LADY GRAVELY. As ill as that malicious smile becomes you, I am glad you put it on: for it convinces me that what you have said is purely your own suggestion, which I know how to despise. Or, perhaps, you call a set of flirts the world: by such a world I would always be spoken ill of: the slander of some people is as great a recommendation as the praise of others. For one is as much hated by the dissolute world, on the score of virtue, as by the good, on that of vice. Sister, your malicious invectives against me reflect on yourself only: I abhor the motive, and I scorn the effect.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Nay, but how ungenerous is this! when you have often told me, that to put one in mind of faults is the truest sign of friendship; and that sincerity in private should give no more pain, than flattery in public, pleasure.
LADY GRAVELY. And yet (methinks) you could not bear plain-dealing just now. But I’m glad that your last hint has awakened me to a perfect sense of my duty; therefore sister, since we are in private, I’ll tell you what the world says of you. —— In the first place, then, it says that you are both younger and handsomer than you seem.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Nay, this is flattery, my dear!
LADY GRAVELY. No, indeed, my dear! for that folly and affectation have disguised you all over with an air of dotage and deformity.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. This carries an air of sincerity — thank you, my dear.
LADY GRAVELY. That admiration is the greatest pleasure, and to obtain it, the whole business of your life; but that the ways you take to it are so preposterous, one would be almost persuaded you aimed rather at contempt; for the actions of an infant seem the patterns of your conduct. When you are in the playhouse, you seem to think yourself on the stage; and when you are at church, I should swear you thought yourself in the playhouse, did I not know you never think at all. In every circle you engross the whole conversation, where you say a thousand silly things, and laugh at them all; by both which the world is always convinced, that you have very fine teeth and very bad sense.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Well, I will convince you, for I must laugh at that; ha, ha, ha!
LADY GRAVELY. That you are not restrained from unlawful pleasures by the love of virtue, but variety; and that your husband is not safe from having no rival, but from having a great many; for your heart is like a coffee-house, where the beaus frisk in and out, one after another; and you are as little the worse for them, as the other is the better; for one lover, like one poison, is your antidote against another.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Ha, ha, ha! I like your comparison of love and poison, for I hate them both alike.
LADY GRAVELY. And yet you are in love, and have been in love a long while.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Dear soul, tell me who the happy creature is, for I am sure he’ll think himself so.
LADY GRAVELY. That I question not; for I mean yourself.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Ha, ha, ha! and I’m sure you like my taste.
LADY GRAVELY. In short, to end my character, the world gives you the honour of being the most finished coquette in town.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. And I believe it is as little news to you, that you have that of leading the vast, grave, solemn body of prudes: so let us be friends — since, like the fiery partisans of state, we aim only at the same thing, by several ways: their aim is a place at court — ours is — this, my dear sister!
LADY GRAVELY. (Now would my arms were firebrands — I would embrace you then with better will.) — [Aside.
SCENE II.
To them, YOUNG PEDANT.
YOUNG PEDANT. Hey-day! what, is it customary here for you women to kiss one another? It intimates the men to be searce, or backward, in my opinion.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. And so taking advantage of the dearth of gallants, you are come to town to be enrolled in the number.
YOUNG PEDANT. May I be expelled the university that day: if your women want fools till I turn one to please them, they shall want them — till their fools turn scholars like me, or till they themselves turn Penelopes, that is (breviter) till the world’s turned topsy-turvey.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Or, till such illiterate pedants as you turn fine gentlemen.
YOUNG PEDANT. Illiterate! Mother-in-law? — You are a woman. [Scornfully.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. You are a coxcomb.
YOUNG PEDANT. I rejoice in the irony. To be called coxcomb by a woman is as sure a sign of sense, as to be called a rogue by a courtier is of honesty.
LADY GRAVELY. You should except your relations, nephew; and truly, for the generality of women, I am much of your opinion.
YOUNG PEDANT. Are you? then you are a woman of sense, aunt! a very great honour to your sex.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Did you ever hear so conceited, ignorant a wretch?
YOUNG PEDANT. Ignorant! — Know, madam, that I have revolved more volumes than you have done pages; I might say lines. More sense has gone in at these eyes —
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Than will ever come out of that mouth, I believe. Ha, ha, ha!
YOUNG PEDANT. What do you laugh at? I could convince you, that what you said then was only false wit. Look ye, mother, when you have been conversant with the Greek poets, you’ll make better jests.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. And when you have conversed with a French dancing-master, you’ll make a better figure; till when, you had best converse with yourself. Come, sister.
YOUNG PEDANT. Sooner than converse with thee, may I be obliged to communicate with a drunken, idle, illiterate soph: a creature, of all, my aversion.
SCENE III.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT and YOUNG PEDANT.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. How now, son! what puts you into this passion? I never knew any thing got by being in a passion.
YOUNG PEDANT. Sir, with your peace, I am not in a passion; I have read too much philosophy to have my passions irritated by women.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. You seem, indeed, to have read a great deal; for you said several things last night beyond my understanding: but I desire you would give me some account of your improvement in that way which I recommended to you at your going to the university; I mean that useful part of learning, the art of getting money: I hope your tutor has, according to my orders, instilled into you a tolerable insight into stock-jobbing. I hope to see you make a figure at Garraway’s, boy.
YOUNG PEDANT. Sir, he has instructed me in a much nobler science — logic. I have read all that has been written on that subject, from the time of Aristotle, to that great and learned modern, Burgersdieius; truly, almost a cart-load of books.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Have they taught you the art to get a cart-load of money?
YOUNG PEDANT. They have taught me the art of getting knowledge. Logie is in learning, what the compass is in navigation. It is the guide by which our reason steers in the pursuit of true philosophy.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Did ever mortal man hear the like! — Have I been at this expense to breed my son a philosopher? I tremble at the name; it brings the thought of poverty into my mind. Why, do you think if your old philosophers were alive, any one would speak to them, any one would pay their bills! — Ah! these universities are fit for nothing but to debauch the principles of young men; to poison their minds with romantic notions of knowledge and virtue; what could I expect, but that philosophy should teach yon to crawl into a prison; or poetry, to fly into one! — Well, I’ll show you the world! where you will see that riehes are the only titles to respect; and that learning is not the way to get riches. There are men who can draw for the sum of a hundred thousand pounds who can hardly spell it.
YOUNG PEDANT. Sir, you were pleased to send for me to town in an impetuous manner. Two days have passed since my arrival. I would therefore importune you to declare to me the reasons of your message.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. That is my intention, and you will find by it how nieely I calculate. You know my losses in the South-Sea had sunk my fortune to so low an ebb, that from having been offered, ay, and courted, to accept a wife of quality (my present lady) I fell so low, to have my proposals of marriage b
etween you and the daughter of a certain eitizen, rejected; though her fortune was not equal to that of my wife. For I must tell you that a thousand a year is all you can expect from me, who might have left you ten.
YOUNG PEDANT. And is to me as desirable a gift.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. I am sorry to hear you have no better principles. But I have hit on a way to double that sum. In short, I intend to marry you to your cousin
BELLARIA. I observed her, the night of your arrival, at supper, look much at you, though you were then rough, and just off your journey: my brother sent her hither to prevent her marrying a gentleman in the country of a small fortune. Now I’ll take care you shall have sufficient opportunities together: and I question not but to compass the affair; by which I gain just ten thousand pound clear, for her fortune is twenty.
YOUNG PEDANT. Sir, I desire to deliver my reasons opponent to this match; they are two: first, to the thing, matrimony. Secondly, to the person, who is my cousin-german.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Now, sir, I desire to deliver mine. I have but one, and that is very short. If you refuse, I’ll disinherit you.
Enter a Servant.
SERVANT. Sir, here’s a gentleman, who calls himself Wilding, at the door.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Show him in. Son, you will consider of what I have told you.
YOUNG PEDANT. Yes, I will consider, but shall never find a reply to so substantial, prevalent, and convincing an argument.
SCENE IV.
To them, SIR HARRY WILDING.
SIR HARRY WILDING. IS not your name, sir, Sir Avarice Pedant?
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. At your service, sir.
SIR HARRY WILDING. Then, sir, I am your very humble servant.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. I don’t know you, sir.
SIR HARRY WILDING. Don’t you, sir! why, then, ‘tis probable, by reading this letter, you will know more than you do now.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. [Reads.] “Dear Brother, — The bearer is my very good friend, Sir Harry Wilding; he comes to town to introduce his eldest son to Bellaria. The young man, I’m told, has a great character for sobriety, and I know his fortune equal to my demands. I fear her old lover will find her out, unless prevented by an immediate match. Get every thing ready as quick as possible: I will be in town soon; till when, be particularly civil to Sir Harry and his son.
[Aside. Ay, with a pox to them!] “Your humble servant, “and affectionate brother,
“GEO. PEDANT.”
[To Sir Harry Wilding.] Sir, your very humble servant. My brother here informs me of your proposals; I presume, sir, I know your son.
SIR HARRY WILDING. I am surprised at that, sir, for he has no acquaintance but with books. Alas, sir, he studies day and night!
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. May I ask what he studies, sir?
SIR HARRY WILDING. Law, sir; he has followed it so close these six years, that he has hardly had time to write even — to me (unless when he wants necessaries). But I cannot convince you better than by one of his bills — let me see — ay, here — here it is! — here’s a bill — I shall see the rogue a judge — This bill, sir, is only for one quarter.
For law-books, 50l.
Fifty pounds’ worth of law books read in one quarter of a year. — I shall see the rogue a judge. I ITEM. For paper, pens, ink, sand, pencils, penknives, 10l.
For fire and candles, 8l.
You see he reads all night.
Paid a woman to brush books, 1l.
For places in Westminster Hall, 5l.
For coaches thither, at 4s per time, 12l.
For night-gown, slippers, caps, physic —
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Hold, hold, pray; it’s enough in conscience.
SIR HARRY WILDING. In short, the whole bill amounts to two hundred and seventy-five pounds, for the necessaries of study only. I shall see the rogue a judge.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. But (methinks) there is one article a little extraordinary: how comes it that your son pays four shillings for a coach to Westminster, when four lawyers go thither for one?
SIR HARRY WILDING. Ay! why, that’s a question, now, that has been asked me several times: heart! I believe you are all envious of my boy. If he pays four times as much, he carries four times as much law, and that, I think, is an answer.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. I wonder, Sir Harry, a gentleman of your plentiful fortune should breed your eldest son to the law.
SIR HARRY WILDING. Oh, sir! I’ll give you a very good reason for that — My father was a lawyer, and he got an estate. It was my misfortune to be bred a gentleman. My father kept me in the country till I was three-and-twenty, and my wife has kept me there ever since; for, except when I brought my son to the Temple, and this present journey, I never was twenty miles from home.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. It was your misfortune to be bred a gentleman, Sir Harry!
SIR HARRY WILDING. Ay, sir; but I always resolved to breed my son to the law; I determined it before he was born; and I don’t question but to see him a judge. I am impatient till I find him out; so I am your humble servant. You may expect me at dinner.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. That’s kind, however. You see. son, we have but a short time to execute our project in; and if we are not expeditious, the stock will be sold to another purchaser. I am obliged to go into the city on business: after dinner I will introduce you to my niece. In the mean time, think on some fine speeches, some high compliments: for in dealing with women (contrary to all other merchandise) the way to get them cheap is to cry them up as much beyond their value as possible.
YOUNG PEDANT. So the matter is reduced to this, “Either to be married or disinherited.” I’ll accept the prior; for, if I am disinherited, I shall never get my estate again; but, if I am married (providentially) I may get rid of my wife.
SCENE V
St. James’s Park.
VALENTINE and VEROMIL.
VALENTINE. This was an agreeable surprise, indeed! for of all men, my Veromil is he whom I most wished but least expected to meet.
VEROMIL. My wishes, Valentine, wore equal to yours, but my expectations greater; for I was told the town, and all its pleasures, had long engrossed the heart of my Valentine. Nor has my information been false, I find. These clothes! these looks! these airs! give me reason to wonder how I recollected my metamorphosed friend.
VALENTINE. Why, faith! I am a little changed since those happy times, when, after a day spent in study, we used to regale at night, and communicate our discoveries in knowledge over a pint of bad port. While, poor creatures! we were strangers to the greatest, pleasantest part of knowledge —
VEROMIL. What?
VALENTINE. Woman, dear Charles, woman; a sort of books prohibited at the university, because your grave dons don’t understand them. But what part of the world has possessed you these years?
VEROMIL. The first twelvemonth after I left the university, I remained in the country with my father (you had not then forgot to correspond with me). I then made the tour of France and Italy. I intended to visit Germany; but on my return to Paris, I there received the news of my father’s death!
VALENTINE. ‘Sdeath! he did not deserve the name! — Nay, I am no stranger to your misfortunes. Sure Nature was as blind when she gave him such a son, as Fortune when she robbed you of your birthright.
VEROMTL. Valentine, I charge thee, on thy friendship, not to reflect on that memory which shall be ever sacred to my breast. Who knows what arts my brother may have used? Nay, I have reason to believe my actions abroad were misrepresented. I must have fallen by a double deceit. He must have coloured my innocence with the face of vice, and covered his own notorious vices under the appearance of innocence.
VALENTINE. Hell in its own shape reward him for it.
VEROMIL. Heaven forgive him. I hope I can.
VALENTINE. But tell me, (though I dread to ask) he did not, could not, disinherit you of all?
VEROMIL. All in his power. My mother’s fortune fell to me, he could not hinder it. And, oh! my friend! I could with that sm
all competency outvie my brother’s happiness, had I not, with my fortune, lost a jewel dear to me as my soul — yet here I forget even that. To hold, to embrace so dear a friend, effaces every care.
VALENTINE. I still have been your debtor: ‘tis your superior genius to oblige; my utmost efforts will be still your due.
VEROMIL. Let us then sacrifice this day to mirth and joy.
VALENTINE. With all my heart.
VEROMIL. IS not that Wilding just come into the Mall?
VALENTINE. I am sure he is altered since you saw him. I wonder his dress, indeed, did not prevent your knowing him.
VEROMIL. No; it is by his dress I do know him, for I saw him in the very same at Paris. He remembers me too, I perceive. Mr. Wilding, your humble servant.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 240
