Sudden there issued forth a horrid dram,
And from another rushed two gallons forth:
The audience, as it were contagious air,
All caught it, hallooed, catcalled, hissed, and groaned.
1 GENTLEMAN. I always thought, indeed, that joke would damn him;
And told him that the people would not take it.
1 GENTLEMAN. But it was mighty pleasant to behold,
When the damnation of the farce was sure,
How all those friends who had begun the claps,
With greatest vigour strove who first should hiss,
And show disapprobation. And John Watts,
Who was this morning eager for the copy,
Slunk hasty from the pit, and shook his head.
2 GENTLEMAN. And so ‘Tis certain that his farce is gone?
3 GENTLEMAN. Most certain.
2 GENTLEMAN. Let us then retire with speed,
For see, he comes this way.
3 GENTLEMAN. By all means,
Let us avoid him with what haste we can. [Exeunt.
Enter PILLAGE.
PILLAGE. Then I am damned — Cursed henceforth be the bard,
Whoe’er depends on fortune, or on friends.
SOURWIT . So, the play is over; for I reckon you will not find it possible to get any one to come near this honest gentleman.
SPATTER. Yes, sir, there is one, and you may easily guess who it is: the man who will not flatter his friend in prosperity, will hardly leave him in adversity — Come, enter Honestus.
PILLAGE. Honestus here! will he not shun me too?
HONESTUS. When Pasquin ran, and the town liked you most,
And every scribbler loaded you with praise,
I did not court you, nor will shun you now.
PILLAGE. Oh! had I taken your advice, my friend!
I had not now been damned — Then had I trusted
To the impartial judgment of the town,
And by the goodness of my piece had tried
To merit favour, nor with vain reliance
On the frail promise of uncertain friends,
Produced a farce like this — Friends who forsook me,
And left me nought to comfort me but this. [Drinks.
HONESTUS. Forbear to drink.
PILLAGE. Oh! it is now too late.
Already I have drunk two bottles off,
Of this fell potion, and it now begins
To work its deadly purpose on my brain.
I’m giddy, ha! my head begins to swim,
And see Eurydice all pale before me;
Why dost thou haunt me thus? I did not damn thee.
By Jove there never was a better farce:
She beckons me — Say — whether — blame the town,
And not thy Pillage — Now my brain’s on fire!
My staggering senses dance — and I am —
HONESTUS. Drunk.
That word he should have said, that ends the verse,
Farewell, a twelve hours’ nap compose thy senses.
May mankind profit by thy sad example,
May men grow wiser, writers grow more scarce,
And no man dare to make a simple farce.
MISS LUCY IN TOW N
A SEQUEL TO THE VIRGIN UNMASQUED
CONTENTS
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
MISS LUCY IN TOWN
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
MEN
GOODWILL — Mr. Winstone.
THOMAS — Mr. Neal.
LORD BAWBLE — Mr. Cross,
MR. ZOROBABEL — Mr. Macklin.
SIGNIOR CANTILENO Mr. Beard.
MR. BALLAD — Mr. Lowe.
WOMEN
MRS. MIDNIGHT — Mrs. Macklin.
WIFE — Mrs. Clive.
TAWDRY — Mrs. Bennet.
SCENE. — MRS. MIDNIGHT’S.
MISS LUCY IN TOWN
MRS. MIDNIGHT and TAWDRY.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. And he did not give you a single shilling?
TAWDRY. No, upon my honour.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. Very well. They spend so much money in show and equipage, that they can no more pay their ladies than their tradesmen. If it was not for Mr. Zorobabel, and some more of his persuasion, I must shut up my doors.
TAWDRY. Besides, ma’am, virtuous women and gentlemen’s wives come so cheap, that no man will go to the price of a lady of the town.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. I thought Westminster Hall would have given them a surfeit of their virtuous women: but I see nothing will do; though a jury of cuckolds were to give never such swinging damages, it will not deter men from qualifying more jurymen. In short, nothing can do us any service but an Act of Parliament to put us down.
TAWDRY. Have you put a bill on your door, ma’am, as you said you would?
MRS. MIDNIGHT. It is up, it is up. O Tawdry! that a woman who hath been bred, and always lived like a gentlewoman, and followed a polite way of business, should be reduced to let lodgings.
TAWDRY. It is a melancholy consideration truly. [Knocking.] But hark! I hear a coach stop.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. Some rake or other, who is too poor to have any reputation. This is not a time of day for good customers to walk abroad. The citizens, good men, can’t leave their shops so soon.
SERVANT [enters]. Madam, a gentleman and lady to inquire for lodgings; they seems to be just come out of the country, for the coach and horses are in a terrible dirty pickle.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. Why don’t you show them in? Tawdry, who knows what fortune has sent us?
TAWDRY. If she had meant me any good, she’d have sent a gentleman without a lady.
SERVANT [returning with JOHN]. This is my mistress, friend.
JOHN. Do you take volks in to live here? Because, if you do, madam and the squoire will come and live with you.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. Then your master is a squire, friend, is he?
JOHN. Ay, he’s as good a squire as any within five miles o’en: tho’f he was but a footman before, what is that to the purpose? Madam has enough for both o ‘em.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. Well, you may desire your master and his lady to walk in. I believe I can furnish them with what they want. What think you, Tawdry, of the squire and his lady, by this specimen of them?
TAWDRY. Why, I think if I can turn the squire to as good account as you will his lady, (I mean if she be handsome.) we shall have no reason to repent our acquaintance. You will soon teach her more politeness than to be pleased with a footman, especially as he is her husband.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. Truly, I must say, I love to see ladies prefer themselves. Mercy on those who betray women to sacrifice their own interest: I would not have such a sin lie on my conscience for the world.
Enter THOMAS, WIFE, and Servants.
THOMAS. Madam, your humble servant. My fellow here tells me you have lodgings to let, pray what are they, madam?
MRS. MIDNIGHT. Sir, my bill hath informed you.
THOMAS. POX! I am afraid she suspects I can’t read.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. What conveniences, madam, would your ladyship want?
WIFE. Why, good woman, I shall want every thing which other fine ladyships want. Indeed, I don’t know what I shall want yet: for I never was in town before: but I shall want every thing I see.
THOMAS. I hope your apartments here are handsome, and that people of fashion use to lodge with you.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. If you please, sir, I’ll wait on your honour, and show you the rooms.
THOMAS. Ay, do, do so; do wait on me. John, do you hear, do you take care of all our things.
WIFE. Ay, pray, John, take care of the great cake and the cold turkey, and the ham and the chickens, and the bottle of sack, and the two bottles of strong beer, and the bottle of cyder.
JOHN. I’ll take the best care I can: but a man would think he was got in to a fair. The folks stare at one as if they had never seen a man before. [Remain Tawdry and Wife.
TAWDRY. Pray, madam, is not your ladyship infinitely tired with your journey?
>
WIFE. I tired! not I, I an’t tired at all; I could walk twenty miles farther.
TAWDRY. O, I am surprised at that! most fine ladies are horribly fatigued after a journey.
WIFE. Are they? — Hum! I don’t know whether I an’t so too; yes, I am, I am horribly fatigued. (Well, I shall never find out all that a fine lady ought to be.) — [Aside.
TAWDRY. Was your ladyship never in town before, madam?
WIFE. No, madam, never before that I know of.
TAWDRY. I shall be glad to wait on you, madam, and show you the town.
WIFE. I am very much obliged to you, madam: and I am resolved to see every thing that is to be seen: the Tower, and the crowns, and the lions, and Bedlam, and the Parliamenthouse, and the Abbey —
TAWDRY. O fie, madam! these are only sights for the vulgar; no fine ladies go to these.
WIFE. NO! why then I won’t neither! Oh! odious Tower and filthy lions. But pray, madam, are there no sights for a fine lady to see?
TAWDRY. O yes, madam; there are ridottos, masquerades, court, plays, and a thousand others, so many, that a fine lady has never time to be at home but when she is asleep.
WIFE. I am glad to hear that; for I hate to be at home: but, dear madam, do tell me — for I suppose you are a fine lady.
TAWDRY. At your service, madam.
WIFE. What do you fine ladies do at these places? What do they do at masquerades now? for I have heard of them in the country.
TAWDRY. Why they dress themselves in a strange dress, and they walk up and down the room, and they cry, Do you know me? and then they burst out a laughing, and then they sit down, and then they get up, and then they walk about again, and then they go home.
WIFE. Oh! this is charming, and easy too; I shall be able to do a masquerade in a minute: well, but do tell me a little of the rest. What do they do at your what d’ye call ‘ems, your plays?
TAWDRY. Why, if they can, they take a stage-box, where they let the footman sit the two first acts, to show his livery; then they come in to show themselves, spread their fans upon the spikes, make curtsies to their acquaintance, and then talk and laugh as loud as they are able.
WIFE. O delightful! By gole, I find there is nothing in a fine lady; anybody may be a fine lady if this be all.
AIR I.
If flaunting and ranting,
If noise and gallanting,
Be all in fine ladies required;
I’ll warrant I’ll be
As fine a lady
As ever in town was admired.
At plays I will rattle,
Tittle-tattle,
Tittle-tattle,
Prittle-prattle,
Prittle-prattle,
As gay and as loud as the best.
And at t’other place,
With a mask on my face,
I’ll ask all I see
Do you know me?
Do you know me?
And te, he, he,
And te, he, he!
At nothing as loud as a jest.
THOMAS and MRS. MIDNIGHT return.
THOMAS. My dear, I have seen the rooms, and they are very handsome, and fit for us people of fashion.
WIFE. Oh, my dear, I am extremely glad on’t. Do you know me? Ha, ha, ha, my dear, [stretching out her fan before her], ha, ha, ha!
THOMAS. Hey-day! What’s the matter now?
WIFE. I am only doing over a fine lady at a masquerade, or play, that’s all. [She coquets apart with her husband.
TAWDRY, [To Mrs. Midnight]. She’s simplicity itself. A card fortune has dealt you, which it’s impossible for you to play ill. You may bring her to any purpose.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. I am glad to hear it: for she’s really pretty, and I shall scarce want a customer for a tit-bit.
WIFE. Well, my dear, you won’t stay long, for you know I can hardly bear you out of my sight; I shall be quite miserable till you come back, my dear, dear Tommy.
THOMAS. My dear Lucy, I will but go find out a tailor, and be back with you in an instant.
WIFE. Pray do, my dear. Nay, t’other kiss; one more — Oh! thou art the sweetest creature. Well, miss fine lady, pray how do you like my husband? Is he not a charming man?
TAWDRY. Your husband! Dear madam, and was it your husband that you kissed so?
WIFE. Why, don’t fine ladies kiss their husbands?
TAWDRY. No, never.
WIFE. O la! but I don’t like that though; by gole, I believe I shall never be a fine lady, if I must not be kissed. I like being a fine lady in other things, but not in that; I thank you. If your fine ladies are never kissed, by gole, I think we have not so much reason to envy them as I imagined.
SONG.
How happy are the nymphs and swains,
Who skip it and trip it all over the plains:
How sweet are the kisses,
How soft are the blisses,
Transporting the lads, and all melting their misses!
If ladies here so nice are grown,
Who jaunt it and flaunt it all over the town,
To fly as from ruin
From billing and cooing,
A fig for their airs, give me plain country wooing.
TAWDRY. Oh, you mistake me, madam; a fine lady may kiss any man but her husband. — You will have all the beaus in town at your service.
WIFE. Beaus! O Gemini, those are things Miss Jenny used to talk of. — And pray, madam, do beaus kiss so much sweeter and better than other folks?
TAWDRY. Hum! I can’t say much of that.
WIFE. And pray, then, why must I like them better than my own husband?
MRS. MIDNIGHT. Because it’s the fashion, madam. Fine ladies do every thing because it’s the fashion. They spoil their shapes, to appear big with child because it’s the fashion. They lose their money at whist, without understanding the game; they go to auctions, without intending to buy; they go to operas, without any ear; and slight their husbands without disliking them; and all — because it is the fashion.
WIFE. Well, I’ll try to be as much in fashion as I can: but pray when must I go to these beaus? for I really long to see them. For Miss Jenny says, she’s sure I shall like them; and if I do, i’facks! I believe I shall tell them so, notwithstanding what our parson says.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. Bravely said! I will show you some fine gentlemen, which I warrant you will like.
WIFE. And will they like me?
TAWDRY. Like you! they’ll adore you, they’ll worship you. Madam, says my lord, you are the most charming, beautiful, fine creature that ever my eyes beheld!
WIFE. What’s that? Do say that over again.
TAWDRY. [Repeats.] Madam, you are, &c.
WIFE. And will they think all this of me?
TAWDRY. No doubt of it. They’ll swear it.
WIFE. Then to be sure they will think it. Yes, yes, then to be sure they will think so. I wish I could see these charming men.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. Oh, you will see them everywhere. Here in the house I have had several to visit me, who have said the same thing to me and this young lady.
WIFE. What, did they call you charming and beautiful? — By gole, I think they may very well say so to me. [Aside.] But when will these charming men come?
MRS. MIDNIGHT. They’ll be here immediately: but your ladyship will dress yourself. I see your man has brought your things. I suppose your ladyship has your clothes with you?
WIFE. O yes, I have clothes enough; I have a fine thread satin suit of clothes of all the colours in the rainbow; then I have a fine red gown, flowered with yellow, all my own work; and a fine laced suit of pinners, that was my great grandmother’s; that has been worn but twice these forty years, and, my mother told me, cost almost four pounds when it was new, and reaches down hither. And then I have a great gold watch that hath continued in our family, I can’t tell how long, and is almost as broad as a moderate punch-bowl; and then I have two great gold ear-rings, and six or seven rings for my finger, worth about twenty pounds all together; and a thousand fin
e things that you shall see.
MRS. MIDNIGHT. Ay, madam, these things would have dressed your ladyship very well an hundred years ago: but the fashions are altered. Laced pinners, indeed. You must cut off your hair, and get a little periwig and a French cap; and instead of a great watch, you must have one so small, that it is impossible it should go; and — but come, this young lady will instruct you. Pray, miss, wait on the lady to her department, and send for proper tradesmen to dress her; such as the fine ladies use. Madam, you shall be dressed as you ought to be.
WIFE. Thank you, madam; and then I shall be as fine a lady as the best of them. By gole, this London is a charming place! If ever my husband gets me out of it again, I am mistaken. Come, dear miss, I am impatient. Do you know me? ha, he, ha! — [Exit Wife and Tawdry.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 346
