Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding

by Henry Fielding

  SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. It is almost a pity to hinder these two loggerheads from falling foul of one another.

  MR. BONCOUR. Gentlemen, I must beg to be excused one moment, I will return to you instantly — Sir George, I wish you would bring the company after us, I have a particular reason for it. [Exit Mr. Boncour and Young Boncour.

  SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. [To Sir Gregory.] Come, Sir Gregory, be pacified, you had best try by gentler methods to bring the young gentleman to reason.

  SIR GREGORY KENNEL. I’ll bring him by a good cudgel, that’s my reason, odsbodikins, I have sent him a travelling to a fine purpose, truly, to learn to despise his father!

  YOUNG KENNEL. You have hit it at last, my good old gentleman.

  SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Come, Sir Gregory, we will, if you please, adjourn for a few minutes; you have not seen the house — here are some pictures worth your seeing.

  SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Why, I like to see pictures well enough, if they are handsome ones.

  YOUNG KENNEL. They may do well enough for you, but I am convinced they must be sad trash to a man that has seen Italy. [Exeunt.

  SCENE V

  Another Apartment.

  YOUNG VALENCE and Miss BONCOUR.

  YOUNG VALENCE. I will outwit my father, I will plunder him of every thing he has, to keep you in affluence equal to your desire.

  MISS BONCOUR. And do you intend literally to make me your mistress?

  YOUNG VALENCE. I intend to make you happy, and myself with you; be assured, if love, if wealth, can make you happy, thou shalt be so.

  MISS BONCOUR. No, there is something in that word mistress, which I don’t like.

  YOUNG VALENCE. A groundless prejudice — cannot we join ourselves, without the leave or assistance of a priest? are we more capable of transferring raptures to each other’s bosoms by a few cant words which he pronounces? Where is the difference then of our being one another’s, with marriage or without it?

  MISS BONCOUR. Yes, as to me, it differs a little.

  YOUNG VALENCE. How, my dearest creature?

  MISS BONCOUR. I shall be infamous this way, that’s all.

  YOUNG VALENCE. A false opinion of the world, unworthy your regard; our happiness is precarious, indeed, if it is to be blown up and down by the inconstant changeable breath of mankind.

  MISS BONCOUR. It seems strange to me, however, that a man would make the creature he loves infamous. Could I ever have thought I should have brought infamy on myself by that tender passion for you, which I now frankly own? Can you endeavour to make use of the sincerest, honestest and tenderest affection, to the ruin of her who bears it to you? I need not tell you how willingly I would have sacrificed my all, — how eagerly I would have done or suffered any thing for you; and would you sacrifice my eternal quiet, my spotless fame, my unguarded innocence, to the satisfaction of an appetite which every common prostitute may serve?

  YOUNG VALENCE. Every moment I see you, every word you utter, adds new fuel to my flame.

  MISS BONCOUR. Think of the injury you do me, and the least drop of humanity will cool the hottest passion.

  YOUNG VALENCE. Think of the bliss I am to enjoy.

  MISS BONCOUR. And would you enjoy it to my ruin? Oh, consider those tedious miserable hours which I must suffer for the momentary bliss you will possess! behold me abandoned by my father, deserted by my relations, denied by my acquaintance, shunned, slighted, scorned by all the world! see me in the horrors of this state, and think ‘twas you who brought me to it; ‘twas you who plunged me into this scene of misery, that creature who would not, to have gained the treasures of the world, have done an act to destroy your quiet; consider this and answer me, could you enjoy any happiness at the price of my eternal ruin?

  YOUNG VALENCE. Oh, can you ask it? let us not think beyond the present moment.

  MISS BONCOUR. Hold — thou lowest, meanest, and most abject villain, think not this trial was made to recover your love: Oh, no! this morning I saw, — I despised, the baseness of your heart, and bore your hated presence those few moments but to expose you. Open the door!

  YOUNG VALENCE. Ha! damnation!

  Enter Mr. BONCOUR, OLD VALENCE, and the rest

  OLD VALENCE. Oh, monstrous! Nothing but my own ears could have made me give credit to it; you will outwit your father, sir; your father will outwit you of every farthing, I can tell you: I’ll disinherit you this afternoon, and turn you out like a vagabond as you are.

  YOUNG VALENCE. Death and despair! I’m ruined for ever. [Exit Young Valence.]

  OLD VALENCE. Not one penny, not one single farthing shall he ever have of mine.

  MR. BONCOUR. My daughter, my dear child! as much now the object of my admiration, as this morning of my love.

  MISS BONCOUR. Thou best of men, it shall be the business of my future days to be your comfort only.

  Enter SIR GEORGE BONCOUR, SIR GREGORY KENNEL, and

  YOUNG KENNEL.

  SIR GREGORY KENNEL. You are a civil man, indeed, neighbour, to leave one in your own house — What! do you grudge your wine?

  MR. BONCOUR. You’ll pardon me, Sir Gregory, I had a little business; besides, I am not able to drink, and my brother there is your match.

  SIR GREGORY KENNEL. AS to the business, that’s a lie, I believe; and if you can’t drink, what a plague are you good for: but come, is this my god-daughter? Here, sirrah, where are you? this is the lady you are to have: come, let one see you fall to making love: let us see a little of the fruits of your travels.

  YOUNG KENNEL. Sir, I am so surprised! nor know I whether to thank you or fortune.

  SIR GREGORY KENNEL. I know you had rather thank anybody than your father, you rascal; but this is the lady whom I found out for you, you dog.

  YOUNG KENNEL. And this is the lady for whom alone I refused to be obedient, not knowing who your choice was.

  OLD VALENCE. Ha! what’s that, what’s that?

  MISS BONCOUR. With your leave, I would be excused at present, sir.

  MR. BONCOUR. No, no, my dear, pray stay, do not disoblige Sir Gregory; you may trust me, I shall not foree your inclinations.

  SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Come, begin, sirrah, begin.

  Enter YOUNG BONCOUR.

  YOUNG BONCOUR. Sir, Mr. Recorder, your lawyer, is in the next room, and waits to execute the deed.

  MR. BONCOUR. My heart, my eyes overflow with tenderness, for so much goodness; sure ‘Tis a sensation almost worthy to be bought with ruin: but, oh! what happiness must be mine, who, while I hear these instances of my children’s goodness, can assure them my fortune wants not so dear a reparation. The story was your uncle’s invention; the reason for it I will tell you anen: no, my son, though perhaps I may not much increase, I shall be at least a faithful steward of my wife’s fortune to her children.

  OLD VALENCE. How, Mr. Boncour! is this possible?

  MR. BONCOUR. It is true, indeed, neighbour.

  OLD VALENCE. Indeed, neighbour, I am very glad of it; and what, was this only a jest of Sir George’s?

  MR. BONCOUR. Even so.

  OLD VALENCE. I am extremely happy in hearing it, and will, if you please, make this a memorable era in the happiness of our children. I speak not of my son, I will abandon him, and give all I am worth to my daughter, and give that daughter to your son.

  YOUNG BONCOUR. You will pardon me, Mr. Valence; but, had I been reduced to the lowest degree of distress, I would not have accepted of your daughter with any fortune she could have brought.

  OLD VALENCE. How, sir!

  YOUNG BONCOUR. She will, if she relate to you faithfully her behaviour to me this day, lessen your surprise at what I say.

  OLD VALENCE. I will go home, turn my daughter out of doors, disinherit my son, give my estate to build an hospital, and then hang myself up at the next charitable tree I can find.

  SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Mr. Valence, Mr. Valence! I have spoke to my brother about that estate that lies so contiguous to yours, and when it is to be sold, you shall certainly have the refusal of it

/>   OLD VALENCE. What, am I mocked, scoffed? Ah! zounds! I shall run mad. [Exit Valence.

  YOUNG KENNEL. Madam, I have seen a great deal of the world; but all the women I have seen, are no more comparable to you than the smallest chapel in London is to the church of Notre Dame.

  MISS BONCOUR. Ha, ha, ha!

  SIR GREGORY KENNEL. [To Mr. Boncour.] Why should there go so many words to a bargain: let us have the wedding directly.

  SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Wedding directly! what, do you think you are coupling some of your animals in the country? Do you think that a union of bodies is all that is requisite in a state, wherein there can be no happiness without a union of minds too? Go, and redeem past time: your son is not yet too old to learn: employ some able man to cultivate the share of understanding that nature gave him; to weed out all the follies and fopperies that he has picked up in the tour of Europe, as he calls it: then, when he appears to be a rational creature, and not till then, let him pay his addresses to my niece.

  YOUNG KENNEL. So, then, I find I am not a rational creature! and faith, I begin to think so myself. And whose fault was that, father, but yours, that did not give me a rational education?

  SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Why, you dog, I gave you the same education I had myself: would you have had a better education than your father, sirrah? But did not I send you, besides, to travel, to finish your education? and when an education is finished, is not that enough? what signifies what the beginning was? But never fear them, Greg; with such an education as I had, I got twenty thousand pounds with my wife; and you who have travelled may, I think, expect more. Never fear ‘em, boy, the acres, the acres will do the business.

  SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. There you may find yourself mistaken; for I have some dirty acres to add to my niece’s fortune that may chance to weigh against your scale. Her behaviour this day has pleased me: and I never will consent to see her wedded to any one, who has not understanding enough to know her value.

  YOUNG KENNEL. Oh! heavens! I’ll do any thing to mend my understanding rather than lose the only woman I can love; and though I have hated books as I do the devil, if that be the only way to improve it, I’ll pore my eyes out rather than lose her.

  MR. BONCOUR. Why, this must be a work of time; and when ever you render yourself worthy of her, you may have a chance to succeed.

  Enter SERVANT.

  SERVANT. Sir, my lady has sent me to acquaint your honour, that supper is on the table.

  MR. BONCOUR. We will attend her. [Exit Servant.

  SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Well, brother, I think you begin to find already the good effects of my advice to you: your wife, you see, civilly sends in, instead of rushing herself into company with the scream of, “Why must not I be let into the secret?”

  MR. BONCOUR. Sir George, I thank you; and am now convinced, that a little exertion of a proper authority on my part will soon make my wife act like a rational woman.

  SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Well, George, your behaviour this day has, I confess, wiped away some part of the very bad opinion I had of you; and if you will cast off your follies, and turn away your wench, I have a wife in view for you, the same that your father intended to propose, who will make you amends for the one you have lost: and in that case, to make you more worthy of her, I don’t care if I settle the best part of my estate on you.

  YOUNG BONCOUR. Sir, I know that professions, on such occasions, often pass only for words of course; but you will see, by a total reformation of my past conduct, that the whole study of my life hereafter shall be to please so generous an uncle, and so good a father.

  SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. What a variety of strange events has this day produced! I can’t help thinking, that they might furnish out a good subject for a comedy.

  MR. BONCOUR. Only a catastrophe would be wanting; because you know it is a constant rule, that comedies should end in a marriage.

  SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. That’s true; but if the performer, who is to represent your character, should only step forward at the end, and make a smooth speech or so, an English audience is generally so good-natured, that they would pass over that, and all the other faults that might be in the piece, for the sake of the GOOD-NATURED MAN.

  EPILOGUE

  WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK, SPOKEN BY MISS YOUNG

  PROLOGUES and Epilogues — to speak the phrase

  Which suits the warlike spirit of these days —

  Are cannon charged, or should be charged, with wit,

  Which, pointed well, each rising folly hit;

  By a late General who commanded here,

  And fought our bloodless battles many a year!

  ‘Mongst other favours were conferred on me,

  He made me Captain of Artillery! —

  At various follies many guns I fired,

  Hit ‘em point-blank, and thought the foe retired, —

  But vainly thought — for to my great surprise,

  They now are rank and file before my eyes!

  Nay, to retreat may even me oblige; —

  The works of Folly stand the longest siege!

  With what brisk firing, and what thunder-claps,

  Did I attack those high-built castle — caps!

  But towering still, they swell in lofty state,

  Nor strike one riband to capitulate; —

  Whilst beaus behind, thus peeping, and thus bent,

  Are the besieged, behind the battlement:

  But you are conquerors, ladies — have no dread,

  Henceforth in peace enjoy the cloud-capped head!

  We scorn to ape the French, their tricks give o’er,

  Nor at your rigging fire one cannon more!

  And now ye Bucks and Bucklings of the age.

  Though caps are clear, your hats shall feel my rage;

  The high-cocked, half-cocked quaker, and the slouch,

  Have at ye all! — I’ll hit you, though ye crouch.

  We read in history — one William Tell,

  An honest Swiss, with arrow shot so well,

  On his son’s head, he aimed with so much care,

  He’d hit an apple, and not touch one hair:

  So I, with such-like skill, but much less pain,

  Will strike your hats off, and not touch your brain:

  To curse our head-dress! an’t you pretty fellows!

  Pray who can see through your broad-brimmed umbrellas?

  That pent-house worn by slim Sir Dainty Dandle

  Seems to extinguish a poor farthing candle —

  We look his body through — But what fair she

  Through the broad cloud that’s round his head can see?

  Time was, when Britons to the boxes came

  Quite spruce, and chapeau has! addressed each dame.

  Now in flapt hats and dirty boots they come,

  Look knowing thus — to every female dumb;

  But roar out — Hey, Jack! So, Will! You there, Tom?

  Both sides have errors, that there’s no concealing;

  We’d lower our heads, had but men’s hearts some feeling.

  Valence, my spark, played off his modish airs,

  But nature gave us wit to cope with theirs;

  Our sex have some small faults won’t bear defending,

  And though near perfect, want a little mending;

  Let Love step forth, and claim from both allegiance,

  And bring back caps and hats to due obedience.

  The Poem s

  Bow Street, London, Fielding’s home when he was made chief magistrate of Westminster in 1749 and where the author founded The Bow Street Runners, London’s first professional police force.

  Originally numbering just six, The Bow Street Runners represented a formalisation and regularisation of existing policing methods, paid by the magistrate with funds from central government. They worked out of Fielding’s office and court at No. 4 Bow Street, and did not patrol but served writs and arrested offenders on the authority of the magistrates, travelling nationwide to apprehend criminals.


  Map of Bow Street in Fielding’s time

  A 19th Century depiction of the courtroom at 4 Bow Street, Fielding’s former home.

  PREFACE

  THE volumes I now present the public consist, as their title indicates, of various matter; treating of subjects which bear not the least relation to each other, and perhaps, what Martial says of his epigrams, may be applicable to these several productions:

  “Sunt bona, sunt quœdam mediocria, sunt mala plura.”

  At least, if the bona be denied me, I shall, I apprehend, be allowed the other two.

  The poetical pieces which compose the first part of the first volume were most of them written when I was very young, and are indeed productions of the heart rather than of the head. If the good-natured reader thinks them tolerable, it will answer my warmest hopes. This branch of writing is what I very little pretend to, and will appear to have been very little my pursuit, since I think (one or two poems excepted) I have here presented my reader with all I could remember, or procure copies of.