Act 1. Scene 6.
Mr BANNISTER in the Character of STEADY.
THE QUAKER; A COMIC OPERA. AS PERFORMED At the THEARE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR JOHN BELL, NEAR EXETER-EXCHANGE, IN THE STRAND. MDCCLXXVII. [PRICE ONE SHILLING.]
COUNTRYMEN &c.
I tell you we know nothing at all about you.
You don't! Why then may happen my name 'en't Lubin Blackthorn, and 'tis likely I did not ſet out ſix months ago to ſee my father down in the weſt, and aſk his conſent to my marriage with your daughter Gillian; and I warrant you I did not ſtay till my father died, to take poſſeſſion of his farm and every thing that belonged to him; nay, you'll want to make me believe preſently that I 'en't come now to ſettle affairs, and take her back into the country with me.
Don't make a fool of yourſelf, young man: get back to your farm, and graze your oxen. You won't get a lamb out of our fold, I promiſe you.
Well, but in ſober ſadneſs, you 'en't ſerious, are you?
Serious! Why don't I tell you, Gillian's to be married to another to-morrow?
Where is ſhe? I'll hear it from her own mouth.
I believe about this time ſhe is trying on her wed⯑ding ſuit.
And who is this ſhe is going to be married to? I'll ſee him, and know what he has done to deſerve her more than I have.
Done to deſerve her!
Yes, done to deſerve her. You forget, I ſup⯑poſe, when I've carried her milk pail for her, or taken her ſhare of work in the hay-field, how you us'd to ſay, that I was a true lover indeed: but I don't deſire to have any thing to ſay to you—you'll repent firſt.
Poor young man!
Nay, but don't you think you have us'd me very ill now?
I thought you ſaid you would not ſpeak a word to me?
Nay, but Dame Cicely—
Your ſervant. If you have a mind to be a bride⯑man, we ſhall be glad to ſee you.
A very pretty ſpot of work this! And ſo I have come a hundred miles to make a fool of myſelf, and to be laughed at by the whole village.
Here comes her father. I don't ſuppoſe he had much hand in it; for ſo he had his afternoon's nap in quiet, he was always for letting things go as they would. So, Maſter Eaſy, you have conſented, I find, to marry your daughter to another, after pro⯑miſing me over and over, that nobody ſhould have her but me.
My wife deſired me.
Your mind is ſtrangely altered, farmer Eaſy. But do me one piece of juſtice however—tell me, who is it you intend for your ſon-in-law?
'Tis a rich one I aſſure you.
And ſo you have broke your word, and all for the lucre of gain. And, pray now, don't you expect to be hooted out of the village?
I can't ſay I do.
Then they're a vile pack of wretches, and I'll get away from them as ſoon as I can. Go on, go on—let me know all.
You are in a paſſion, child, ſo I don't regard what you ſay: but I think I ſhould have been out of my wits to have refuſed Mr. Steady, the rich Quaker.
What, is it he then?
It is.
What, he that you are ſteward to; he that does ſo much good all about; and he that gives a portion every May-day to a damſel, as a reward for her ſweet⯑heart's ingenuity?
The ſame. You have ſeen the nature of it—that villager who can boaſt of having done the moſt in⯑genuous thing, claims a right to demand a farm, containing ſixty acres, rent free for ſeven years, and a hundred pounds to ſtock it, together with whatever maiden he chooſes, provided he gains her conſent: and it is a good cuſtom; for the young men, who formerly us'd to vie with one another in the feats of ſtrength, now, as I may ſay, vie with one another in feats of underſtanding.
And ſo he is to marry your daughter?
Things are as I tell you. And for that purpoſe he has taken Gillian into his own houſe, had her taught muſic, and to ſay the truth, ſhe is a different thing to what ſhe was when you ſaw her laſt.
She is indeed! for when I ſaw her laſt, ſhe told me, that all the riches in the world ſhould never make her forget me.
But ſince ſhe has changed her mind; and it ſo falls out, that to-morrow is May-day, you would do well to ſtudy ſome ingenuous thing, and get this portion for a more deſerving damſel.
No, farmer Eaſy; her uſing me ill is no reaſon why I ſhould do any thing to make me angry with myſelf; I ſwore to love her for ever, and I'll keep my word, tho' I ſee ſhe has broke hers.
Do what you pleaſe, I muſt be gone.
Nay, but tell me one thing—did Gillian herſelf conſent to this?
You'll know all in good time.
Pooh, pooh, you muſt forget Lubin.
How can you talk ſo, Floretta? I won't tho', and none of them ſhall make me; they all frigh⯑tened me, by ſaying it was a bad thing not to obey my parents, and ſo I conſented to marry this Qua⯑ker-man; but there's a wide difference between mar⯑rying him and forgetting Lubin.
And ſo you would be ſilly enough to prefer being the homely wife of a clown, to rolling about in your own coach, having your own ſervants to wait on you, and, in ſhort, leading the life of a fine lady?
Oh, lord! I am ſick at the thoughts of being a fine lady! But what's the reaſon, Floretta, that my friends want to make me ſo unhappy? I am ſure I'd do any thing rather than vex them.
Why you know that Mr. Steady's will is a law to us all; and as he had deſired your friends to conſent to this marriage, how could they refuſe?
Well, but you know he is a very good-natured man; and I dare ſay, if I was to tell him how diſa⯑greeable he is, and that I can't bear the ſight of him, he'd let me marry Lubin.
Suppoſe you try.
So I will.
But how are you ſure this Lubin you are ſo fond of, is as fond of you?
I've tried a thouſand ways.
Verily, thou rejoiceſt me to find thee ſinging and in ſuch ſpirits.
I was ſinging to be ſure; but I cannot ſay much about being in ſpirits.
No! Why do not thy approaching nuptials lift up, and as it were exhilarate thee?
Lord, Sir! there's no perſuading her; nothing will get this Lubin out of her head.
And why, young maiden, wilt thou not liſten un⯑to me? Have I not, for thy pleaſure, given into all the vanities in which youth delights? I tell thee, that altho' my complexion be ſaturnine, my manners are not auſtere; why therefore likeſt thou not me?
I ſhould like you very well if you were my father, but I don't like you at all for a huſband.
And wherefore, I pray thee?
Oh, there are reaſons enough.
Which be they?
Why, in the firſt place, I ſhould want you to change your cloaths, and to have you as ſpruce as I am.
Rather do thou change thoſe thou weareſt, unto the likeneſs of mine. The dove regardeth not the gay plumage of the gaudy mackaw; and the painted rainbow delighteth our ſight, but it vaniſhes away, yea, even as a vapour. What more?
Why, in the next place, I ſhould want to change your age, and have you as young as I am.
She ſpeaketh her mind, and I eſteem her. There⯑fore why then, ſince it is neceſſary unto my peace, that thou ſhouldſt become bone of my bone, and fleſh of my fleſh, and thou canſt not faſhion thy diſpoſition unto the likeneſs of mine, I will make it my ſtudy to double thy pleaſure, until that which is now gratitude, ſhall at laſt become love.
Ah! you'll never ſee that day, ſo you had better take no trouble about it.
Thou art miſtaken, and when thou beholdeſt the gambols to-morrow on the green—
I ſhall long moſt monſtrouſly to make one amongſt them.
And ſo thou ſhalt. Goodneſs forbid that I ſhould withold from thee thoſe pleaſures that are innocent.
What an unfortunate girl am I, Floretta!
What makes you think ſo?
Why, what would make you think ſo too, if you was in my place.
Well then, I own I do think ſo; and if you'll pro⯑miſe not to betray me, I'll ſtand your friend in this affair.
Will you? Oh law! And what muſt be done, Floretta?
Why—But ſee yonder's a lover of mine; I'll make him of uſe to us.
Lord! what's Soloman your lover? I hate him with his proverbs and his formality. What the deuce do you intend to do with him?
What women general do with their lovers, my dear, make a fool of him.—Mr. Soloman!
I liſtened, when lo! thou calledſt me: and as the voice of the ſhepherd is delightful unto the ſheep in his fold, ſo even is thy voice delightful unto me.
There's a lover for you! Why the ſpirit moves you, Mr. Solomon, to ſay abundance of fine things.
According unto the proverb, love maketh a wit of the fool.
Yes, and a fool of the wit. But do you love me?
When thou ſeeſt one of our ſpeakers dancing a jigg at a country wake; when thou beholdeſt the [17] brethren take off their beavers, and bow their bodies, or heareſt them ſwear, then believe I love thee not.
A very pompous ſpeech, upon my word.
An ill phraſe may come from a good heart; but all men cannot do all things; one getteth an eſtate by what another getteth an halter; a fooliſh man—
Talks juſt as you do now. But will you do a lit⯑tle favour I have to beg of you?
Slaves obey the will of them who command them.
There is a young man who has been us'd ill—
'Tis very like; kind words are eaſier met with than good actions; charity ſeldom goeth out of the houſe while ill-nature is always rambling abroad.
His name is Lubin, and I want you to enquire him out, and appoint him to meet me to-morrow morning very early, in the row of elms at the bottom of the garden.
But ſhall I not in this offend my maſter?
Never mind him; ſuppoſe if he ſhould find us out, and ſcold us a little—
True—high words break no bones. But wilt thou give me a ſmile if I do this for thee?
Ay, that ſhe ſhall, Mr. Solomon, and I'll give yon another.
But wilt thou appoint the ſpouſal day?
You are ſo haſty, Mr. Solomon—
And with reaſon; a man may catch cold while his coat is making. Shall it be to-morrow?
Muſt I promiſe?
Yea, and perform too; 'tis not plumbs only that maketh the pudding.
Well, well, we'll talk about it another time.
No time like the time preſent.
Nay, now but go, Soloman.
An egg to-day is better than a chicken to-morrow.
Pray now go.
Yea, I will. A buſh in the hand is better than two in the bird.
What a fright of a creature it is! How good you are, Floretta.
I could not bear to ſee you us'd in ſuch a manner; and when I reflected on it, it went to my heart.
I wonder what they plague us poor girls ſo for? Fathers and mothers in this caſe are comical folks; they are for ever telling one what they'll do to pleaſe one, and yet when they take it into their heads, they make nothing of deſiring us to be miſerable as long as one lives. I wiſh I could be dutiful and happy too. May be Floretta will bring mattters about for me to marry Lubin with their conſent; if ſhe does, lord how I ſhall love her!
'Tis all true, 'tis all true; there's not a ſoul in the whole village that has not had ſomething to ſay to me about it. Some pity me, others laugh at me, and all blame me for making myſelf uneaſy. I know, if I did as I ought to do, I ſhould get me back, and think no more concerning of them: but inſtead of that, here am I come creeping to the garden-gate, to ſee if I can get a ſight of her. Who comes yonder?—Oh, 'tis her father and the old Quaker. I'll liſten, and hear what they are talking about.
Friend Eaſy, hie thee home to thy wife, tell her to hold herſelf ready for to-morrow, and ſay unto her, that when the youth who gains the cuſtomary dower, ſhall receive from me the hand of his bride, I will from thee receive the hand of thy daughter.
Why I muſt be turned fool to hear all this and not ſay a word.
Get thee gone, friend.
Where art thou going?
The truth is not to be ſpoken at all times. Into the village about a little buſineſs for Mrs. Floretta.
Verily I do ſuſpect thee to be in a plot againſt me. I will not have thee therefore do this buſineſs: ſtay here by me.
I wonder whether Solomon is gone?
Oh, dear Floretta, as ſure as you're alive, yonder's Lubin?
So there is. And ſee on the other ſide the old fellow talking to Solomon.
WHAT-a-piague have they brought me here for! I am in a rare humour—they'd better not provoke me—they would not have ſet eyes on me again, if it had not been that I want to ſee how ſhe can look me in the face after all this.
There he is.
She ſhall find that I am not to be perſuaded into any thing.
We ſhall try.
And if her father and all of them were at this mi⯑nute begging and praying me to marry her, they ſhould ſee—
That you would conſent to it with all your heart.
I'll juſt abuſe her heartily; tell the Quaker what an old fool he is; call her father and mother all to pieces, for perſuading her to marry him; then get me down to my farm, and be as careful to keep my⯑ſelf out of love, as I would to keep my wheat free from tares, a fox from my poultry, or the murrain from my cattle.
If I ſhould make you alter your tone now?
I remember the time, when 'twas who ſhould love moſt: but what a fool am I to think of that now—No, no, ſhe ſhall find I can forget her, as eaſily as ſhe can forget me.
That I firmly believe.
Here ſhe is; now let her ſpeak for herſelf.
Oh, Lubin! why would you not hear me ſpeak to you yeſterday? I did not ſleep a wink all night for thinking on't.
Why, had I not reaſon, Gillian, to be angry, when every one I met told me what a fool you had made of me.
Why what could I do? Floretta here, knows that I have done nothing but abuſe old Steady from morning till night about it.
Come, come, don't let us diſpute about what's paſt, but make uſe of the preſent opportunity; we have not a moment to loſe. Get you to my maſter, make up a plauſible ſtory how ill you have been us'd by an old fellow, who has run away with your ſweet⯑heart; and tell him, that you come to complain to [30] him, as you know 'tis a cuſtom for every body to do when they are us'd ill.
What a rare girl you are, Floretta. But are you ſure he won't know him?
No; I heard your father ſay, he never ſaw him in all his life.
That's lucky; leave me alone for a plauſible ſtory.
Here comes my formal meſſenger. Well, Solo⯑mon, where's your maſter?
In the great hall, waiting your approach.
I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Solomon.
Words coſt us nothing. If I have done thee ſer⯑vice, thank me by deeds.
Oh, what you want me to coax Floretta to marry you?
I do.
Solomon has it very much in his power to make me love him.
How, I pray thee?
Why, I have ſaid a hundred times, that I never would marry a man who had always a proverb in his mouth.
So you have, Floretta; I have heard you.
And thou wouldſt have me leave off mine——a word to the wiſe—thou ſhalt hear them no more.
Why, that ſounded ſomething like one.
It muſt be done by degrees. Word by word great books are written.
Again!
I pray thee to pardon me; I ſhall ſoon conquer them: but Rome was not built in a day.
Oh! this is making game of one.
I proteſt I meant no ill. I ſhall forget them, I ſay. 'Tis a long lane that hath no turning.
Poor Solomon! He can't help it.
Have you any deſire to marry me?
Aſk the vintner if the wine be good?
Becauſe I will have my way in this; and I think it very hard you won't ſtrive to oblige me.
I proteſt, I ſtrive all I can; but cuſtom is ſecond nature; and what is bred in the bone—Verily, I had like to have diſpleaſed thee again.
Oh! what you found yourſelf out, did you? Then there's ſome hopes of amendment.
It ſhall be amended. A thing reſolved upon is half done; and 'tis an old ſaying—but what have I to do with old ſayings?
Very true.
But I muſt attend on the green.
Well, go; and by the time I ſee you next, take care that you get rid of all your muſty old ſavings. I wonder how ſo ſenſible a man as you, could give into ſuch nonſenſe.
Evil communication corrupts good manners; and a dog—Pies on the dog! Well thou ſhalt be obeyed, believe me—Pies on the dog!
For goodneſs ſake, what excuſe do you intend to make to him, when he has left off his proverbs?
Why deſire him to leave off ſomething elſe; and at the rate of one in a month, he won't have parted with all his particularities in ſeven years.
Well, how we do uſe men in love with us, when we take it into our heads!
And yet they are fools to be uſed ſo by us. But I am ſure you will never uſe Lubin ill—he will make you the happieſt girl in the world.
Your ſervant, Sir.
Thine, friend.
I hope, Sir, you'll excuſe my rudeneſs?
I don't perceive thee guilty of any.
May be not; but I made bold to aſk, if I might not trouble your worſhip about a little affair, con⯑cerning my being ſadly ill uſed.
Speak freely.
Why, there's a covetous old hunks, and like your worſhip, that becauſe he is rich, would fain take away a young woman that I was to be married to, without her conſent or mine.
Has the old hunks, thou ſpeakeſt of, the conſent of her friends?
They have no conſent to give, and pleaſe you.
And why, I pray thee?
Becauſe as I take it, if any body gives a thing, 'tis not theirs any longer; and they gave me their con⯑ſent long ago.
Thou ſpeakeſt the truth. But what wouldſt thou have me do in this buſineſs?
Why, pleaſe you, Sir, I have often heard it ſaid of your worſhip, that there were three things you'd never ſuffer in our village, if you could help it—The maidens to go without ſweethearts—the induſtrious without reward—and the injured without redreſs—and to be ſure it made me think, that if you were once acquainted with the rights of this affair, you would not ſuffer it go on; for, ſays I, ſet in caſe it was his worſhip's own concern, how would he like to have the young woman taken away from him, that he is going to marry?
There thou ſaidſt it
Why yes, I thought that was bringing the caſe home.
Well, attend on the lawn; make thy claim known, and if the parties concerned are preſent, deliver to them what I now write thee for that purpoſe.
This is better and better ſtill—How they'll all be laughed at—He little thinks he is ſigning his con⯑ſent to part with Gillian.
Do thou direct it; thou knoweſt to whom it is to be given.
Yes, I am ſure the perſon will be upon the lawn.
And fear not to tell him thy mind.
I ſhan't be ſparing of that, I warrant you.
Urge thy ill uſage.
Never fear me.
And tell him, that by endeavouring to prevent thy happineſs, he hath done thee an injury he can never repair. For that riches are given us to com⯑fort and not diſtreſs thoſe beneath us.
[38]Yonder he goes—I wonder how he ſucceeded?
Come, Gillian, I was anxious to ſee thee—the time draweth near, and the ſports will ſhortly begin upon the lawn.
I long to be there as much as you do.
I doubt it not—And when thou ſeeſt thyſelf the queen of ſuch a ſet of happy mortals, I know thou wilt conſent that this ſhall be thy bridal-day.
Yes, Sir, if you'll conſent to her having Lubin.
And I can tell you he's to be there.
Lubin, I'm ſure, will not oppoſe what I decree.
I'm ſure he won't part with me quietly.
Thou ſhalt ſee that he will not dare to murmur at my will and pleaſure. But come, we are expected. Verily, I find myſelf exalted even to tranſport, in that I am going this day to make thee a bride.
Why I don't ſee but that I am as bad off as ever, Floretta.
I don't know what to make of it myſelf; but how⯑ever, if the worſt comes to the worſt, you muſt down⯑right give them the ſlip, and run away.
I'cod and ſo I will! Lubin has got enough for us both.
Gillian, I had juſt watched the old Quaker out, and ſlipped back to tell you that every thing goes well. I have got his conſent under his hand, to mar⯑ry the young woman.
And does he know 'tis me?
Not a bit; but you know he never forfeits his word, ſo that we have him ſafe enough. But don't let us be ſeen together. I am going to the lawn—we ſhall have fine ſport, I warrant you.
Friends and neighbours, it hath been my ſtudy, ſince I firſt came among you, to do whatever might procure me your love and eſteem. I have inſtituted a cuſtom, the ſalutary effects of which I view with great gladneſs; and each is well entitled to the re⯑ward he has received. I will now propoſe to you a queſtion, to ſee which of you can make the moſt rea⯑dy reply. What of all things in the world is the [42] longeſt and the ſhorteſt, the ſwifteſt and the ſloweſt, the moſt precious, the moſt neglected, and without which nothing can be done?
The earth.
No.
Ah, I knew you would not gueſs it. Light, and pleaſe your worſhip.
Thou art as much miſtaken as he, friend.
'Tis my belief, 'tis time. Nothing can be longer, becauſe 'twill laſt for ever—nothing can be ſhorter, becauſe 'tis gone in a moment—nothing can go ſlow⯑er than it does, when one's away from her one loves, and nothing ſwifter, when one's with her. 'Tis an old ſaying, That 'tis as precious as gold; and yet we are always throwing it away. And, your worſhip, as a proof that nothing can be done without it, if the old gentleman we were a talking about to-day, had not had the opportunity of my abſence, he could not have run away with a certain young damſel.
Thou haſt ſolved my queſtion aright, and art in⯑deed an ingenious youth. If thou goeſt on as thou haſt begun, I foreſee that thou wilt win the dower. Give me now your ſeveral claims, ſealed up as uſual, and go on with the ſports while I peruſe them.
Haſt thou nothing to give, young man?
Why yes, pleaſe your worſhip, I have.
This is addreſſed unto me! Let me view the con⯑tents—How! my own hand!—Thou expecteſt, I find, to receive this damſel for thy wife; and thy plot, which thou didſt ſo artfully carry on, was con⯑trived to make my neighbours laugh at me.
No, with reſpect to your worſhip, 'twas to keep them from laughing at you.
How is this?
Why, you know, you adviſed me to tell the old gentleman a piece of my mind.
Thou ſhalt ſee the revenge I will take upon thee for this. I will comply with the contents of this paper to the utmoſt. Here, read this aloud.
‘"If the youth Lubin—"’
Thou ſeeſt I knew thee then.
I am afraid I have been too cunning for myſelf.
You ſee, neighbours, how I am treated; and I re⯑queſt of you to be witneſs how much it behoveth us to reſent ſuch injuries. Go on.
‘"If the youth Lubin, will faithfully love and cheriſh the maiden, called Gillian, and make her a good help-mate, I do freely give my conſent to her becoming his wife, and requeſt her friends to do the ſame."’
How is this!
This is my revenge. By thy ingenuity thou haſt won the dower; and by thy truth and integrity, my friendſhip.
Was ever the like?
I never could abide you before, but now I ſhall love you as long as I live.
Verily, my heart warmeth unto you both: your innocency and love are equally reſpectable. And would the voluptuous man taſte a more exquiſite ſen⯑ſation than the gratifing his paſſions, let him prevail upon himſelf to do a benevolent action.