not content, the Public call for art
To rescue from the tomb his mortal part;
Demand the painter’s and the sculptor’s hand,
To spread his mimic form throughout the land:
A form, perhaps, which living, was neglected,
And when it could not feel respect, respected.
This night no bust or picture claims your praise,
Our claim’s superior, we his spirit raise:
From time’s dark storehouse, bring a long-lost play,
And drag it from oblivion into day.
But who the Author? Need I name the wit,
Whom nature prompted as his genius writ?
Truth smiled on Fancy for each well-wrought story,
Where characters live, act, and stand before ye:
Suppose these characters, various as they are,
The knave, the fool, the worthy, wise, and fair,
For and against the Author pleading at your bar.
First pleads Tom Jones — grateful his heart and warm —
Brave, generous Britons, shield this play from harm;
My best friend wrote it; should it not succeed,
Though with my Sophy blest — my heart will bleed —
Then from his face he wipes the manly tear;
Courage, my master, Partridge cries, don’t fear:
Should Envy’s serpent hiss, or malice frown,
Though I’m a coward, zounds! I’ll knock ‘em down:
Next, sweet Sophia comes — she cannot speak —
Her wishes for the play o’erspread her cheek;
In every look her sentiments you read:
And more than eloquence her blushes plead.
Now Blifil bows — with smiles his false heart gilding,
He was my foe — I beg you’ll damn this FIELDING;
Bight! Thwackum roars — no mercy, sirs, I pray —
Scourge the dead Author, through his orphan play.
What words! cries Parson Adams, fie, fie, disown ‘em,
Good Lord! — de mortuis nil nisi bonum:
If such are Christian teachers, who’ll revere ‘em —
And thus they preach, the Devil alone shall hear ‘em.
Now Slipslop enters — though this scrivening vagrant,
Salted my virtue, which was ever flagrant,
Yet, like black’Thello, I’d bear scorns and whips,
Slip into poverty to the very hips,
T’ exalt this play — may it increase in favour;
And be its fame immortalized for ever!
‘Squire Western, reeling, with October mellow,
Tall, yo! — Boys! — Yoax — Critics! hunt the fellow!
Damn ‘em, those wits are varmint not worth breeding,
What good e’er came of writing and of reading?
Next comes, brimful of spite and politics,
His sister Western — and thus deeply speaks:
Wits are armed powers, like France attack the foe;
Negotiate till they sleep — then strike the blow!
Allworthy last, pleads to your noblest passions —
Ye generous leaders of the taste and fashions;
Departed genius left his orphan play
To your kind care — what the dead wills, obey:
O then, respect the FATHER’S fond bequest,
And make his widow smile, his spirit rest.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
MEN
Sir George Boncour — Mr. King.
Mr. Boncour — Mr. Bensley.
Young Boncour, his Son — Mr. Webster.
Old Valence — Mr. Parsons.
Young Valence, his Son — Mr. Whitfield.
Sir Gregory
Kennel — Mrs. Baddeley.
Young Kennel, his Son — Mr. Dodd.
WOMEN
Mrs. Boncour — Mrs. Hopkins.
Miss Boncour — Miss Younge.
Miss Valence — Mr. Baddelcy.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A Parlour in MR. BONCOUR’S House.
Enter MR. BONCOUR and MRS. BONCOUR.
MR. BONCOUR. Pray be pacified —
MRS. BONCOUR. It is intolerable, and I will never submit to it.
MR. BONCOUR. But, my dear!
MRS. BONCOUR. Good Mr. Boncour, leave off that odious word; you know I detest it; such fulsome stuff is nauseous to the ears of a woman of strict virtue.
MR. BONCOUR. I don’t doubt your virtue.
MRS. BONCOUR. You don’t — I am very much obliged to you, indeed; nor any one else, I apprehend: I thank Heaven my carriage is such that I dare confront the world.
MR. BONCOUR. You mistake me, madam.
MRS. BONCOUR. That is as much as to say I have not common understanding; to be sure, I can’t comprehend any thing.
MR. BONCOUR. I should be sorry to think I had given you any reason to be out of humour.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 362