THE TWO CONNOISSEURS▪ A COMEDY, IN RHYME. WRITTEN FOR A PRIVATE THEATRE, BY WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
CALCUTTA: PRINTED IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LXXXV.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
LORD SEEWELL,
MR. BERIL,
MR. BIJOU,
MR. CYCLE,
TOM CARELESS,
HARRY, Servant to Mr. BERIL,
MR. VARNISH.
LADY HARRIOT, Daughter of Lord SEEWELL,
LADY FRANCES, the same,
MRS. BIJOU,
JOAN.
THE TWO CONNOISSEURS.
ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I. — Chambers in the Temple.
Tom Careless
and
Mr. Cycle.
WHATE'ER the success of your journey may be,
My dear rural sage, you are welcome to me:
Your benevolent projects I hope you'll complete,
By this trip from your snug scientific retreat.
In return for amusement you've given me there,
By your fine apparatus, and lectures on air,
I'll shew you the town; and the town is a science.
On my tutor, dear Tom, I've a perfect reliance,
For I know in that study what vigils you've kept.
'Tis the only one, truly, where I'm an adept;
For as to the law, that's the science of thorns,
And tho' its black robe my lean figure adorns,
Perhaps twice a year, for my father's good pleasure,
I've renounc'd, I confess, both its toil and its treasure.
From my sapient Lord Coke this advantage I gain;
He led me to find out a flaw in my brain,
That title! on which, as wise parents have done,
My father laid claim to the seals for his son.
Such language, dear Tom, is in truth but a brogue,
That betrays the young heir as an indolent rogue.
'Tis the cant of ye all—ye want talents to drudge.
Well! think me, my friend, wise enough for a judge,
I still must rejoice I have nothing to do,
As my heart now inclines me to wait upon you.
I wish I could raise you the cash you require,
But you know I depend on a close-handed sire,
Who promises largely, and often has said
He will make me a Croesus whenever I wed;
But to drive me, I think, to the conjugal state,
Keeps the purse of the batchelor woefully strait;
And guineas at present are scarce, to my sorrow.
How much are you now come to London to borrow?
Two thousand, d'ye say?
Yes! two thousand at least,
And perhaps rather more, as my plan is increas'd.
I wish for no profit, but public esteem;
And much good to the world must arise from my scheme.
Well! I wish you may prosper, but, as I'm a sinner,
I as soon should expect a roast Phoenix for dinner,
As in times like the present such loans from a friend,
When Opulence has not a stiver to lend.
You philosophers look with contempt upon cash;
But the fools of this town are so fond of the trash,
That as you're a chemist, both skilful and bold,
You had best try to make a few odd lumps of gold;
And this newly-found art you may try with less cost,
Since to borrow with ease seems an art that is lost.
Dear Careless, you're welcome to rally my hopes;
So attack them with all your rhetorical tropes!
The man is ill-wrapt in philosophy's cloak,
Whose bosom is ruffled, dear Tom, by a joke.
I know money's scarce; yet I will not despond:
I've two friends who'll supply what I want, on my bond.
What!
two
such good friends; so rich, open, and free!
Dear Cycle, I pray introduce them to me;
For not one of that cast my long list can produce:
Why! man, such a friend is the golden-egg'd goose;
You may hunt for the bird e'en as long as you're able,
But at last you will find it is only a fable.
I wanted but one hundred pounds, t'other day,
And ask'd fifty friends, that chance threw in my way,
But they all shook their heads, with a negative nod,
So I dunn'd my old father, in spite of the rod.
But pray do I know the good creatures you mean?
Aye! both.—They're two friends, whom for years I've not seen;
But in juvenile days I held each as my brother,
And I trust that we all are still dear to each other.
You're acquainted with Beril—
Well! there, I confess;
Your wishes have some little chance of success.
If there's one in the world, who, regardless of pelf,
Would relieve a friend's wants, tho' he straiten'd himself;
You have now nam'd the man. Yet perhaps he can't lend:
I know he has suffer'd by aiding a friend;
And I fancy he has but a slender estate.
'Tis true, he don't play, tho' carest by the great;
Yet in statues and books he's expensive 'tis, said—
I have seen him bid high for a porphyry head.
'Tis hard, fortune still should torment him with crosses;
I sooth'd him to bear the severest of losses:
I was with him, when blasted in youth's blooming charm▪
His lovely Sophia was torn from his arms.
You knew not, I think, that unfortunate fair,
The victim of cruelty, love, and despair.
She was bound to our friend by a mutual affection,
But her rich sordid parents oppos'd the connection.
The canker of sorrow incessantly prey'd
On the perishing bloom of the delicate maid:
Her duty, her suff'rings, made nature relent,
And wrung from her father a tardy consent;
But death render'd vain the late sanction he gave,
And his child's bridal bed was the pitiless grave.
Many years have now soften'd the lover's wild grief:
Perhaps some new beauty now yields him relief.
He's still single, I think?
Yes! in learning and art
He has sought the chief balm for the wounds of his heart;
Hence a pleasing mild elegance runs thro' his life;
And had I a sister I'd wish her his wife.—
But now for your second friend!—What is his name?
For acquaintance with him too I'll certainly claim.
You say that I know him: come! tell me who is it!
Yes! indeed, it is one whom you frequently visit.
And here you must own, that my hopes are well founded,
Since in kindness and wealth he has ever abounded;
And a legacy lately—
You don't mean Bijou,
That collector of knick-knacks?
Indeed, Tom, I do.
I've a title to ask any favor from him:
He has some little vanity, some little whim,
Yet still he's a friendly, benevolent man.
You may rap at his door—but get in if you can!
Your friend, when you saw him, was jocund and free,
His heart full of bounty, his spirit of glee;
His vanities too had so mirthful a cast,
That Friendship herself even wish'd them to last.
But Marriage, that changer of mind and of feature,
Has made poor Bijou quite a different creature.
I am told that his wife, with a pocket well laden,
Was a little, fat, ancient, and well-behav'd maiden;
Who, having a similar taste for virtù,
Put her cabinet under the care of Bijou.
Yes, indeed! in an odd fit of amorous hunger,
He married an old curiosity-monger,
Who is ready to faint, if a visitor knocks
While she's brushing the dust from her raree-shew box.
Her maid t'other day threw her into a swoon,
By cracking the eye of a great stuff'd baboon;
For instead of young children, whose troublesome noise
Might disturb their sedate,
virtuosical
joys,
She fills their fine house with new monsters or mummies.
Of your story, dear Tom, I perceive what the sum is.
You don't like the lady:—she may not please you,
And yet be an excellent wife for Bijou.
I am told she has really much merit and taste.
In her morals they say she's remarkably chaste;
So with lectures, perhaps, she has wounded your ear,
And you rakes of the Temple may think her severe.
No, faith! with the lady I stand very well,
I bought her esteem with an old empty shell.
I own she has piety, morals, and sense:
To chastity no one will doubt her pretence.
But tho' with these virtues I freely invest her,
My heart, I confess, is inclin'd to detest her.
She has ruin'd her husband—at least so I think;
To a dwarf she has made his benevolence shrink,
And puff'd up his vanity into a giant.
To all her strange whims he's so servilely pliant,
He'd obey her caprice, whatsoe'er it might hint,
And deny himself bread to buy her an odd flint.
Why, Tom, that's a proof of his fond tender heart.
To me it proves nought but her ladyship's art:
And so you yourself would explain the whole riddle,
If you heard her once flatter his pencil or fiddle,
As a more wretched brush never blotted poor paper,
And ne'er squeak'd a Cremona beneath a worse scraper.
Tho' pamper'd with flattery thus by his wife,
Our friend has quite lost all his humor and life;
And whenever I look on his cold chearless face,
As he stands by the side of his wife's fossil-case,
I think her a perfect Medusa, I own,
Who has turn'd her poor husband himself into stone.
You loungers, dear Tom, in your idle disputes,
Love to ridicule all life's amusing pursuits:
But they all have their use; and the lady who joys
In collecting an odd set of whimsical toys,
Is herself a rare gem, that my judgment regards,
More than all the fair votaries of scandal and cards.
I know I shall like her, in spite of your stricture,
And I'm going to see how you've fail'd in her picture.
My old friend's good-will I shall put to the trial,
And solicit his aid without fear of denial.
Come along!—I will see if your welcome is hearty;
Indeed I may serve you by joining the party,
And I'm eager to know (for my portrait is true)
What you think of the change she has wrought in Bijou.
To a knowledge of nature I ne'er will pretend,
If, when you have seen, in the house of our friend,
All the natural rarities rang'd in a glass,
You don't rank his heart in the petrified class.
Exeunt.
SCENE changes to a Drawing Room at
Mrs. Bijou'
s, with a Door open into an interior Cabinet of Curiosities. — Several stuff'd Creatures and other Rarities discovered in the Apartment.
with a Brush.
Lackaday! would I once were well out of this house,
Where I tremble to move, full as much as a mouse!
And Nanny's afraid to come into this room;
Indeed the poor creature can scarce hold a broom,
For my mistress, she says, has done nothing but bait her,
Since she brush'd off the tail of the new alligator.
I've a great mind to lay up my brush on the shelf,
And leave madam to dust all her monsters herself,
Would my master would make her, for these stocks and stones,
A young little plaything of good flesh and bones!
But, alas! these old ladies who can't raise a baby,
Are as full of nonsensical maggots as may be.
And our house is so cramm'd with this whimsical jumble,
That if you touch one thing, another will tumble,
Madam says, I misplace whatsoever I clean,
But I'll venture to wipe off the dust from this screen.
Throws it down▪
A plague take the things! they do nothing but fall.
Lud! my fingers have run thro' the cover and all.
Taking up the Screen, and uncovering it.
'Tis my master's new drawing—how madam will thunder—
This fine naked beauty I've torn quite asunder:
And the rent must be seen—I can thrust my whole thumb in,
And I've no time to mend it—my mistress is coming—
(entering in a dark brown Bed-gown, with a Brush of Peacock's Feathers.)
Some new mischief's done here.—Lord! Joan what's the matter?
I am sure you broke something—I heard such a clatter.
Indeed, Ma'am, I've had a most cruel disaster,
The screen—
What! the beautiful work of your master!
My finger slipt thro', as I wip'd it in haste,
But I'm sure I can mend it again with some paste.
You awkward, pert hussy! pray let it alone!
Can paste mend a flaw in a goddess's zone?
Ye stars! give me patience!—Get out of this door,
And pray let me never set eyes on you more!
I knew I should suffer as soon as you came,
For taking a thing with so gothic a name.
I'll go—for I live but the life of a cur:
Yet pray! on my name do not throw any slur!
I am sure 'tis good English, altho' it is Joan,
And that's more than you're able to say of your own.
Exit.
(entering.)
What's the matter, my dear?—What new plague from your maids?
You for ever are vext by these pestilent jades:
If bred in this town, you object to their morals;
If rusties, they break all your glasses or corals.
Let 'em come whence they will, they bring trouble and strife,
And your quarrels have made me half sick of my life.
Don't say so!—You know, my dear Mr. Bijou,
I take no young maids, out of fondness to you;
And these middle-ag'd creatures are all so unhandy,
They make me as fretful as old Mr. Shandy.
But, my dear, if you see me sometimes in a flame,
I think you won't say that my temper's to blame:
'Twas my love for the works of your delicate hand,
Which produc'd an emotion I could not command.
If I rated old Joan in a great agitation,
I am sure you will own I had much provocation,
When you see this sad cause of the bustle between us:
She has utterly ruin'd your very best Venus,
This new lovely drawing! the joy of all eyes!
I vow I could cry.—
What sweet softness!—she cries!—
These feelings, indeed, prove the true connoisseur:
This ill treatment of Art her fine sense can't endure.
Henceforth, of my works let them say what they will,
No painter can boast such a test of his skill.—
Come, chear up, my dear Cognoscente! come! come!
I can mend it again with a brush-full of gum.
D'ye think you can mend it?—and won't it look brown,
If you don't hide the skin with the skirt of a gown?
'Twould be pity to cloak up a body so fine,
Especially since you have drawn it from mine.
And you know I caught cold, when I stript to the waist,
To fit for the figure, in true attic taste:
But I did it from fondness, that you might not roam,
And wickedly hunt after models from home.
To be sure I love art—but all artists, they say,
By their studies of nature are tempted to stray;
And I own that your genius gives me great alarms.
My dear, tender creature! pray trust your own charms!
Affectionate terrors will rise in my head.
I was jealous, I own, t'other day, of the dead.
What fond sensibility! exquisite feeling!
I hope I was wrong, but strange fancies will steal in,
When fondness has open'd the heart to suspicion.
You're so dear to the females of every condition:
But, I hope, Lady Fancybird was not so vicious;
There was nothing, indeed, in her air meretricous;
Yet a jealous pang seiz'd me, I own, when I found
That by will she bequeath'd to you three thousand pound.
'Tis true, that a legacy's very commodious;
Yet the money appears to me utterly odious,
When I think it was possibly meant as the price
Of endearments, to which she had art to entice,
And not in return for the pictures you drew,
Of her parrot, her bull-finch, and old cockatoo.
Lord! my dear, if such phantoms your quiet consume,
You will make the old lady jump out of her tomb.
'Tis true, that I flatter'd her favourite passion,
As I love to be well with old ladies of fashion:
But pray don't suppose, I was e'er so absurd
As to stroke her pale cheek for the pole of her bird.
Ah! you humorous man, you've such infinite wit,
You can turn to a jest whatsoe'er you think fit!—
But my heart on this point can be never at ease,
Unless you'll allow me to spend, as I please,
Half the money, of which you're so oddly possest;
Aud then I shall think it an honest bequest.
Besides, there's an auction at Lady Toy-Truckle's,
And I long for a rap at the Duchess's knuckles,
Who out-bid me, you know, t'other day, for a shell.
'Tis all for your credit.
Well! well! my dear, well!
I never refuse you the cash I can spare.
You are sure I shall turn it to something most rare:
For indeed I'm no pitiful hoarder of pelf;
And I've now set my heart on some true antient delf.
Tis time you were drest.
As I live, there's a rap;
I'm not fit to be seen, in this bed-gown and cap.
Run! and charge them, my dear, not to let in a soul!—
With my cabinet dust I'm as black as a coal.
(
looking out.
)
I'm too late.
For my orders they don't care a pin;
And to vex me, old Joan has let somebody in.
I'll escape—I can't bear to be seen in this trim.
'Tis only Tom Careless—you need not mind him.
Enter
Careless
and
Mr. Cycle.
Here, good folks! I have brought you a very rare bird;
'Tis five years since his notes in this town have been heard.
Mr. Cycle! my worthy, old friend! how d'ye do? —
Give me leave to present to you Mrs. Bijou!
I'm asham'd to be found in this garb.
O! my dear,
From a man of true science you've nothing to fear;
He'll freely allow, for he's candid and just,
Philosophical ladies must dabble in dust.—
Mr. Cycle, my wife is a curious collector:
In natural knowledge I hope you'll direct her;
You are master of all, from the earth to the stars,
And may aid her in ranging her fossils and spars.
She shall freely command all the little I know.
You're extremely obliging, dear Sir, to say so
But I cannot attend you in this dusty vest.
I'll soon slip it off.
You shan't stir, I protest.
To talk of your dress, my dear Ma'am, is a joke,
To a sage, who exists but in chemical smoke.
Your robe is indeed like the robe of Saint Bruno,
Yet still by your air we might take you for Juno;
While the tail of your peacock, that type of command,
With such dignity waves in your awful white hand.
You're a young saucy creature!
These idle rogues, Madam,
More like sons of the Serpent, than children of Adam,
Are apt to esteem it a dull occupation,
To study the wonders of this fair creation:
And hence they all rally, with humour ill-plac'd,
Those who seek for amusement in science and taste.
Well said! Mr. Cycle—I'm glad that Virtù
Has found both a friend and a champion in you.
Come and peep at my wife's philosophical treasure!
I hope you'll survey it again, at your leisure.—
My dear, d'ye allow me to shew your museum?—
I'm exact in all matters of
tuum
and
meum.
My Cycle, I'm sure, is a privileg'd man.
It is open.—Come, Sir!
Exeunt into the interior Apartment.
Tell me, Tom, if you can,
Is not this Mr. Cycle a man of great worth,
Who wrote a most excellent book on the Earth.
'Tis the author himself; and I know not what college
Can shew his superior in virtue and knowledge.
He's a man of few words, with a heart and a mind
Ever busied in schemes for the good of mankind;
And he now visits London, in hopes to procure
Some support in a plan for relieving the poor.
The poor!—of their name I'm alarm'd at the mention:
Mr. Cycle, indeed, may have no ill intention,
But I fear he'll involve my good husband in trouble—
These projects of charity end in a bubble.
The poor are ungrateful, disorderly wretches,
Who can shift for themselves by their tricks and their fetches;
They deserve not a learned philosopher's thought.
Your pardon!—He'll think, if he thinks as he ought,
That Philosophy, drawing from Heaven her birth,
Is the science of soft'ning the evils on earth.
By your fears you have done our friend infinite wrong,
For tho' his heart's tender, his judgment is strong:
To the projects of Folly he never can stoop—
Philanthropy's friend is not Phantasy's dupe.
Why, Careless! you talk in a language quite new:
Who could dream of a charity-sermon from you?
Oh! a cobler can preach, when his spirit's inflam'd.
Mine is apt to blaze forth, if I hear a friend blam'd;
And indeed I can't stifle my heart's ebullitions,
When such good folks as you harbour vile suppositions.
But I'm sure you'll forgive all the warmth I have shewn,
When the worth of our friend is to you better known.
If you're angry, I know that your anger will cease,
When you hear on what terms I can purchase my peace.
A shell I can bring you—my interest such is—
Very like what you lately gave up to the Duchess.
Perhaps I may give it you—
You're a good soul—
As large as her Grace's, and perfectly whole?
Yes, I think 'tis as large, and in colour as high.
Are you sure of its shape?
Do you question my eye?
I'll convince you I'm right; let us instantly look
At the fine colour'd plates in your great Danish book.
Come—you give me more joy than I'm able to speak—
I can't bear that her Grace should possess an
Unique.
They retire into the interior Apartment, from whence
Mr. Bijou
and
Mr. Cycle
return.
This scheme, my good friend, does you honor indeed.
In a business so noble I hope you'll proceed;
And may you accomplish your utmost desires,
In raising the sum which your project requires!—
Pray look at this new little drawing of mine!
Don't you think it an elegant pretty design?
Very lively indeed!—But, my friend, you forget
What I've said on the point of incurring this debt.
Do not fly from the subject!—I hate all evasion:
I must say for your aid I have serious occasion.
You know what I've ask'd, and in asking I deem
That I give you a proof of my cordial esteem.
In a poor-house myself I would rather work hard,
Than apply thus to one whom I did not regard.
Mr. Cycle, I know you're a man without guile,
And you think in a noble and singular style;
But if asking for cash is of love a sure test,
With affectionate friends all the wealthy are blest.
I have done, as I see that you wish to evade
A request, that I thought I with justice had made;
As you know, when of fortune you felt a reverse,
You had once the command of my prosperous purse;
And since you of opulence now are possest,
More enrich'd too of late by a friendly bequest,
I suppos'd, without trouble—
Dear Cycle, 'tis true:
You shall have it; but mum! towards Mrs. Bijou!
O! I now understand all the cause of demur;
And if that is the case, I have done, my dear Sir.
At the hazard of discord the sum you shan't lend;
In family strife I'll not plunge my old friend.
Do not think me a slave!—there's no danger of strife.
But you'll find, if you e'er try the conjugal life,
It is best not to waken the frowns of a wife.
Besides, there is surely no reason why you
Should talk on such business to Mrs. Bijou.
There is certainly none—you shall do as you please.
One thousand, my friend, I can spare you with ease;
'Tis the sum I shall go to receive very soon;
If you'll call here again, you shall have it by noon.
And to tell you the truth, I would have you make haste,
Lest my wife should demand it for matters of taste.
When an auction is near, she is apt to be rash,
In laying her hand upon all my loose cash;
And as she is thought so judicious a buyer,
Her elegant wishes I seldom deny her.
Yet 'tis time to grow prudent:—but hush! here they come.
Remember my charge—dear philosopher, mum!
Enter
Mrs. Bijou
and
Careless.
O my dear! I'm in raptures: my young friend has cur'd
All the bitter vexation I've lately endur'd.
Now in shells by the Duchess I am not surpast;
Tom will bring me the fellow to what she bought last.
He's exceedingly kind!—But my dear, it grows late;
Remember the guest, whom you must not make wait.
Old Baron Van-Bettle's appointed to-day
Your curious collection of flies to survey;
As some business abroad will oblige me to leave him,
I entreat you, my dear, to be drest to receive him.
These friends will excuse you.
I'll bid them farewell.
Mr. Cycle, your servant!—Remember the shell!
Exit.
O my friend! you've a thousand new drawings to see.—
I can tell you, our artists grow jealous of me.
(entering hastily.)
Sir, a coach is just stopt, and a man with a star on—
Od's life! I must leave you, to wait on the Baron.
I beg we mayn't keep you.
My good friends, adieu!
Dear Cycle! pray meet me again here at two!
I am sorry I'm forc'd thus to part with you now,
But for such an engagement I'm sure you'll allow;
For the slies are all rang'd in the parlour below,
And a guest like the Baron one can't leave, you know.
As the key's in the case, he perhaps might unlock it,
And whip the best butterfly into his pocket.
'Tis a law with the curious to watch a collector,
And you never must trust him without an inspector.
Exit.
Now, my friend, what d'ye say to the portrait I drew?
Were my colours too dark for good Madam Bijou?
But how have you sar'd in your money-petition?
If you get it, I'll call you a mighty magician.
I can tell you, that Madam suspected a plot.
I've his promise—but shall I accept it, or not?
If you can, by all means!—'twill be sav'd from her clutches,
Who would throw it away in out-bidding a Duchess:
And at auctions indeed she'd her husband undo,
Were she not in her house quite a close-handed Jew.
But on saving a penny she frequenly ponders,
And her avarice scrapes what her vanity squanders.—
O! if I were her master, her whimsies I'd cure,
And make a good wife of this vile connoisseur.—
Now for Beril—he's one of a different cast.
Come along!—since I saw him some long years have past,
And I'm eager to clasp his affectionate hand.
Stop a moment! and answer me this one demand!
Don't you see a sad change in our poor friend below?
Where's the lively companion, the humorous beau?
All his pleasantry's gone—
I confess, by his carriage,
He seems to be render'd more serious by marriage.
By my life, I am griev'd, in thus seeing him grow
The poor trumpeting slave to his wife's raree-shew.—
Well! ye Gods! if, whenever my nuptial star twinkles,
I should wed an old hunter of odd periwinkles,
To engage her nice eye with unchanging attraction,
May I turn in her arms to a cold petrifaction!
End of ACT I.
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.
— An elegant Apartment, ornamented with a few Busts and Books, a large Statue covered up, and a Door open into a more extensive Library.
Mr. Beril
and
Harry.
PRAY, Harry, remove from the statue its case;
And be careful in clearing the dust from its base.
Directly, Sir?
Yes! you must instantly do it,
For my worthy Lord Seewell is coming to view it.—
Now, my sweet Lady Frances! I soon shall behold
All thy quick sensibility wake and unfold:
Thou wilt pay to this sculpture the tribute most dear;
Thou wilt praise the fine work by an eloquent tear,
Unless by gay Harriot thy softness is check'd.
How I long in thy features to mark the effect
Produc'd by the wonders of exquisite art,
On a delicate mind and a sensible heart!
But why on thy graces do I rashly dwell?
Why study those charms, that I know but too well?
In my station 'tis madness to think of thy hand;
Yet thou, of all women in this lovely land,
Thou only could'st fill, in my desolate breast,
The place that my tender Sophia possest.
(
advancing.
)
There, Sir, 'tis as neat as a new-twisted cord;
But I hope you won't sell this fine thing to my Lord.
He's a desperate bidder for stone-work, I'm told;
Yet I hope you will keep it in spite of his gold.
Do you hope so?—pray why?— I should rather have thought
You'd rejoice if his lordship the statue had bought;
It would save you some trouble.
For that I don't care.
Why I wish you to keep it, I'll freely declare:—
I've observ'd, since the day that poor Miss Sophy died,
And that's five years, I think, next Bartholomew-tide,
There is only this statue, that's now in our sight,
In which you have seem'd to take any delight;
And if this marble woman your heart so engages,
Before you should sell her I'd give up my wages.
Thou'rt a generous lad, with an excellent heart!—
Honest Harry! the statue and I shall not part.
But I hear a coach stop:—haste, and let my Lord in!
Exit
Harry.
(
alone.
)
Harry's warmth is affecting.—'Tis pleasant to win
A regard unconstrain'd from the low ranks of life,
Which are falsely suppos'd full of baseness and strife.
How mistaken is he, who incessantly raves,
That domestics are nothing but idiots or knaves!
When nature oft shines, with a lustre most fervent,
In the zeal of an honest, affectionate servant.
Enter
Lord Seewell,
with
Lady Frances
and
Lady Harriot.
Dear Beril, my girls would attend me, to see
Either you or your statue.—Howe'er that may be,
I know you'll allow them a sight of your treasure.
My Lord, I confess, I had hopes of this pleasure;
And my statue henceforth I more highly shall rate,
Since to that I'm in debt for an honour so great.
That's right, Mr. Beril:—I pray make it known,
That we come for the sake of the marble alone;
For tho' we have both a fair name, as I think,
Yet our poor reputations will instantly sink,
If 'tis said by your neighbour, old Lady Snap-Fan,
That instead of a statue, we visit a man.
If on spirit and worth there is any reliance,
Lady Harriot may set every hag at defiance;
And force even Scandal in silence to sit—
If not just to her innocence, aw'd by her wit.
My dear Sir, do not talk in so pleasing a tone,
If you do, I shan't relish the silence of stone,
And the statue'll seem dull.—So pray! tell us where is it,
Pray present us to her that we're now come to visit.
Here's the lady you honour.
Shewing the Statue.
Indeed this is fine:
What perfect expression! what strength of design!
Pray! my dear Lady Frances, advance to the place,
Which will give you, I think, the best view of the face.
'Tis the tender Alcestis, just yielding her breath,
On the arm of her husband reclining in death;
And tho' pain o'er her form so much langour has thrown,
You may still discern beauties resembling your own.
Whence came it, dear Beril?—'tis surely antique;
The work, my good friend, is undoubtedly Greek.
I swear the Laocoon is not so fine:
Had I choice of the two, this, I'm clear, would be mine.
The subject more pleasing! —expression still higher!—
This long-hidden treasure where could you acquire?
I owe it to chance, to acknowledge the truth,
And a princely and brave Neapolitan youth,
Whom I luckily sav'd, in a villainous strife,
From the dagger of jealousy, aim'd at his life.
The work was dug up on his father's estate,
And, knowing my passion for marble is great,
He nobly has sent me the gift in your view,
In return for what accident led me to do.
'Tis the first piece of sculpture perhaps on the earth,
And I hardly know how to appreciate its worth;
But if ever you wish to dispose of the treasure,
I'll accept it at three thousand guineas with pleasure.
My Lord, you now speak with that liberal spirit
Which you ever display when you estimate merit.
Tho' I own works of art, of such high estimation,
Seem but ill to agree with my fortune and station,
Yet these figures at present I wish to retain,
Tho' the wish may appear ostentatious and vain.
But, my Lord, if they e'er change their master anew,
They shall find a more worthy possessor in you.
Well! ye dear connoisseurs! you amaze me, I own,
By the value you set on this sorrowful stone.
I indeed can believe 'tis a fine piece of art;
But to buy it for furniture!—as to my part,
I'd as soon o'er my house throw a sepulchre's gloom,
And purchase from Westminster-Abbey a tomb.
You're a wild idle gipsy, and past all correcting;
You have not the least relish for what is affecting.
That's your fault, dear Papa;—but my sister, you see,
Makes ample amends for this failing in me;
She gazes, like you, with such serious delight,
That she's half turn'd to marble herself by the sight:
I vow it has made her unable to speak,
And has drawn a cold tear down her petrified cheek.
Pray! my dear, don't expose me!
O seek not to hide
What nature design'd your chief beauty and pride!—
With different charms she enriches the earth;
To your sister she gave the sweet dimples of mirth;
And, that each in her province no rival may find,
All the soft pensive graces to you she assign'd.
Believe me, you shine, Mr. Beril, most brightly,
In the delicate science of praising politely;
In which many beaux are so savagely stupid,
They a scalping-knife take for the weapon of Cupid;
And to tickle one nymph, basely slash every other.—
Well! dear Frances, how are you?
Indeed I can't smother,
What I feel in surveying this wonder of art;
It has something which takes such fast hold of the heart.
In the faint dying wife such a fond resignation!
In the poor widow'd husband such wild agitation!
Such sorrow! such anguish! such love to Alcestis!
That is true; but I know the whole story a jest is;
And Admetus, I think, such a shuffling poltroon,
That he moves me no more than the man in the moon.
A pitiful fellow! to live, in his case,
And let his poor wife pass the Styx in his place!
Modern husbands, indeed, I believe would be merry,
If their wives in their stead would cross over that ferry.
But perhaps, Ma'am, you think that no husband could find
A young modern wife of Alcestis's mind?
No! indeed, my good Sir!—Here's my dear sister Fan,
She'd be willing to die, to preserve her good man;
But I own for myself, I should doubt and demur,
If I thought my spouse wish'd his own trip to defer:
Tho' myself to his fortunes I'd freely devote,
If we both might embark at one time in the boat;
I confess I should scarce be so wondrously kind,
As to set sail myself, but to leave him behind.
(
entering.
)
Two gentlemen, Sir, wish to see you below;
Mr. Careless is one.
(
to
Mr. Beril.)
Harriot's favourite beau!
Lord, Papa! Mr. Beril will think me in love.
(
to
Harry.)
Let the gentlemen know we expect them above.
Exit
Harry.
Tom and Harriot have long had flirtations together,
But their courtship has changeable fits, like the weather:
The improvident girl, thinking lovers are plenty,
Declares she won't wed till she's past one-and-twenty;
Nor e'en then take her beau, (in her charms such her trust is)
Unless he bids fair to become a chief justice;
And Tom is the heir of too large an estate,
To load his gay spirit with law's heavy weight.
But here comes our young lawyer, to urge his own plea!
Enter
Careless
and
Mr. Cycle.
My dear Tom! how d'ye do?—My good stars! can it be?
Is it you, my dear Cycle, my long-absent friend?
And still heartily yours.
But why would you not send,
And of your affection afford me a proof,
By bespeaking your quarters here under my roof.
However I'm happy that chance is so kind,
As to give me th' occasion I've long wish'd to find,
To present you to one, who, of all men on earth,
Is most able to judge of your genius and worth.—
My dear Lord, to your notice now let me commend
The man to whose name you're already a friend!
Behold Mr. Cycle!
Dear Sir, let me say,
That I often have wish'd for this fortunate day,
Which makes me acquainted with one whom I deem
So justly entitled to public esteem;
Whose writings and life shew in fairest alliance,
Philanthropical virtue and genuine science.
My good Lord, these are honours far more than my due,
Yet I own with delight I receive them from you;
As you're led to o'er-rate my poor merits, I feel,
By this dear partial friend's kind affectionate zeal.
He indeed is your friend—I regard his applause;
But to wish your acquaintance I've still higher cause.
Be assur'd I shall think myself truly your debtor,
If you'll give me the pleasure of knowing you better.
Either Beril or Careless will guide you to me;
I have some things perhaps it may please you to see:
Yet no gem, I believe, that's so worthy your sight,
As a statue which Beril has just brought to light.
Allow me to shew it you—
(
to
Lady Frances.)
Your
tender breast,
My dear Lady Frances, I fear, is opprest▪
By this sculptur'd distress, the mere creature of art,
Yet too painful a scene for so feeling a heart.
No, indeed! at first sight, tho' it made my veins thrill,
And I felt thro' my bosom a cold icy chill,
That impression once over, I view it again
With a soothing delight, unembitter'd by pain.
(
to
Careless.)
And pray, Sir, from
which
court of justice come you?
From the worshipful court of wise Madam Bijou;
Where, blind as old Themis, she utters decrees
On the price of stuff'd parrots and petrified trees.
O you mischievous creature! you certainly mean,
By the sound of her name to awaken my spleen:
You know that the thought of her sickens me quite,
And that I at her house must do penance to-night.
Then I vow I'll be there, if it's only to see
How Mortification and you may agree:
Even that gloomy spright must appear with some grace,
If it lurks in the lines of so lively a face.
All my gaiety dies when her presence I come in;
No cramp-fish could give me a shock so benumbing—
She's my utter aversion—
Pray tell me, my dear,
Of whom do you speak in a style so severe?
Of your friend, dear Papa, your good Mrs. Bijou.
That's ungrateful, dear Harriot—she's civil to you;
And you should not indulge a satyrical vein.
You forget, my dear Sir, how you often complain
That her low little pride, and nonsensical whim,
Have reduc'd your old friend to a pitiful trim;
And I think she has made him so gloomy a slave,
She has pent her good man in Trophonius' cave.
Such to him was the temple of Hymen; for after
He enter'd its vestibule,—farewell to laughter.
Why, Harriot! you really are quite acrimonious:
But if you call wedlock the cave of Trophonius,
Have a care, if that cavern you chance to step near!
You love laughing too well to resign it, my dear.
And therefore, tho' woo'd like the nymph of Toboso,
I never will marry an old virtuoso,
Who thinks himself blest with taste, science, and worth,
Because he picks up all the odd things on earth.—
When a passion for art, or for nature, is join'd
With a warm friendly heart, and a liberal mind,
I respect the pure taste which that union produces,
Free from vanity's sordid fantastic abuses.
Tho' I do not possess it, I see and commend
Such taste, dear Papa, both in you and your friend;
But I view with an utter contempt, I confess,
Those who awkwardly ape what you really possess:
And for Mrs. Bijou, she has just as much soul
As a monkey, who carries queer things to its hole:
She with wonderful gusto, half Gothic, half Dutch,
Like an old squirrel, hides all she can in her hutch.
An excellent portrait! and true, I protest,
For I've just had a peep at the old squirrel's nest.
Pray, since we together her closet inspected,
What whimsical rarities has she collected?
O, before I could count half the baubles she buys,
I could tell you the name of each star in the skies:
Her sphere is too wide for my genius to scan it;
But I know what she reckons her Georgian planet,
Her newly-found star—which to-night, if you're free,
Thro' a glass she perhaps may allow you to see.
What wonder is this?—is it flesh, fish, or fowl?
A Lilliput dog? or a Brobdignag owl?
Or is it a remnant from Joseph's odd coat?
It is something once held by a person of note
In our island; and now I defy you to guess.
Is it Essex's ring? or the ruff of Queen Bess?
Or Alfred's cake-toaster? or Rizzio's fiddle?
Pray tell me!—I hate to be teaz'd by a riddle.
In short, 'tis a night-cap, not worth half a groat,
Which she for a guinea has luckily bought;
Because this old fragment of worsted, she vows,
Once serv'd as a crown for poor Chatterton's brows:
Tho' I think we should find, if we knew the whole truth,
That the cap was ne'er seen by that wonderful youth.
Now, Chatterton! boast, that thy ill-fated verse
Can teach antiquarians to open their purse!
Yet hadst thou, in misery, su'd for that guinea,
Its mistress had call'd thee a vain rhyming ninny;
And prov'd, to thy grief, by the style of her giving,
Virtuosos have little esteem for the living.
Come, Harriot! I
must
stop the tide of your wit,
Tho' you're now on a topic you don't love to quit.
(
To
Mr. Beril.)
We
must
take our leave—Many thanks for our pleasure.—
Mr▪ Cycle, remember!—your first day of leisure!—
You sha'n't stir, my dear Beril, you sha'n't leave your friend;
Here is Careless, you know, on the girls to attend.
Let us see you together, and shortly!—Adieu!
(
to
Careless
aside.
)
Below let me whisper a few words to you!
Mr. Beril
and
Mr. Cycle.
Well, my worthy old friend, I rejoice you are here,
And that now you are known to that excellent peer;
Who, free from all pride, affectation, and vanity,
Unites useful virtue to pleasing urbanity;
Plain, simple, sincere, yet of judgment refin'd,
And fond of the arts, as they're friends to mankind;
Ennobled much less by his birth than his spirit,
The model of Honor, and patron of Merit!
But how have you done for this age? and what plan,
For the profit of science, or service of man,
Brings you now from your fav'rite sequester'd retreat?
Whate'er the occasion, I'm glad that we meet;
Tho' I meant to be with you ere next summer's sun.
I know, my dear Beril, that you are not one
Whose welcome will suddenly sink into sorrow,
When I tell you, I now visit London to borrow.
If I'm able to levy the sum you require,
The world can scarce give me a pleasure much higher,
Than that of assisting a friend, to whose mind
I have infinite debts of a far deeper kind.
I can never forget what I owe to your care,
In the frenzy of desolate love and despair;
When my reason had yielded to passion's wild strife,
Your friendship alone reconcil'd me to life.
But tell me, dear Cycle, what sum will suffice?
You must know, I have lately been led to devise
A scheme for the poor—
My dear friend, at your leisure
I'll hear your benevolent projects with pleasure;
But farther discourse you must let me prevent,
On the source of your wants, till I know their extent;
For indeed I can't rest, till I'm happily sure
That whatever you wish I have means to procure.
Not to keep you in doubt, then, my dear ardent friend,
Two thousand, I fancy, will answer my end:
The one I am promis'd to-day from Bijou;
For the other, I own, I've depended on you.
And why not allow me to furnish the whole?—
Poor Bijou has a wife with no liberal soul;
If any demur in that quarter you see,
I entreat you to take all you wish for of me.
But of this more anon—here is Careless return'd.
Mr. Beril, Mr. Cycle,
and
Careless.
Well! my worthy philosopher, a'n't you concern'd
To find our friend still unsupply'd with a wife,
Thus form'd as he is for the conjugal life?
As you're fond of new schemes for the good of the nation,
I'll recommend one to your consideration;
To revive wedded love, that old, obsolete passion,
And bring honest Hymen again into fashion!
In truth, my dear Tom, I am quite of your mind,
There is no better scheme for the good of mankind;
And nothing, I know, that could give it more weight
Than the grace which our friend would bestow on that state.
You are merry, good friends!—I subscribe to your joke—
My gravity's fit for the conjugal yoke!
I am serious, indeed, and have often declar'd,
That had I a sister, for wedlock prepar'd,
Of all men in the world, if you'd deign to embrace her,
In your arms it would make me most happy to place her.
But you're courted too much to be easily won;
He, whom many are fond of, can fix upon none.
Indeed, my dear Tom, you are wrong on this theme.—
In return for a proof of your cordial esteem,
I'll tell you the reason, with frankness and truth,
Why no nymph has supply'd the lost love of my youth:
There is one, whose mild virtue and elegant grace,
The dear girl I deplore in my heart might replace;
But my fortune's too humble for her rank of life,
Tho' she may be
your sister,
she can't be
my wife.
Would you wed Lady Frances?
The lady I've seen?—
She is like poor Sophia in features and mien.
You are right, my dear friend;—it was that very thought
Led my heart to attach itself more than it ought:
But my reason considers her rank and her station,
And forbids me to form any rash expectation.
Nor would I attempt to engage her affection,
Without the least hope of our happy connection.
More honor than foresight you shew by this strain.
Be bold!—there is nothing
you
may not attain.—
More of this when we meet!—I must now say adieu.
So must I—for you know my appointment at two.
But I hope, my good friends, you will both dine with me.
For myself, I'll return to you soon after three.
I am griev'd to refuse such a frank invitation:
But to tell you the truth—I've a kind assignation.
Love and pleasure attend you!
Dear Beril, adieu!
Let us all meet to-night at the house of Bijou!
Exeunt.
The Drawing Room of
Mrs. Bijou.
(
speaking as she enters.
)
Look over the stair-case! and tell me who knocks!
(entering.)
Mr. Varnish is come, with a thing in a box.
A thing in a box!—You're a horrible Goth:
But as you're to leave me, I'll stifle my wrath.
'Tis a picture, you oaf!—bid him bring it to me.
Exit
Joan.
Some cabinet jewel I now hope to see.
This intelligent Varnish my patronage courts,
And I get the first peep at whate'er he imports.
Mrs. Bijou
and
Mr. Varnish.
Well, Varnish!
Dear Madam, with most humble duty,
I have brought you a gem of unparagon'd beauty.
Good Varnish! what is it?
An exquisite Titian:
You never saw one in such brilliant condition.
And what is the subject?
(opening the case.)
Now, Ma'am, I'll display it.—
Here's a feast for the eye that knows how to survey it!
Here's a Joseph!—I ne'er saw his like in my life.
And pray, Ma'am, observe what a Potiphar's wife!
How chaste the design! yet the colours how warm!
What tints in each face! and what life in each form!
Pray! Madam, remark how he struggles to fly!
We hear him exclaiming, "No, Mistress, not I!"
It seems very fine, and has striking expression.—
Was it ever in any great person's possession?
Not a soul here has seen it, except a poor Peer,
For whom it was bought:—but, alas! 'twas too dear.
His steward, my friend—but I must not be rash,
And betray a good Earl, with more gusto than cash.—
Our Lords are all poor, and so ruin'd my trade is,
I should starve, were it not for you well-judging ladies.
There's my old Lady Ogle-nud, had she a peep,
Would certainly buy it before she would sleep:
But having receiv'd many favours from you,
I made it a point you should have the first view.
I thank you, good Varnish.—But what is the price?
She'd give me a thousand, I know, in a trice,
And buy some companions besides, if I had 'em;
But I'll leave it with you for eight hundred, dear Madam.
Eight hundred!—Sure, Varnish, that sum is too much.
Dear, Madam, observe what a delicate touch!
See how finely 'tis pencil'd! and what preservation!
There is not, I know, such a gem in the nation;
And Italy has not a brighter, I'm sure.
The figures so glowing! the story so pure!—
Good ladies would never have wandering spouses,
If they'd only hang subjects like this in their houses.
I protest, your remark is ingenious and new:
You have gusto in Morals as well as Virtu.
(aside.)
I have hopes that my hint will assist our transaction,
For the old dame is jealous, they say, to distraction.
Well! I own, Mr. Varnish, your picture is fine.—
If my husband is rich, it shall quickly be mine.
Here he comes to decide it.
Enter
Mr. Bijou.
My dear, here's a sight!
You are luckily come to complete my delight.
Mr. Varnish has been so exceedingly kind,
As he knows on a Titian I've long set my mind,
To bring me the finest I ever survey'd:
And as we have often, befriended his trade,
He offers to leave it a bargain with us.
Its merit or price it is vain to discuss:
Tho' the picture possesses so tempting an air,
At present, my dear, I've no money to spare.
Mr. Varnish, pray step in the parlour below!
Our final resolve you shall presently know.
Dear Madam, for hours I'll wait on your pleasure;
And I beg you will note all its beauties at leisure.
(Aside, as he goes out.)
Now success to the sex!—Be this struggle more glorious!
May the Joseph be kind! and the Lady victorious!
My dearest, you'll not let the picture depart,
When you see it has taken such hold on my heart!—
I really can't rest, till a Titian we've got,
That
we
may have something Lord Seewell has
not.
And as we expect him, you know, here to-night,
I would shew him this piece with triumphant delight.
I love to indulge all your wishes, my dear;
But I'm quite out of cash.—
Nay! Bijou! I am clear
You have now all I want in your pocket.—Come! come!
I know you went out to receive a large sum;
And still have it about you.—I vow I will look.—
Here it is!—here are notes in this little red book.
Takes out his Pocket-Book.
Indeed, I must beg you that book to release!
Here are ten, I declare, of an hundred apiece!—
I'll take just enough, and restore you the rest.
I can't suffer this freedom, my dear, I protest;
For the notes are not mine, they belong to a friend.
To a friend!—O! I guess, Sir, to whom you would lend.
Your sly-looking guest, Mr. Cycle's the man;
I know he was here on a borrowing plan.
Throw your thousand away on a charity bubble!
And leave your poor wife to vexation and trouble!
Nay! my dear, be not vex'd!—you have misunderstood:
The sum will be safe, and the interest good.
And what is the pitiful profit you'll raise,
Compar'd to the transport with which we should gaze
On the picture my fondness would have you possess,
For reasons the purest that wife can profess?
Unkind as you are!—I have reasons above
Even profit and pleasure—the reasons of love.
'Tis my aim, by this modest production of art,
To strengthen your virtue and chasten your heart.
If you daily survey an example so bright,
This model of continence ever in sight,
No naughty young women will tempt you to wander,
But your truth and your love will grow firmer and fonder.
What a tender idea!— how virtuously kind!
What affection and taste! by each other refin'd!
But if for a poor and a foolish projector,
You can thwart a fond wife, and afflict and neglect her—
Go! go! I shall weep, while abroad you may roam,
That your charity has no beginning at home.
It begins, and shall end there.—I'm melted, my dear!—
You may keep all the notes!—Let me kiss off that tear!
Now again youre my own, dear, delightful Bijou!
And the Titian is mine, and my love will be true!
Exit in great haste.
(
alone.
)
Such virtuous endearments what heart could resist?
Yet I fear by poor Cycle this sum will be miss'd.
And what shall I say for the failure?—In sooth,
I think 'twill be fairest to tell him the truth:
And, sage as he is, he perhaps too has felt
That Gold, at the breath of a woman, will melt.—
As I live, here he is! and I look rather small,
With a pocket so empty, to answer his call.
Enter
Mr. Cycle.
Mr. Cycle, you're come, and I'm really confus'd;
But I know the mischance will by you be excus'd.
In notes I had got you the thousand complete,
They were all in this pocket—
The thieves of the street
Have not pick'd it, I hope, in the bustle of strife?
It was pick'd, I confess, by the hand of my wife;
But for reasons so pure, in so tender a mode—
I am happy the sum is so justly bestow'd.
I know you'll forgive, when I come to explain.
Dear Bijou! let me save you at once from that pain;
And assure you, with truth, that I now really come
As ready to quit, as to take up the sum;
Since Beril's so kind, that, without my desire,
He has offer'd me all that my wants can require.
I protest, I am glad you have found such a friend;
But if you hereafter should wish me to lend,
I beg you will call without scruple on me.—
Your worthy friend Beril to-night we shall see;
And Seewell, in gusto the first of our Earls,
Will be here with his daughters, two delicate girls!
To prove, my good friend, your forgiveness is hearty,
Let me hope you will kindly make one of the party!
Most chearfully!
Well!—I am griev'd, I must say,
That I cannot detain you to dinner to-day;
But to tell you the truth, when for these gala nights
My wife is preparing to shew her fine sights,
She spends so much time in adjusting her shelves,
That we take a cold snap in the kitchen ourselves.
So I'm sure you'll excuse it.
Your reason is strong;
And I'm sorry, my friend, I've intruded so long.
We have time enough yet—do not hurry away!
It really grows late.
I won't press you to stay,
As at night o'er our concert you'll come to preside.—
I am heartily glad all your wants are supply'd.
Indeed, I believe you, my honest Bijou!
So, till night, fare you well!
My dear Cycle, adieu!
End of ACT II.
ACT THE THIRD. SCENE I.
Lord Seewell
and
Lady Harriot.
DEAR Papa, don't betray me!—Her delicate mind
Would be wounded, I know, and would think me unkind;
So far from allowing, what now I impart,
She herself little knows the true state of her heart.
Believe me, my dear, I with pleasure survey
The sisterly fondness you warmly display.
But you, who for others so sensibly feel,
May here be the dupe of affectionate zeal;
And I hope you're mistaken.
My dear Sir, observe!
You may trace her attachment in every nerve:
If I name Mr. Beril in some idle tale,
Poor Fanny will blush, and as often turn pale.
In his absence still more and more pensive she grows,
Yet thinks not from whence her uneasiness flows.
And when he returns, tho' her pleasure is meek,
Yet the glow of content may be seen on her cheek;
And her heart, as if fully consol'd by his sight,
Appears to repose in a tranquil delight.
Dear Papa, you'll perceive, if you'll open your eyes,
That from none but herself she her love can disguise.
One other exception perhaps we may find,
As I think Mr. Beril is equally blind,
And robb'd, like herself, of the talent of seeing,
By that diffident love, which denies it own being.
I hope this attachment, which neither has shewn,
Exists, my good girl, in your fancy alone.
Why so, my dear Sir?—Should it prove, as you fear,
I hope, dear Papa, that you won't be severe.
Consider the delicate frame of my sister!
But I know you've a heart that can never resist her,
If you once clearly see she has fixt her affection,
Tho' she own not her wishes for such a connection;
As you know that her nature's so modest and meek,
She would die from concealment before she would speak.
I have strength to encounter the crosses of life,
And to make my part good, as a daughter or wife:
But our gentle sweet Frances is ill-form'd to bear
The undeserv'd load of vexation and care;
And therefore should wed, unregardful of pelf,
A husband as tender and mild as herself.
Your reasoning, I think, is not perfectly just.
In the kindness of Beril perhaps I might trust;
But the motive you urge for this union, my dear,
Is what, I confess, would awaken my fear.
As you say, your mild sister should never be harrass'd
By those various ills with which life is embarrass'd,
I should guard her from all the vexations that wait
On a liberal mind with a narrow estate:
And if Beril had thoughts of becoming my son,
Had I
not
more objections, yet this must be one.
I'll remove it, my Lord, for indeed this is all:
As you think they'll be pinch'd by an income too small,
You shall add to their fortune, and large it will be,
Two thirds of the portion you've destin'd for me.
Dear Harriot! I'm charm'd with thy soul, I confess;
Thou'rt a generous girl—to a noble excess.
To that name, dear Papa, I've no title, indeed,
As I only give up what I never can need.
In your house all my wants will, I know, be supply'd;
And if I should leave it, as Careless's bride,
The liberal heir of so large an estate
Will not grieve that my fortune has sunk in its weight.
Or should my swain frown at the change in my purse,
He may e'en take old Themis for better for worse;
For tho', I confess, he has won my regard,
Yet the knot of my love is not twisted so hard,
But 'twill slip in a moment, if ever I see
That he's rather more fond of my purse than of me,
'Tis a pity, the friendly illusions of youth
Cannot instantly turn into substance and truth.
Your affectionate fancy, my dear, is delighted
With the dream of beholding two persons united,
Whom you fondly suppose only form'd for each other.
I should like Mr. Beril, I own, for my brother,
Because I'm convinc'd, that no mortal on earth,
In manners, in temper, in taste, and in worth,
Is form'd so exactly to suit such a wife.
On their lasting attachment I'd venture my life.
Your warm heart, my good girl, your young judgment deceives,
And what the first wishes the second believes.
Dear Harriot, to
this
fancied match there may be
Many bars, which your eyes are unable to see:
A mistress conceal'd with a young little fry—
Should an angel declare it, the fact I'd deny;
For had Beril been loaded with such a connection,
In his eyes I had never perceiv'd his affection.
But I'll presently solve any doubts of this kind,
As I'm soon to be told the true state of his mind;
For Careless has promis'd—
O fie! my dear, fie!
Your intemperate zeal has now risen too high.
I am really concern'd at your great indiscretion.
Nay! but hear me, my Lord!—I have dropt no expression,
No! not one single hint, that could truly discover
Why in such a research I commission'd my lover!
Don't think, dear Papa, I'd my sister betray!—
Enter a
Servant.
Mr. Beril, my Lord, sent this letter.
Stay! stay!
Does any one wait for an answer below?
No, my Lord, the man's gone.
Very well! you may go!
Exit
Servant.
Should this be an offer!—'twould give me great pleasure;
But I fear he's too modest to take such a measure.—
Dear Papa! does he venture on any advances?
There, my dear!—you'll not find any mention of Frances;
And I think by the note, which to you I resign,
Your conjectures are not so well founded as mine.
(
perusing the Letter.
)
"Occasion for money!"—"The statue to you!"—
I'm amaz'd—and can hardly believe it is true.
He never would part with so dear a possession,
But for some urgent reason.
You see his confessio
His strong call for money is frankly declar'd;
And I fear his small fortune is greatly impair'd.
These tidings, indeed, give me real concern:
But the source of this step I will speedily learn.
Careless soon will be here.—I will make him discover;
And till we know all, give no peace to my lover.—
But now, my dear Lord, by this note you may find,
How the heart of my sister is really inclin'd:
I'm convinc'd this will prove her affection is strong.
Here she comes for the trial—pray see if I'm wrong.
Well, my dear, I will try, by an innocent plot,
If your sister has really this passion or not.
Enter
Lady Frances.
Dear Fanny, you're come our concern to partake,
For we both are much griev'd for our friend Beril's sake.
Mr. Beril! dear Sir!—Is he hurt?—Is he kill'd?
No!—with terrors too lively your bosom is fill'd.
My dear, how you tremble!—But I was to blame,
To raise this alarm in your delicate frame.
He is well; but some crosses of fortune, I fear,
Make him fell what he justly consider'd so dear.
You will see by this letter.—
(
Aside, to
Lady Harriot.)
Ah, Harriot, 'tis so;
The excess of her fear from affection must flow!
How painful to him must the exigence be,
Which extorts from his hand the agreement I see!
How cruel! for him to relinquish a treasure,
Whence his elegant spirit deriv'd so much pleasure!
But I trust, dear Papa, that your generous mind
Will not now press the bargain he once has declin'd;
And scorning to profit by any distress,
Will not catch at the gem he still ought to possess.
My dear, can I now, what I offer'd, withhold?
And should I, the statue no less would be sold.
Perhaps, if you chose half its value to lend,
From so galling a sale you might rescue your friend!
I am pleas'd, my dear girl, with your spirit, I own,
But these are bad times for a dangerous loan;
And, to tell you the truth in this knotty affair,
I have just at this crisis no money to spare.
But I'll frankly explain our finances to you,
And you shall instruct me in what I shall do.—
As I've seen that old fathers, tho' reckon'd most sage,
Often injure a child by the frolicks of age,
That you may not suffer from follies like these,
I have just now consign'd to the care of trustees
All I've sav'd for you both:—so if I prove unsteady,
You are safe.—When you wed, both your fortunes are ready.
Let the fortune of Harriot be sacred, I pray,
For not very distant is her wedding-day.
But as
I
am convinc'd I shall not wed at all,
Let my portion, Papa, answer every call:
I must beg you to look on it still as your own;
And if it may serve for so timely a loan,
It can't give me more joy, whatsoever my station,
Than by saving your friend from such mortification.
My dear girls! you are both the delight of my life:
May each warm-hearted daughter be blest as a wife!—
What I said was but meant your kind spirit to try,
For the wants of our friend I can amply supply.
Of esteem it will please me to give him a proof,
And preserve the fine statue still under his roof.
Enter a
Servant.
Mr. Careless, my Lord!
Now the whole I shall know.
Going.
Stay!—
He wishes to see Lady Harriot below.
Being equally anxious this point to discover,
We will all, my dear Harriot, attend on your lover.
Exeunt.
SCENE,
the Apartments of
Mrs. Bijou.
Where the deuce is my wife?—All her rarities plac'd!
Her apartments adjusted with exquisite taste!
Some disaster has happen'd, or she would be here,
Where she ought to be waiting to welcome the Peer;
And I fancy I heard her in anger below.
Enter
Mrs. Bijou,
in great Agitation.
What's the matter, my love?
O, my dear, such a blow!
I really had swoon'd, if vexation and wrath
Had not quicken'd my spirits, to scold at the Goth.
That awkward old Joan!—an unmannerly minx!
Has knock'd off the nipple, my dear, from a Sphinx;
And now on our chimney it cannot be plac'd,
With a wound so indelicate maim'd and disgrac'd.
But I've happily got these two Griffins of gold,
In the room of the Sphinxes, our candles to hold.
My dear, the exchange is most lucky and right,
For a Sphinx is an awkward dispenser of light;
But whether your Griffin's of gold or of copper,
A flame from his mouth is exceedingly proper.
By your lessons, my love, I improve in Virtù:
All the gusto I have, I have gather'd from you.—
I have fixt the Great Mummy, my dear, to the wall,
Lest the pert Lady Harriot should give him a fall:
She'd be glad to throw down my old king, out of spite;
And I would not be vext in our triumph to-night.
I know our new picture will stir up her gall,
And this Titian will make us the envy of all.
My dear, don't you think it looks well by this light?
The colours, indeed, are uncommonly bright.
What a beautiful youth is this Joseph!—I swear,
I am more and more charm'd with his delicate air;
I delight in him more since I've found, dear Bijou,
That in one of his features he's very like you.
Where can you, my dear, any likeness suppose?
I protest he has got the true turn of your nose;
Not the aquiline curve, but a little Socratic:
And his eye flashes fire, that is chastly ecstatic.—
There's a rap at our door! and I hope my Lord's come.
If vexation and envy do not strike him dumb,
I think he'll harangue, like a critic of Greece,
On the exquisite charms of this beautiful piece!
I long to behold how he's touch'd by the sight:
But I know that his envy will sink his delight.
The moment he sees it, he'll think his luck cruel,
In missing so precious a cabinet jewel.
Enter
Mr. Beril
and
Mr. Cycle.
Dear Cycle, I take this exceedingly kind;
And I hope you've not left your Cremona behind.
In your presence to-night I most truly rejoice,
And shall call for the aid of your hand and your voice,
(As my wife gives a snug little concert below)
When you've seen what her upper apartments can shew.
You may freely command me, my friend, as you please.
You're a judge, Mr. Beril, of treasures like these;
And I'm eager to shew you a Titian, that's new
Since we last had the joy of a visit from you.
The story is told, Ma'am, with striking expression.
Don't you envy my husband this brilliant possession?
I thought you'd burst forth into rapturous praise;
But with no keen delight on this picture you gaze!
To confess, Ma'am, the truth, I'm a whimsical being,
And a subject like this I've no pleasure in seeing.
On
your
lovely sex 'tis a satire most bitter,
That ill-nature may laugh at, and levity titter:
But I'm griev'd, when an artist has lavish'd his care
On a story that seems a disgrace to the Fair.
Our sex's chief lustre, I own, it obscures:
But think what a lesson it offers to yours!
Enter
Lady Harriot, Lady Frances, Lord Seewell,
and
Mr. Careless.
My dear Lord, I this instant was wishing for you.
Your voice is decisive in points of Virtù;
And you're come in the moment to end an odd strife,
In a matter of taste about Potiphar's wife.—
Should her story be painted?—We want your decision;
And here is the picture that caus'd our division.
Ha! my poor old acquaintance!—But how, dear Bijou,
How the deuce could this picture find favor with you?
I hope that rogue Varnish has play'd you no trick.—
You have paid no great price—
I am cut to the quick!
Sure, my Lord, you ne'er look'd on this picture before?
Dear Madam! 'tis one that I turn'd out of door;
And, as I may aid you to 'scape from a fraud,
I'll proceed to inform you, I bought it abroad,
To relieve the distress of an indigent youth,
Who copied old Masters with spirit and truth;
And when it came home, as I valu'd it not,
My steward, by chance, this gay furniture got.
To a new house of his it has lately been carried;
And as your friend Varnish his daughter has married,
I suppose the sly rogue by this picture has try'd,
To increase the small fortune he gain'd with his bride.
Search the garment of Joseph! you'll find on its hem,
And within a dark fold, the two letters T. M.
Aye! there is the mark! —we are cheated, we're plunder'd.
That infamous villain, to ask me eight hundred!—
But the law shall restore it.
See! Mrs. Bijou,
See the fruits of my hasty indulgence to you!
Chear up, my old friend!—'Tis my wish, that this night
May be witness to nothing but peace and delight.
I'll engage to make Varnish your money restore;
And perhaps this adventure may save you much more.
All we old connoisseurs, if the truth we would own,
Have, at times, been outwitted with canvas or stone:
But here's one, whose example our tribe now invites
To correct our mistakes, and improve our delights.
Here's Beril, tho' blest with a treasure most rare,
That with few works of art will admit of compare,
Gives up the proud joys, that on such wealth attend,
For the nobler delight of assisting a friend!
My Lord! you amaze me; how could you divine?—
O, Careless! your zeal has betray'd my design.
You have fixt on the traitor, yet are not aware,
That you're almost involv'd in a dangerous snare:
But I'll shew you this traitor's accomplice, my friend,
And tell you what mischief these plotters intend.
You must know, Tom and Harriot in concert pursue
Their dark machinations 'gainst Frances and you:
They have sworn you've a tender esteem for each other,
Which you both have in modesty labour'd to smother.
If their charge can be prov'd, I your freedom restrain,
And sentence you both to the conjugal chain.
O, my Lord! that I love Lady Frances, is true;
Yet I could not avow it to her, or to you:
But to force my confession, such means you employ,
I almost may call them the torture of joy.
I'm o'erwhelm'd with surprize, with delight, and with dread,
Lest I falsely have heard the kind things you have said.
Speak! my dear Lady Frances, my anguish relieve!
Does this tumult of hope my wild fancy deceive?
I so long have my father's indulgence confest,
That against his decrees I shall never protest.
O, how shall I thank thee, dear pride of my life!
By cherishing still in the mind of your wife,
Such generous feelings as
you
have display'd.—
From my hand, my dear Beril, receive the kind maid!
Your statue is not more indebted to art,
Than she is to nature for moulding her heart.
They both shall be yours; both the statue and bride!
And the wants of your friend shall no less be supply'd.—
Being free from one modish and wealth—wasting vice,
From those pests of our order, the turf and the dice,
I enjoy, my dear children, the fortunate power,
Of securing your bliss by an affluent dower.
Your quiet shall ne'er by your income be hurt,
Which shall equal your wish, tho' below your desert.
Of your kindness, my Lord, I so feel the excess,
That my voice cannot speak what my heart would express.
I am charm'd, my dear Lord, by your choice of a son.
I know, my old friend, you'll approve what I've done.
You and I, dear Bijou, wanting proper correction,
Have on vanity lavished the dues of affection.
We have both squander'd cash on too many a whim;
But in taste let us take a new lesson from him!
And rate our improvements in real Virtù,
By the generous acts he may teach us to do;
To remember this truth is the connoisseur's duty;
"A benevolent deed is the essence of beauty."
I confess, I too oft have been vanity's fool;
But shall hope to grow wise, my good Lord, in your school,
And, as mirth should be coupled with wisdom, I'll go
And see if the fiddles are ready below.
Exit.
To-night, my dear Madam, you must not look grave;
Tho' Varnish has prov'd such an impudent knave,
I promise to make him your money refund.
With surprize and vexation I almost was stunn'd,
But depending, my Lord, on your friendly assistance,
I am ready to drive all chagrin to a distance,
And to share in the joy of our dear happy guests.
What I owe to you, Careless, this fair one attests:
And our sister, I hope, if I dare use the name,
From your friendship will judge of your love's ardent flame,
And, short'ning your rigorous term of probation,
Now fill your kind heart with complete exultation.
The warm blaze of our joy, I assure you, dear brother,
With the cold damp of prudery I will not smother,
Your friend has for you play'd so feeling a part,
I confess, I am charm'd with his spirit and heart.
As in law and long courtship he likes not to drudge,
I will make him at once my comptroller and judge.
I with transport and pride the dear office embrace!
And long may you fill it with spirit and grace!—
My voice, my dear Careless, confirms her election;
And I give her with joy to your tender direction.
For sealing, dear Tom, you may fix your own day,
Without dreading from law any irksome delay,
As your father and I have, with friendly advances,
Already adjusted your nuptial finances.
(entering).
Our musicians below are all ready, my Lord:
Of pleasure you teach us to touch the true chord.
I've selected a few little pieces to-night,
That are suited, I hope, to the present delight.—
May we all think this day the best day of our life!
It will prove so, I'm sure, both to me and my wife.
If a bargain should tempt us, we will not be rash,
But remember the Titian, and pocket our cash.
To Friendship and Want all we can we will give,
And buy no more baubles as long as we live.