 Act 1 of The Conscious Lovers by Richard Steele This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Conscious Lovers Ilugenes Narationis, quadimpersonis positumist, Debetiberi Sermonis festivitatum, animorum dissimilitudinum, gravitatum, zenitatum, spemmetum, suspisionum, desiderium, dissimulationum, mesericordium, rerum variatatis, fortunaicomutationum, inspiratum incomodum, subitum lentitium, cecundum exitum brerum, cicero, rhetorica at herenium, liba unis. Footnote The kind of narrative which is presented on the stage ought to be marked by gaiety of dialogue, diversity of character, seriousness, tenderness, hope, fear, suspicion, desire, pity, variety of events, changes of fortune, unexpected disaster, sudden joy, and a happy ending. The Conscious Lovers, a comedy which had been long in preparation, was acted at Drury Lane Theatre on November the 7th, 1722, with new scenes and all the characters new dressed, and with Booth, who had acted the part of Pampholus, the prototype of young Bevel, at Wispinster with great success, Wilkes, Myrtle, Sibber, Tom, Mills, Sir John Bevel, Mrs. Oldfield, Indiana, and Mrs. Younger, Phyllis, in the principal parts. The play ran for eighteen nights and was a great success. It was often revived between 1722 and 1760, and was acted at Covent Garden in 1810, and at Bath in 1818. Phyllis was Peg Woffington's second speaking character in Dublin, and she took that part on March 9th, 1741, during her first season in London. The play was published by Tolson on December 1st, 1722, with the date 1723 on the title page. The general idea of the piece is taken from Terence's Andrea, but the original is widely departed from after the opening scenes. Collie Sibber lent material aid in preparing the play for representation. It was attacked by John Dennis in two pamphlets, and defended by Benjamin Victor and others. To the King. May it please your Majesty, after having aspired to the highest and most laudable ambition, that of following the cause of liberty, I should not have humbly petitioned your Majesty for a direction of the theatre had I not believed success in that province and happiness much to be wished by an honest man, and highly conducing to the prosperity of the Commonwealth. It is in this view I lay before your Majesty a comedy which the audience, injustice to themselves, has supported and encouraged, and is the prelude of what, by your Majesty's influence and favour, may be attempted in future representations. The imperial mantle, the royal vestment, and the shining diadema what strike ordinary minds, but your Majesty's native goodness, your passion for justice and her constant assessor mercy, is what continually surrounds you in the view of intelligent spirits, and gives hope to the supplicant who sees he has more than succeeded in giving your Majesty an opportunity of doing good. Our King is above the greatness of royalty, and every act of his will which makes another man happy has ten times more charms in it than one that makes himself appear raised above the condition of others. But even this carries unhappiness with it, for calm dominion, equal grandeur, and familiar greatness do not easily affect the imagination of the vulgar, who cannot see power but in terror. And as fear moves mean spirits, and love prompts great ones to obey, the insinuations of malcontents are directed accordingly, and the unhappy people are ensnared from want of reflection into disrespectful ideas of their gracious and amiable sovereign, and then only begin to apprehend the greatness of their master when they have incurred his displeasure. As your Majesty was invited to the throne of a willing people for their own sakes, and has ever enjoyed it with contempt of the ostentation of it, we beseech you to protect us who revere your title as we love your person, it is to be a savage to be a rebel, and they who have fallen from you have not so much forfeited their allegiance as lost their humanity. And therefore if it were only to preserve myself from the imputation of being amongst the insensible and abandoned, I would beg permission in the most public manner possible to profess myself with the utmost sincerity and zeal, sire, your Majesty's most devoted subject and servant, Richard Steele. The preface. This comedy has been received with universal acceptance, for it was in every part excellently performed, and there needs no other applause of the actors but that they excelled according to the dignity and difficulty of the character they represented. But this great favour done to the work in acting renders the expectation still the greater from the author to keep up the spirit in the representation of the closet or any other circumstance of the reader, whether alone or in company, to which I can only say that it must be remembered a play is to be seen, and is made to be represented with the advantage of action, nor can appear but with half the spirit without it, for the greatest effect of a play in reading is to excite the reader to go and see it, and when he does so it is then a play has the effect of example and precept. The chief design of this was to be an innocent performance, and the audience have abundantly shown how ready they are to support what is visibly intended that way. Nor do I make any difficulty to acknowledge that the whole was writ for the sake of the scene of the fourth act, wherein Mr. Bevel evades the quarrel with his friend, and hope it may have some effect on the goths and vandals that frequent the theatres, or a more polite audience may supply their absence. But this incident, and the case of the father and daughter, are esteemed by some people as no subjects of comedy, but I cannot be of their mind, for anything that has its foundation in happiness and success must be allowed to be the subject of comedy, and sure it must be an improvement of it to introduce a joy too exquisite for laughter that can have no spring but in delight, which is the case of this young lady. I must therefore contend that the tears which were shed on that occasion flowed from reason and good sense, and that men ought not to be laughed at for weeping till we are come to a more clear notion of what is to be imputed to the hardness of the head and the softness of the heart. And I think it was very politely said of Mr. Wilkes, to one who told him there was a general weeping for Indiana, I'll warrant he'll fight near the worst for that. To be apt to give way to the impressions of humanity is the excellence of a right disposition and the natural working of a well-turned spirit. But as I have suffered by critics who have got no farther than to inquire whether they ought to be pleased or not, I would willingly find them properer a matter for their employment, and revive here a song which was omitted for want of a performer, and designed for the entertainment of Indiana, Sr. Carbonelli, instead of it played on the fiddle. And it is for want of a singer that such advantageous things are said of an instrument which were designed for a voice. The song is the distress of a lovesick maid, and may be a fit entertainment for some small critics to examine whether the passion is just, or the distress, male or female. One, from place to place for lawn I go, with downcast eyes a silent shade, forbidden to declare my woe to speak till spoken to, afraid. Two, my inward pangs, my secret grief, my soft, consenting looks betray, he loves, but gives me no relief. Why speaks not he, who may? It remains to say a word concerning Terrence, and I am extremely surprised to find what Mr. Sibber told me prove a truth, that what I valued myself so much upon, the translation of him, should be imputed to me as a reproach. Mr. Sibber's zeal for the work, his care and application in instructing the actors and altering the disposition of the scenes when I was, through sickness, unable to cultivate such things myself, has been a very obliging favour and friendship to me. For this reason I was very hardly persuaded to throw away Terrence's celebrated funeral, and take only the bare authority of the young man's character, and how I have worked it into an Englishman, and made use of the same circumstances of discovering a daughter when we least hoped for one, is humbly submitted to the learned reader. Prologue by Mr. Welstead Spoken by Mr. Wilkes To win your hearts, and to secure your praise, the comic writers strive, by various ways. By subtle stratagems they act their game, and leave untried no avenue to fame. One writes the spouse a beating from his wife, and says each stroke was copied from the life. Some fix all wit and humour in grimace and make a livelihood of Pinky's face. Here one gay show and costly habits tries, confiding to the judgment of your eyes. Another smuts his scene, a cunning shaver, sure of the rakes and of the wenches' favour. Oft of these arts prevailed, and one may guess if practised or again would find success. But the bold sage, the poet of to-night, by new and desperate rules resolved to write. How would he give more just applause his rise, and please by wit that scorns the aids of vice? The praise he seeks from worthy emotive springs. Such praise as praise to those that give it brings. Your aid most humbly sought then, Britons lend, and liberal mirth like liberal men defend. No more let ribaldry with license writ usurp the name of eloquence or wit. No more let lawless farce uncensure to go the lewd dull gleaning of a Smithfield show. Tid yours with breeding to refine the age, to chase and wit, and moralise the stage. Be ye modest, wise and good, ye fair ye brave, to-night the champion of your virtues save. Redeem from long contempt the comic name, and judge politely, for your country's fame. Dramatis personae. Sir John Bevel, read by Todd. Mr. Sea-land, read by Aljipag. Bevel, Jr., in love with Indiana, read by Adrian Stevens. Myrtle, in love with Lucinda, read by Adam Bielka. Simberton, a coxcomb, read by Alan Mapstone. Humphrey, an old servant to Sir John, read by Larry Wilson. Tom. And to Bevel, Jr., read by Thomas Peter. Daniel, a country boy, servant to Indiana, read by Athonismint. Mrs. Sea-land, second wife to Sea-land, read by Sonja. Isabella, sister to Sea-land, read by Catherine Phipps. Indiana, Sea-land's daughter by his first wife, read by Rapunzelina. Lucinda, Sea-land's daughter by his second wife, read by Dvorah Allen. Phyllis, made to Lucinda, read by T.J. Burns. Servant, read by Lian Yao. Stage Directions, read by Michael Maggs. Scene, London. The Conscious Lovers. Act, the first. Scene one, Sir John Bevel's house. Enter Sir John Bevel and Humphrey. Have you ordered that I should not be interrupted while I am dressing? Yes, sir. I believe you had something of movement to say to me. Let me see, Humphrey. I think it is now full forty years since I first took thee to be about myself. I thank you, sir. It has been an easy forty years, and I have passed them without much sickness, care or labour. Thou hast a brave constitution. You are a year or two older than I am, sir, ah. You have ever been of that mind, sir. You knave, you know it. I took thee for thy gravity and sobriety in my wild years. Ah, sir, our manners were formed from our different fortunes, not our different age. Wealth gave a loose to your youth, and poverty put a restraint upon mine. Well, Humphrey, you know I have been a kind master to you. I have used you for the ingenuous nature I observed in you from the beginning, more like a humble friend than a servant. I humbly beg you'll be so tender of me as to explain your commands, sir, without any further preparation. I'll tell thee, then. In the first place, this wedding of my sons in all probability, shut the door, will never be at all. How, sir? Not to be at all? For what reason is it carried on in appearance? Honest, Humphrey, have patience, and I'll tell thee all in order. I have myself, in some part of my life, lived, indeed, with freedom, but I hope without reproach. Now I thought liberty would be as little injurious to my son. Therefore, as soon as he grew towards man, I indulged him in living after his own manner. I knew not how otherwise to judge of his inclination, for what can be concluded from a behavior under restraint and fear? But what charms me above all expression is, that my son has never, in the least action, the most distant hint or word, valued himself upon that greatest date of his mother's, which, according to our marriage settlement, he has had ever since he came to age. No, sir, on the contrary. He seems afraid of appearing to enjoy it before you or any belonging to you. He is as dependent and resigned to your will as if he had not a farthing but what must come from your immediate bounty. You have ever acted like a good and generous father, and he like an obedient and grateful son. Nay! His carriage is so easy to all with whom he conferses, that he is never assuming, never prefers himself to others, nor ever is guilty of that rough sincerity which a man is not called to, and certainly disabliges most of his acquaintance. To be short, Humphrey, his reputation was so fair in the world, that Old Sealand, the great India merchant, has offered his only daughter and sole heiress to that vast estate of his as a wife for him. You may be sure I made no difficulties, the match was agreed on, and this very day named for the wedding. What hinders the preceding? Don't interrupt me. You know I was last Thursday at the masquerade. My son, you may remember, soon found us out. He knew his grandfather's habit, which I then wore, and though it was the mode in the last age, yet the maskers, you know, followed us as if we had been the most monstrous figures in that whole assembly. I remember indeed a young man of quality in the habit of a clown that was particularly troublesome. Right. He was too much what he seemed to be. You remember how impertently he followed and teased us, and would know who we were. Humphrey, aside, I know he has a mind to come into that particular. I. He followed us till a gentleman who led the lady in the indiamantle presented that gay creature to the rustic and bid him, like Simon in the fable, grow polite by falling in love, and let that were the old gentleman alone, meaning me. The clown was not reformed, but rudely persisted, and offered to force off my mask. With that the gentleman, throwing off his own, appeared to be my son, and in his concern for me tore off that of the nobleman. At this they seized each other, the company called the guards, and in surprise the lady swooned away, upon which my son quitted his adversary, and had now no care but of the lady. When raising her in his arms, Art thou gone, cried he, for ever, forbid it, heaven? She revived at his known voice, and with the most familiar, the modest gesture, hangs in safety over his shoulder weeping, but wept as in the arms of one before whom she could give herself a loose, or she not under observation. While she hides her face in his neck, he carefully conveys her from the company. I have observed this accident has dwelt upon you very strongly. Her uncommon air, her noble modesty, the dignity of a person, and the occasion itself, drew the whole assembly together, and I soon heard it buzzed about she was the adopted daughter of a famous sea officer who had served in France. Now this unexpected and public discovery of my son's so deep concern for her, Was what I supposed alarmed Mr. Seeland, in behalf of his daughter, to break off the match. You are right. He came to me yesterday and said he thought himself disengaged from the bargain. Be incredibly informed my son was already married, or worse, to the lady at the masquerade. I palviated matters, and insisted on our agreement, but we parted with little less than a direct breach between us. Well, sir, and what notice have you taken of all this to my young master? That's what I wanted to debate with you. I have said nothing to him yet. But look, you Humphrey, if there is so much in this armor of his, that he denies upon my summons to marry, I have cause enough to be offended. And then, by my insisting upon his marrying to-day, I shall know how far he is engaged to this lady in masquerade, and from thence only shall be able to take my measures. In the meantime I would have you find out how far that rogue, his man, has got into his secret. He, I know, will play tricks as much to cross me as to serve his master. Why do you think of himself, sir? I believe he is no worse than I was for you at your son's age. I see it in the rascals' looks. But I have dwelt on these things too long. I'll go to my son immediately, and while I'm gone your part is to convince his rogue, Tom, that I am an earnest. I'll leave him to you. Exits the John Bevel. Well though this father and son live as well together as possible, yet their fear of giving each other pain is attended with constant mutual uneasiness. I'm sure I have enough to do, to be honest, and yet keep well with them both. But they know I love them, and that makes the task less painful, however. Oh, here's the Prince of Warcoxcomes, the representative of all the better-fed than top. Ho-ho, Tom, whether so gay and so airy this morning! Enter Tom, singing. Sir, we servants of single gentlemen are another kind of people than you of domestic or narrow judges that do business. We are race above you. The pleasures of board wages, tavern, dinners, and many a clear gain. Veils alas, you never heard or dreamt of. Thou hast follies and vices enough for a man of ten thousand a year. Lo, tis but as to the day that I sent for you to town to put you into Mr. Seeland's family, that you might learn a little before I put you to my young master, who is too gentle for training such a rude thing as you were in too-proper obedience. You then pulled off your hat to everyone you met in the street, like a bashful great-awkward cub as you were, but your great oaken cudgel, when you were a bobby, became you much better than that dangling stick at your button. Now you are a fob. That's fit for nothing, except it hangs there to be ready for your master's hand when you are impertinent. Uncle Humphrey, you know my master scorns to strike his servants. You talk as if the world was now just as it was when my old master knew you were in your youth, when you went to dinner, because it was so much a clock, when the great blower was given in the hall at the pantry door, and all the family came out of their hoes in such strange dresses and formal faces as you see in the pictures in our long gallery in the country. Why you wild rogue! You could not fall to your dinner till a formal fellow in a black gown said something of the meat, if the cook had not made it ready enough. Sir Rah, who do you pray to after, the spicy men of sacred characters? I hope you never heard my good young master talk so like a profligate. Sir, I say you put upon me when I first came to town about being orderly, the doctrine of wearing shams to make linen last clean a fortnight, keeping my clothes fresh and wearing a frog within doors. Sir Rah, I gave you those lessons because I supposed at the time your master and you might have dined at home every day, and cost you nothing, then you might have made a good family servant. But the gang you have frequented since at chocolate houses in taverns in a continual round of noise and extravagance I don't know what you heavy inmates call noise and extravagance, but we gentlemen who are well fed and cut a figure, sir, think in a fine life, that we must be very pretty fellows who are kept only to be looked at. Very well, sir. I hope the fashion of being lewd and extravagant, despising of decency and order, is almost at an end, since it has arrived at persons of your quality. Master Humphrey, you are an unhappy lad to be sent up to the town in such queer days as you were. Why now, sir, the lackeys are the men of pleasure of the age, the top game-sters, and many a lace-coat about town have had their education in our party-coloured regiment, where false lovers have a taste of music, poetry, be do, dress, politics, ruin damsels, and when we are tired of this lewd town and have a mind to take up, whip into our master's wigs and linen and merry fortunes. Hey, day! Nay, sir, our order is carried up to the highest dignities and distinctions. Step but into the painted chamber, and by our titles you take us all for men of quality. Then again, come down to the court of requests, and you see us all laying our broken heads together for the good of the nation. And though we never carry a question, name any court to decente, yet this I can say with a safe conscience, and I wish every gentleman of our cloth could lay his hand upon his heart and say the same, so I never took so much as a single mug of beer for my virtue and all my life. Sir, ah, there is no enduring your extravagance. I'll hear you pray to no longer. I wanted to see you to inquire how things go with your master, as far as you understand them. I suppose he knows he is to be married to-day. I say he knows it, and is dressed as gay as a son, but between you and I, my dear, he has a very heavy heart under all that gait. As soon as he was dressed I retired, but overheard him sigh in the most heavy manner. He walked thoughtfully to and flow in the room, then went into his closet. When he came out he gave me this for his mistress, whose maid you know. It's passionately fond of your fine person. The poor fool is so tender and loves to hear me talk of the world, and the plays, operas, and redottos for the winter, the parks, and bell-size for our summer diversions, and lards as she. You are so wild, but you have a world of humor. Ah, cockscomb! Well, but why don't you run with your master's letter to Mrs. Lucinda, as he ordered you? Because Mr. Lucinda is not so easy to come at as you think for. Not easily come at? Why, sirrah, are not her father and my old master agreed that she and Mr. Bevel are to be one flesh before tomorrow morning? It's no matter for that, her mother, it seems. Mr. Seeland has not agreed to it, and you must know, Master Humphrey, that in that family the grey mare is the better horse. What does that mean? In one word, Mr. Seeland pretends to have a will of her own, and has provided a relation of hers, a stiff, starched philosopher, and a wise fool for her daughter, for which reason, for these ten days past, she has suffered no message nor letter from my master to come near her. And where had you this intelligence? From her foolish phone-server can keep nothing from me, one that will deliver this letter to, if she is rightly managed. What, her pretty handmaid, Mrs. Phyllis? Even she, sir, this is the very hour, you know, she usually comes hither, and her pretends to visit your housekeeper for sooth, but in reality to have a glance at. Your sweet face I warned you. Nothing else in nature. You must know I love to fret and play with a little wanton. Play with the little wanton. What will this world come to? I met her this morning in a new manteau and petticoat, not a bit the worst for her lady's wearing, and she has always new thoughts and new airs with new clothes, and she never fails to seal some glance or gesture from every visitant at the house, and it is indeed the whole town of the cockets at second hand, but here she comes, in one motion she speaks and describes herself better than all the words in the world can. Then I hope, dear sir, when your own affair is over, you will be so good as to mind your masters with her. Dear Humphrey, you know my master's my friend, and those are people I never forget. Ah, sauciness itself! But I'll leave you to do your best for him. Enter Phyllis. Oh, Mr. Thomas, is Mrs. Sugarkeet home? That one is almost ashamed to pass along the streets. The town is quite empty, and nobody of fashion left in it, and the ordinary people do stare to see anything dressed like a woman of condition as if it were on the same floor as them passed by. Alas, alas, it is a sad thing to walk. Oh, fortune, fortune! What? A sad thing to walk? Why, Madam Phyllis, do you wish yourself lame? No, Mr. Tom, but I wish I were generally carried in a coach, or a chair, and of a fortune neither to stand nor go, but to totter or slide, to be short-sighted or to stare, to fleer in the face, to look distant, to observe, to overlook, yet all become me. And if I was rich, I could toy her and lull, as well as the best of them. Ah, oh, Tom, Tom, is it not a pity that you should be so great a coxcomb, and I so great a coquet? And yet be such poor devils as we are. Mr. Phyllis, I am your humble servant for that. Yes, Mr. Thomas, I know how much you are my humble servant, and I know what you said to Miss Judy, upon seeing her in one of her lady's cast mantos, that anyone would have thought her the lady, and that she had ordered the other to wear it till it sat easy, for now only it was becoming. To my lady it was only a covering. To Miss Judy it was a habit, this you said after somebody or other. Oh, Tom, Tom, thou art as false in his base as the best gentleman of them all. Ah, but you wretch, talk to me no more on the old odious subject, don't I say? Tom, in a submissive tone, retiring. I know not how to resist your commands, madam. Ha! Commands about part, you know, go on mighty easy to you of late. Tom, aside. Oh, I have er, I have netted and put into the right temper to be wrought upon and set to prating. Why, truly, to be plain with you, Mr. Phyllis, I can take little comfort of late and frequenting a house. Pray, Mr. Thomas, what is it all of a sudden offends your nicety at our house? I don't care to speak particulars, but I dislike the whole. Ha! I thank you, sir. I am part of that whole. Mistake me not, good Phyllis. Good Phyllis, sars enough, but, however... I say it is thou art a part which gives me pain for the disposition of the whole. You must know, madam, to be serious, I am a man at the bottom of prodigious nice honour. You are too much exposed to company at your house. To be plain, I don't like so many that would be your mistress' lovers whispering to you. Don't think to put that upon me. You say this, because I rung you to the heart when I touched your guilty conscience about Judy. Ah, Phyllis! Phyllis, if you but knew my heart. Ha! I know too much on it. Nay, then, poor Crispo's fate and mine are one. Therefore, give me a late to say, I'll sing at least, as he does upon the same occasion. Save the dead here, et cetera. What? Do you think I'm to be fobbed off with the song? I don't question, but you have sung the same to Miss Judy, too. Don't disparage your charms, good Phyllis, with jealousy of so worthless an object. Besides, she is a poor hussy, and if you doubt the sincerity of my love, you will allow me true to my interest. You are a fortune, Phyllis. What would the fop be at now? In good time, indeed, you shall be setting up a fortune. Dear Mistress Phyllis, you have such a spirit that we shall never be done in marriage when we come together. But I tell you, you are a fortune, and you have an estate in my hands. He pulls out a purse. She eyes it. What pretends her vie to what is in your hands, Mr. Tom? As thus. There are hours, you know, when a lady is neither pleased or displeased, nor sick or well, when she lolls, or loiters, when she is without desires, from having more of everything than she knows what to do with. Well, what then? When she is not life enough to keep her bright eyes quite open, to look at her own dear image in the glass. Bring thyself, and don't be so fond of thy own prattine. There are also prosperous and good-natured moments, is when a knot or a patch is happily fixed, when the complexion in particular lay flourishes. Well, what then? I have not patience. Why then? Or, on the like occasions, we servants who have skill to know how to time business see when such a pretty folded thing as this Shows a letter. Only presented, laid or dropped, as best suits the present humour, and madden, because it is a long, wearisome journey to run through all the several stages of a lady's temper, my master, who is the most reasonable man in the world, presents to you this to bear your charges on the road. Gives her the purse. Ha! Now you think me a corrupt hussy! Oh, fie! I only think you'll take the letter. Nay, I know you do. But I know my own innocence. I take it for my mistress's sake. I know it, my pretty one. I know it. Yes, I say I do it, because I would not have my mistress deluded by one who gives no proof of his passion, but I'll talk more of tips as you see me on my way home. No, Tom, are you sure thee? I take this trash of thy masters, not for the value of a thing, but as it convinces me he has a true respect for my mistress. I remember a verse to the purpose. They may be false who languish and complain, but they who part with money never fain. Exceunt. Scene two. Bevel Junior's lodgings. Bevel Junior reading. These moral writers practise virtue after death. This charming vision of Mercer. Such an author consulted in the morning sets the spirit for the vicissitudes of the day better than the glass does a man's person. But what a day I have to go through to put on an easy look with an aching heart. If this lady my father urges me to marry, should not refuse me, my dilemma is insupportable. But why should I fear it? Is she not in equal distress with me? Has not the letter I sent her this morning confessed my inclination to another? Nay, have I not moral assurances of her engagements, too, to my friend Myrtle? It's impossible, but she must give in to it. For sure to be denied is a favour any man may pretend to. It must be so. Well, then, with the assurance of being rejected, I think I may confidently say to my father I am ready to marry her. Then let me resolve upon what I am not very good at, though, is an honest dissimulation. Enter Tom. Sir John Bevel, sir, is in the next room. Duntz, why did you not bring him in? I told him, sir, you were in your closet. I thought you had known, sir, it was my duty to see my father anywhere. Going himself to the door. Tom, aside. The devil's in my master. He has always more wit than I have. Bevel, Jr., introducing Sir John. Sir, you are the most gallant, the most complacent of all parents. Sure, it is not a compliment to say these lodgings are yours. Why would you not walk in, sir? I was loath to interrupt you unseasonably on your wedding-day. One to whom I am beholden for my birthday might have used less ceremony. Well, son, I have intelligence you have writ to your mistress this morning. It would please my curiosity to know the contents of a wedding-day letter, for courtship must then be over. I assure you, sir, there is no insolence in it upon the prospect of such a vast fortune as being added to our family, but much acknowledgement of the lady's greater dessert. But, dear Jack, are you in earnest in all this? And will you really marry her? Did I ever disobey any command of your sir, nay, any inclination that I saw you bent upon? Why, I can't say you have, son. But me thinks in this whole business you have not been so warm as I could have wished you. You have visited her, it's true, but you have not been particular. Everyone knows you can say and do as handsome the things as any man, but you have done nothing but lived in the general, been complacent only. As I am ever prepared to marry, if you bid me, so I am ready to let it alone, if you will have me. Humphriant is unobserved. Look you there now! Why, what am I to think of this so absolute and so indifferent a resignation? Think! The time stole your son. Sir, you have been married and I have not. And you have, sir, found the inconvenience there is when a man weds with too much love in his head. I have been told, sir, that at the time you married, you made a mighty bustle on the occasion. There was challenging and fighting, scaling walls, locking up the lady, and the gallant under an arrest for fear of killing all his rivals. Now, sir, I suppose you have found the ill consequences of these strong passions and prejudices, in preference of one woman to another, in case of a man's becoming a widower. How is this? I say, sir, experience has made you wiser in your care of me, for, sir, since you lost my dear mother, your time has been so heavy, so lonely, and so tasteless, that you are so good as to guard me against the like unhappiness by marrying me prudently by way of bargain and sale. For, as you well judge, a woman that is espoused for a fortune is yet a better bargain if she dies. For, then, a man still enjoys what he did marry, the money, and is disencumbered of what he did not marry the woman. But pray, sir, do you think Lucinda, then, a woman of such little merit? Pardon me, sir, I don't care it so far, neither. I am rather afraid I shall like her too well. She has, for one of her fortune, a great many needless and superfluous good qualities. I'm afraid, son, there's something I don't see yet, something that's smothered under all this railery. Not in the least, sir, if the lady is dressed and ready, you see I am. I suppose the lawyers are ready too. Humphrey, aside. Oh, this may grow warm if I don't interpose. Sir, Mr. Seeland is at the coffee-house, and has sent to speak with you. Oh, that's well. Then I warrant the lawyers are ready. Son, you'll be in the way, you say. If you please, sir, I'll take a chair and go to Mr. Seeland's, where the young lady and I will wait to your leisure. By no means. The old fellow will be so vain if he sees. I, but the young lady, sir, will think me so indifferent. Humphrey, aside to Bevel Jr. I, there you are right. Press your readiness to go to the bride. He won't let you. Bevel Jr. aside to Humphrey. Are you sure of that? How he likes being prevented. Sir John Bevel, looking on his watch. No, no. You are an hour or two too early. You'll allow me, sir, to think it too late to visit a beautiful, virtuous young woman in the pride and bloom of life ready to give herself to my arms and place her happiness or misery for the future in being agreeable or displeasing to me is, uh, call a chair. No, no, no, dear Jack. This Seeland is a moody old fellow. There is no dealing with some people, but by managing with indifference. We must leave to him the conduct of this day. It is the last of his commanding his daughter. Sir, he can't take it ill that I am impatient to be hers. Pray let me govern in this matter. You can't tell how humorsome some old fellows are. There is no offering reason to some of them, especially when they are rich. Aside. If my son should see him before I brought old Seeland into better temper, the match would be impracticable. Humphrey, aside to Sir John. Pray, sir, let me beg you to let Mr. Bevel go. See whether he will or not. Then to Bevel. Pray, sir, command yourself. Since you see my master as positive, it is better you should not go. My father commands me as to the object of my affections, but I hope he will not as to the warmth and height of them. So I must even leave things as I found them, and in the meantime, at least, keep old Seeland out of his sight. Well, son, I'll go myself and take orders in your affair. You'll be in the way, I suppose, if I send to you. I'll leave your old friend with you. Humphrey, don't let him stir at you here. You're a servant, you're a servant. Exit, Sir John. I have a sad time on it, sir, between you and my master. I see you are unwilling, and I know his violent inclinations for the match. I must betray neither, and yet deceive you both for your common good. Heaven grant a good end of this matter. But there is a lady, sir, that gives your father much trouble and sorrow. You'll pardon me. Humphrey, I know thou art a friend to both, and in that confidence I dare tell thee, that lady is a woman of honour and virtue. You may assure yourself I never will marry without my father's consent, but give me leave to say, too, this declaration does not come up to a promise that I will take whomsoever he pleases. Come, sir, I wholly understand you. You would engage my services to free you from this woman whom my master intends you to make way in time, for the woman you have really a mind to. Honest Humphrey, you've always been a useful friend to my father and myself. I beg you, continue your good offices, and don't let us come to the necessity of a dispute, for if we should dispute I must either part with more than life, or lose the best of fathers. My dear master, were I but worthy to know this secret, that so near concerns you, my life, my all should be engaged to serve you. This, sir, I dare promise, that I am sure I will, and can be secret. Your trust at worst, but leaves you where you were, and if I cannot serve you, I will at once be plain and tell you so. That's all I ask. Thou has made it now my interest to trust thee. Be patient, then, and hear the story of my heart. I am all attention, sir. You may remember, Humphrey, that in my last travels my father grew uneasy at my making so long a stay at Toulon. I remember it. He was apprehensive some woman had laid hold of you. His fears were just. For there I first saw this lady. She is of English birth. Her father's name was Danvers, a younger brother of an ancient family, and originally an eminent merchant of Bristol, who, upon repeated misfortunes, was reduced to go privately to the Indies. In this retreat, Providence again grew favourable to his industry, and in six years' time restored him to his former fortunes. On this he sent directions over that his wife and little family should follow him to the Indies. His wife, impatient to obey such welcome orders, would not wait the leisure of a convoy, but took the first occasion of a single ship, and, with her husband's sister only, and this daughter then scarce seven years old, undertook the fatal voyage. For here, poor creature, she lost her liberty and life. She and her family with all they had were, unfortunately, taken by a privateer from Toulon. Being thus made a prisoner, though as such not ill-treated, yet the fright, the shock, and cruel disappointment seized with such violence upon her unhealthy frame, she sickened, kind, and died at sea. Poor soul, old, the helpless infant! Her sister yet survived, and had the care of her. The captain, too, proved to have humanity, and became a father to her. For having himself married an English woman, and being childless, he brought her into Toulon, with her little country-woman, presenting her, with all her dead mother's movables of value, to his wife, to be educated as his own adopted daughter. Fortune here seemed again to smile on her. Only to make her frowns more terrible, for in his height of fortune, this captain, too, her benefactor, unfortunately, was killed at sea, and dying in test-state, his estateful holy to an advocate, his brother, who, coming to take possession there, found, among his other riches, this blooming virgin at his mercy. He does not, sir, abuse his power. No wonder if his pampered blood was fired at the sight of her, in short, he loved, but when all arts and gentle means had failed to move, he offered to his menaces in vain, denouncing vengeance on her cruelty, demanding her to account for all her maintenance from her childhood, seized on her little fortune as his own inheritance, and was dragging her by violence to prison, when providence at the instant interposed, and sent me, by miracle, to relieve her. To us providence indeed, but pray, sir, after all this trouble, how came this lady at last to England? The disappointed advocate, finding she had so unexpected a support on cooler thoughts, descended to a composition which I, without her knowledge, secretly discharged. That generous concealment made the obligation double. Having thus obtained her liberty, I prevailed, not without some difficulty, to see her safe to England, where, no sooner arrived, but my father, jealous of my being imprudently engaged, immediately proposed this other fatal match that hangs upon my quiet. I find, sir, you are irrecoverably fixed upon this lady. As my vital life dwells in my heart, and yet you see what I do to please my father, walk in this pageantry of dress, this splendid covering of sorrow, but, Humphrey, you have your lesson. Now, sir, I have but one material question. Ask it freely. Is it then your own passion for this secret lady, or hers for you, that gives you this aversion to the match your father has proposed you? I shall appear, Humphrey, more romantic in my answer, than in all the rest of my story, for though I dot on her to death, and have no little reason to believe she has the same thoughts for me yet, in all my acquaintance, and utmost privaces with her, I never once directly told her that I loved. How was it possible to avoid it? My tender obligations to my father have laid so inviolable a restraint upon my conduct that, till I have his consent to speak, I am determined on that subject to be done for ever. Well, sir, to your praise be it spoken, you are certainly the most unfashionable lover in Great Britain. Enter Tom. Sir, Master Myrtle's at the next door, and if you are at leisure we'll be glad to wait on you. Whenever he pleases. Hold, Tom, did you receive no answer to my letter? Sir, I was desired to call again, for I was told her mother would not let her be out of her sight, but about an hour hence, Mistress Lettuce said I should certainly have one. Very well. Exit Tom. Sir, I will take another opportunity. In the meantime, I only think it proper to tell you that, from a secret I know, you may appear to your father as forward as you please, to marry Lucinda without the least hazard of its coming to a conclusion. Sir, you're most obedient servant. Honest Humphrey, continue but my friend in this exigence, and you shall always find me yours. Exit Humphrey. I long to hear how my letter has succeeded with Lucinda, but I think it cannot fail, for at worst, where it possible she could take it ill, her resentment of my indifference may as probably occasion a delay as her taking it right. Poor metal, what terrors must he be in all this while, since he knows she is offered to me, and refused to him. There is no conversing or taking any measures with him for his own service, but I ought to bear with my friend, and use him as one in adversity. All his disquietes by my own, I prove, the greatest griefs perplexity in love. Exit End of Act 1 Act 2 Of The Conscious Lovers by Richard Steele This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Act II Scene I Bevel Junior's Lodgings Scene I Enter Bevel Junior and Tom Sir, Master Myrtle Very well, do you step again and wait for an answer to my letter? Exit Tom Enter Myrtle Well, Charles, why so much care in thy countenance? Is there anything in this world deserves it? You who used to be so gay, so open, so vacant? I think we have of late changed complexions. You, who used to be much the graver man, are now all air in your behaviour. But the cause of my concern may, for ought I know, be the same object that gives you all this satisfaction. In a word I am told that you are this very day, and your dress confirms it to me, to be married to Lucinda. You are not misinformed. No, put not on the terrace of arrival till you hear me out. I shall disablage the best of fathers if I don't seem ready to marry Lucinda. And you know, I have ever told you, you might make use of my secret resolution never to marry her for your own service, as you please. But I am now driven to the extremity of immediately refusing or complying, unless you help me to escape the match. Escape? Sir, neither her merit or her fortune are below your acceptance. Escaping, do you call it? Dear sir, do you wish I should desire the match? No, but such is my humours and sickly state of mind, since it has been able to relish nothing but Lucinda, that though I may owe my happiness to your aversion to this marriage, I can't bear to hear her spoken of with levity, or unconcern. Pardon me, sir, I shall transgress that way no more. She has understanding, beauty, shape, complexion, wit. Nay, dear bevel, don't speak of her as if you loved her neither. Why then to give you ease at once, though I allow Lucinda to have good sense, wit, beauty and virtue, I know another in whom these qualities appear to me more amiable than in her. There, you spoke like a reasonable and good-natured friend, when you acknowledge her merit and own your prepossession for another, at once you gratify my fondness and cure my jealousy. But all this while you take no notice, you have no apprehension of another man that has twice the fortune of either of us. Simberton, hang him, a formal philosophical pedantic coxcomb, for that sought with all these crude notions of diverse things, under the direction of great vanity and very little judgment, shows his strongest bias in avarice, which is so predominant in him that he will examine the limbs of his mistress with the caution of a jockey, and pays no more compliment to her personal charms than if she were a mere breeding animal. I sure that is not affected, I have known some women sooner set on fire by that sort of negligence than by— No, no, hang him, the rogue has no art, it is pure, simple, insolence and stupidity. Yet, with all this, I don't take him for a fool. I own the man is not unnatural, he is a very quick sense, though very slow understanding. He says, indeed, many things that want only the circumstances of time and place to be very just and agreeable. Well, you may be sure of me if you can disappoint him, but my intelligence says the mother has actually sent for the conventer to draw articles for his marriage with Lucinda, though those for mine with her are, by her father's orders, ready for signing, but it seems she has not thought fit to consult either him or his daughter in the matter. Sha, a poor troublesome woman, neither Lucinda nor her father will ever be brought to comply with it. Besides, I am sure Simberton can make no settlement upon her without the concurrence of his great uncle, Sir Geoffrey, in the West. Well, sir, and I can tell you that's the very point that is now laid before her counsel, to know whether a firm settlement can be made without his uncle's actual joining in it. Now, pray consider, sir, when my affair with Lucinda comes, as it soon must, to an open rupture, how are you sure that Simberton's fortune may not then tempt her father, too, to hear his proposals? There, you are right, indeed. That must be provided against. Do you know who are her counsel? Yes, for your service I have found out that, too. They are Sergeant Bramble and Old Target. By the way, they are neither of them known in the family. Now, I was thinking, why you might not put a couple of false counsel upon her to delay and confound matters a little. Besides, it may probably let you into the bottom of her whole design against you. As how, pray? Why, can't you slip on a black wig and a gown and be Old Bramble yourself? Ha! I don't dislike it. But what shall I do for a brother in the case? What think you of my fellow Tom? The rogue's intelligent and is a good mimic. All his part will be but to stutter heartily for that's Old Target's case. Nay, it would be an immoral thing to mock him, where it not that his impertinence is the occasion of its breaking out to that degree. The conduct of the scene will chiefly lie upon you. I like it, of all things. If you'll send Tom to my chambers, I will give him full instructions. This will certainly give me occasion to raise difficulties, to puzzle, or confound her project for a while, at least. I'll warrant you success, so far we are right, then. And now, Charles, your apprehension of my marrying her is all you have to get over. Dear Bevel, though I know you are my friend, yet when I abstract myself for my own interest in the thing, I know no objection she can make to you, or you to her, and therefore hope. Dear Myrtle, I must much oblige to you for the cause of your suspicion, as I am offended at the effect. But, be assured, I am taking measures for your certain security, and that all things with regard to me will end in your entire satisfaction. Well, I'll promise you to be as easy and as confident as I can, though I cannot, but remember that I have more than life at stake on your fidelity. Going. Then depend upon it. You have no chance against you. Nay, no ceremony. You know I must be going. Well, this is another instance of the perplexities which arise, too, in faithful friendship. We must often, in this life, go on in our good offices, even under the displeasure of those to whom we do them, in compassion to their weaknesses and mistakes. But all this while poor Indiana has tortured with the doubt of me, she has no support or comfort but in my fidelity, yet she sees me daily pressed to marriage with another. How painful, in such a crisis, must be every hour she thinks on me! I'll let her see at least my conduct to her. He's not changed. I'll take this opportunity to visit her, for though the religious vow I have made to my father restrains me from ever marrying without his approbation, yet that confines me not from seeing a virtuous woman that is the pure delight of my eyes and the guiltless joy of my heart, but the best condition of human life is but a gentler misery. To hope for perfect happiness is vain, and love has ever its allays of pain. Exit Scene 2 Indiana's Lodgings Enter Isabella and Indiana Yes, I say to this artifice, dear child, I say to thee again and again, to this all skill and management. Will you persuade me there can be an ill design in supporting me in the condition of a woman of quality, attended, dressed and lodged like one, in my appearance abroad and my furniture at home, every way in the most sumptuous manner, and he that does it has an artifice, a design in it? Yes, yes. And all this without so much as explaining to me that all about me comes from him. I, I, the more for that. That keeps the title to all you have, the more in him. The more in him, he scorns the thought. Then he, he, he. Well, be not so eager. If he's an ill man, let us look into his stratagems. Here is another of them. Showing a letter. Here's two hundred and fifty pounds in banknotes, with these words, to pay for the set of dressing plate, which will be brought home to-morrow. Why, dear Aunt, now here's another piece of skill for you, which I own I cannot comprehend, and it is with a bleeding heart I hear you say anything to the disadvantage of Mr. Beville. When he is present I look upon him as one to whom I owe my life and the support of it, then again as the man who loves me with sincerity and honour. When his eyes are cast another way, and I dare survey him, my heart is painfully divided between shame and love. Oh, could I tell you? Ah, you need not. I imagine all this for you. This is my state of mind in his presence, and when he is absent, you are ever dinning my ears with notions of the arts of men. That his hidden bounty, his respectful conduct, his careful provision for me, after his preserving me from utmost misery, or certain signs he means nothing but to make I know not what of me. Oh, you have a sweet opinion of him truly. I have, when I am with him, ten thousand things besides my sexist natural decency and shame, to suppress my heart that yearns to think, to praise, to say it loves him. I say, thus it is with me, while I see him, and in his absence I am entertained with nothing but your endeavours to tear this amiable image from my heart, and in its stead to place a base dissimbler, an artful invader of my happiness, my innocence, my honour. Ah, poor soul! Has not his plot taken? Don't you die for him? Has not the way he has taken been the most proper with you? Oh, oh, he has sense, and has judged the thing right. Go on, then, since nothing can answer you, say what you will of him. Hey-ho! Hey-ho, indeed! It is better to say so, as you are now, than as many others are. There are, among the destroyers of women, the gentle, the generous, the mild, the affable, the humble, who all, soon after their success in their designs, turn to the contrary of those characters. I will own to you, Mr Bevel carries his hypocrisy, the best of any man living, but still he is a man, and therefore a hypocrite. They have usurped an exemption from shame for any baseness, any cruelty towards us. They embrace without love, they make vows without conscience of obligation. They are partners, nay, see juicers to the crime, wherein they pretend to be less guilty. Indiana aside. That's truly observed. But what's all this to Bevel? This it is to Bevel and all mankind. Trust not those who will think the worst of you for your confidence in them, serpents who lie in wait for doves. Won't you be on your guard against those who would betray you? Won't you doubt those who would condemn you for believing them? Take it from me. Fair and natural dealing is to invite injuries, tis bleeding to escape wolves who would devour you. Such is the world. Aside. And such, since the behaviour of one man to myself, have I believed all the rest of the sex. I will not doubt the truth of Bevel. I will not doubt it. He has not spoke of it by an organ that is given to lying. His eyes are all that have ever told me that he was mine. I know his virtue. I know his filial piety, an oath to trust his management with a father to whom he has uncommon obligations. What have I to be concerned for? My lesson is very short. If he takes me forever, my purpose of life is only to please him. If he leaves me, which heaven avert, I know he'll do it nobly, and I shall have nothing to do but to learn to die after worse than death has happened to me. I do. Persist in your credulity. Flatter yourself that a man of his figure and fortune will make himself the jest of the town, and marry a handsome beggar for love. The town? I must tell you, madame, the fools that laugh at Mr. Bevel will but make themselves more ridiculous. His actions are the results of thinking, and he has sense enough to make even virtue fashionable. Oh, my conscience, he has turned her head! Come, come! If he were the honest fool you take him for, why has he kept you here these three weeks, without sending you to Bristol in search of your father, your family, and your relations? I am convinced he still designs it, and that nothing keeps him here but the necessity of not coming to an open breach with his father in regard to the much he has proposed him. Besides, has he not read to Bristol, and has not he advised that my father has not been heard of there almost these twenty years? All sham, mere evasion. He is afraid if he should carry you thither, your honest relations may take you out of his hands, and so blow up all his wicked hopes at once. Wicked hopes? Did I ever give him any such? Has he ever given you any honest ones? Can you say, in your conscience, he has ever once offered to marry you? No, but by his behaviour I am convinced he will offer it. The moment is in his power, or consistent with his honour, to make such a promise good to me. His honour? I will rely upon it, therefore desire you will not make my life uneasy by these ungrateful jealousies of one to whom I am and wish to be obliged. For from his integrity alone I have resolved to hope for happiness. Nay, I have done my duty. If you won't see, at your peril be it. Let it be. This is his hour of visiting me. No, to be sure, keep up your form. Don't see him in a bed-chamber. Apart. This is pure prudence. When she is liable, wherever he meets her, to be conveyed where ere he pleases. All the rest of my life is but waiting till he comes. I live only when I'm with him. Exit. Well, go thy ways, thou willful innocent! Aside. I once had almost as much love for a man who poorly left me to marry in a state, and I am now, against my will, what they call an old maid. But I will not let the peevishness of that condition grow upon me. Only keep up the suspicion of it, to prevent this creature's being any other than a virgin, except upon proper terms. Exit. Re-enter Indiana, speaking to a servant. Desire, Mr. Bevel, to walk in. Design, impossible. A base designing mind could never think of what he hourly puts in practice, and yet, since the late rumour of his marriage, he seems more reserved than formerly. He sends in, too, before he sees me, to know if I am at leisure. Such new respects may cover coldness in the heart. It certainly makes me thoughtful. I'll know the worst at once. I'll lay such fair occasions in his way, that it shall be impossible to avoid an explanation, for these doubts are insupportable. But see, he comes and clears them all. Enter Bevel. Madam, you're most obedient. I'm afraid I broke in upon your rest last night. It was very late before we parted, but to us your own fault, I never saw you in such agreeable humour. I am extremely glad we were both pleased, for I thought I never saw you better company. Me, madam, you rally, I said very little. But I am afraid you heard me say a great deal, and when a woman is in the talking vein, the most agreeable thing a man can do, you know, is to have patience to hear her. Then it's pity, madam, you should ever be silent that we might be always agreeable to one another. If I had your talent or power to make my actions speak for me, I might indeed be silent, and you can pretend to something more than the agreeable. If I might be vain of anything in my power, madam, tis that my understanding, from all your sex, has marked you out as the most deserving object of my steam. Should I think I deserve this, twere enough to make my vanity forfeit the very steam you offer me? How so, madam? Because a steam is the result of reason, and to deserve it from good sense, the heart of human glory. Nay, I had rather a man of honour should pay me that, than all the homage of a sincere and humble love. You certainly distinguish right, madam, love often kindles from external merit only. But a steam rises from a higher source, the merit of the soul. True, and great souls only can deserve it. Buying respectfully. Now I think they are greater still that can so charitably part with it. Now, madam, you make me vain, since the utmost pride and pleasure of my life is that I steam you as I ought. Indiana, aside. As he owed, still more perplexing. He neither saves nor kills my hope. But, madam, we grow grave, me thinks. Let's find some other subject. Pray, how did you like the opera last night? First give me leave to thank you for my tickets. Oh, your servant, madam. But pray tell me, you now, who are never partial to the fashion, I fancy you must be the properest judge of a mighty dispute among the ladies, that is, whether Crispo or Griselda is the more griable entertainment. With submission now, I cannot be a proper judge of this question. How so, madam? Because I find I have a partiality for one of them. Pray, which is that? I do not know. There is something in that rural cottage of Griselda, her forlorn condition, her poverty, her solitude, her resignation, her innocent slumbers, and that lulling doll to Sonia that sang over her. It had an effect upon me that, in short, I never was so well deceived at any of them. Oh, now then, I can account for the dispute. Griselda, it seems, is the distress of an injured, innocent woman. Crispo, that only of a man in the same condition. Therefore, the men are mostly concerned for Crispo, and by natural indulgence, both sexes for Griselda. So, that judgment, you think, owed to be for one, though fancy and complacence have got ground for the other? Well, I believe you will never give me leave to dispute with you on any subject. For I own, Crispo has its charms for me too. Though in the main, all the pleasure the best opera gives us is but mere sensation. Me thinks at speedy, the mind can't have a little more share in the entertainment. The music's certainly fine, but in my thoughts, there's none of your composers come up to Old Shakespeare and Otway. How, madam, why, if a woman of your sense were to say this in a drawing-room? Enter a servant. Sir, here's Senor Carbonelli, says he waits your commands in the next room. Appropo! You were saying yesterday, madam, you had a mind to hear him. Will you give him leave to entertain you now? By all means, desire the gentleman to walk in. Exit servant. I fancy you'll find something in this hand that is uncommon. You're always finding ways, Mr Bevel, to make life seem less tedious to me. Enter Musicmaster. One the gentleman pleases. After a sonata is played, Bevel waits on the master to the door, etc. You smile, madam, to see me so complacent to one whom I pay for his visit. Now, I own. I think it is not enough barely to pay those whose talents are superior to our own. I mean, such talents as would become our condition if we had them. He thinks we ought to do something more than barely gratify them for what they do at our command, only because their fortune is below us. You say I smile. I assure you it was a smile of approvation, for indeed, I cannot but think it the distinguishing part of a gentleman to make his superiority of fortune as easy to his inferiors as he can. Now, once more to try him. I was saying just now, I believed you would never let me dispute with you, and I dare say it will always be so. However, I must have your opinion upon a subject which created a debate between my aunt and me, just before you came hither. She would need's have it that no man ever does any extraordinary kindness or service for a woman, but for his own sake. Well, madam, indeed, I can't but be of her mind. What, though he should maintain and support her without demanding anything of her on her part? Why, madam, is making an expense in the service of a valuable woman, for such I must suppose her, though she should never do him any favour, nay, though she should never know who did her such service, such a mighty heroic business? Certainly, I should think he must be a man of an uncommon mould. Dear madam, why so? It is but at best a better taste in expense. To bestow upon one whom he may think one of the ornaments of the whole creation, to be conscious that from his superfluity an innocent, a virtuous spirit is supported above the temptations and sorrows of life, that he sees satisfaction, health, and gladness in her countenance, while he enjoys the happiness of seeing her, as that I will suppose to, or he must be too abstracted to insensible, I say, if he is allowed to delight in that prospect, alas, what mighty matter is there in all this? No mighty matter in so disinterested a friendship. Disinterested? I can't think him so. Your hero, madam, is no more than what every gentleman ought to be, and I believe very many are. He is only one who takes more delight in reflections than in sensations. He is more pleased with thinking than eating. That's the utmost you can say of him. Why, madam, a greater expense than all this men lay out upon an unnecessary stable of horses. Can you be sincere in what you say? You may depend upon it. If you know any such man, he does not love dogs inordinately. No that he does not. No cards, no dice. No. No bottle companions. No. No loose women. No, I'm sure he does not. Take my word then, if your admired hero is not liable to any of these kinds of demands, there's no such preeminence in this as you imagine. Nay, this way of expense you speak of is what exalts, and raises him that has a taste for it, and, at the same time, his delight is incapable of satiety, disgust or penitence. But still, I insist, his having no private interest in the action makes it prodigious, almost incredible. Dear madam, I never know you more mistaken. Why, who can be more a usurer than he who lays out his money in such valuable purchases? If pleasure be worth purchasing, how great a pleasure is it to him, who has a true taste of life, to ease an aching heart, to see the human countenance lighted up into smiles of joy on the receipt of a bit of awe, which is superfluous and otherwise useless in a man's own pocket. What could a man do better with his cash? This is the effect of a human disposition, where there is only a general tie of nature and common necessity. What then must it be when we serve an object of merit, of admiration? Well, the more you argue against it, the more I shall admire the generosity. Nay, nay, then, madam, it is time to fly, after a declaration that my opinion strengthens my adversaries' argument. I had best hasten to my appointment with Mr. Myrtle and be gone while we are friends, and before things are brought to an extremity. Exit carelessly. Enter Isabella. Well, madam, what think you of him now, pray? I protest. I begin to fear he is wholly disinterested in what he does for me. On my heart he has no other view, but the mere pleasure of doing it, and has neither good or bad designs upon me. Ah, dear niece, don't be in fear of both. I'll warrant you. You will know time enough that he is not indifferent. You please me when you tell me so. For if he has any wishes towards me, I know he will not pursue them but with honour. I wish I were as confident of one as Tother. I saw the respectful downcast of his eye when you caught him gazing at you during the music. He, I warrant, was surprised, as if he had been taken stealing your watch. The undissembled, guilty look. But did you observe any such thing, really? I thought she looked most charmingly graceful. How engaging is modesty in a man when one knows there is a great mind within. So tender a confusion, and yet, in other respects, so much himself, so collected, so dauntless, so determined. Ah, niece, there is a sort of bashfulness which is the best engine to carry on a shameless purpose. Some men's modesty serves their wickedness, as hypocrisy gains the respect due to piety. But I will own to you. There is one hopeful symptom. If there could be such a thing as a disinterested lover, but it's all a perplexity. Till. Till. Till. Till what? Till I know whether Mr. Myrtle and Mr. Bevel are really friends or foes. And that I will be convinced of, before I sleep, for you shall not be deceived. I'm sure I never shall, if your fears can guard me. In the meantime, I'll wrap myself up in the integrity of my own heart, nor dare to doubt of his. As conscious honour all his actions tears, so conscious innocence dispels my fears. Of the Conscious Lovers by Richard Steele This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act the third. Seen. Seeland's house. Enter Tom meeting Phyllis. Well, Phyllis, what? With a face as if you've never seen me before. Aside. What a work of art to do now. She has seen some new visitors at the house, whose air, she has caught, is resolved to practice them upon me. Numbulous are the changes she'll dance through before she'll answer this plain question. Be deletious, have you delivered my master's letter to your lady? Nay, I know her too well to ask an account of it in an ordinary way. I'll be in my airs as well as she. Well, madam, as unhappy as you are at present pleased to make me, I would not in the general be any other than what I am. I would not be a bit wiser, a bit richer, a bit taller, a bit shorter than I am at this instant. Looking steadfastly at her. Did ever anybody doubt, Master Thomas, but that you were extremely satisfied with your sweet self? I am indeed. The thing I have least reason to be satisfied with is my fortune, and I am glad of my poverty. Perhaps if I were rich I should overlook the finest woman in the world that wants nothing but riches to be thought so. Phyllis, aside. How prettily that was said, but I'll have a great deal more before I say one word. What perhaps have been stuporily above her had I not been a reequal, and by not being a reequal never had the opportunity of being a slave. I am a master's servant for hire. I am my mistresses from choice. Would she but approve my passion? I think it's the first time I ever heard you speak with any sense of anguish, if you really do suffer any. Ah, Phyllis, can you doubt after what you have seen? I know not what I have seen nor what I have heard, but since I am at leisure you may tell me when you fell in love with me, how you fell in love with me, and what you have suffered, or are ready to suffer for me. Tom, aside. The unmerciful jade! I am in haste about my master's letter, but I must go through it. Ah, so well I remember when and how, and on what occasion I was first surprised. It was on the first of April 1715 I came into master's seal and service. I was then a hobbled ahoy, and you, a pretty little tight girl, a favourite handmaid of the housekeeper. At that time we neither us knew what was in us. I remember I was ordered to get out of the window, one pair of stairs, to rub the sashes clean. The person employed on the inner side was your charming self, whom I had never seen before. Ha, ha! I think I remember the silly accident. What made you, you oaf, ready to fall down into the street? You know not, I warned you. You could not guess what surprised me. You took no delight when you immediately grew wanton your conquest, and put your lips close and breathed upon the glass, and when my lips approached, a dirty cloth you rubbed against my face and hid your beauty's form. When I again drew near, you spit and rubbed and smothered my undoing. Who had silly thoughts you men have? We were Pyramus and Thisby, but ten times harder was my fate. Pyramus could peep only through a wall. I saw her, saw my Thisby and all her beauty, but as much kept from her as if a hundred walls between. For there was more, there was her will against me. Would she but yet relent? Ophillus, Ophillus, shorten my torment and declare you pity me. I believe it's very sufferable. The pain is not so exquisite, but that you may bear it a little longer. O my charming Phyllis, if all depended on my fair ones will I could with glory suffer. But, dearest creature, consider our miserable state. How miserable? We are miserable to be in love, and are in the command of others than those we love. The generous passion in the heart to be sent to and thrown errands, cold, checked, and rated for the meanest trifles. Ophillus, you don't know how many china cups and glasses my passion for you has made me break. You have broke my fortune as well as my heart. Well, Mr. Thomas, I cannot but own to you that I believe your master writes, and you speak the best of any men in the world. Never was a woman so pleased with the letter as my young lady was with his, and this is the answer to it. Gives him a letter. This was well done, my dearest. Consider, we must strike out some pretty livelihood for ourselves by closing their affairs. It will be nothing for them to give us a little being of our own, some small tenement out of their large possessions. Whatever they give us, it will be more than what they keep for themselves. One acre with Phyllis would be worth a whole county without her. Oh, could I but believe you. If not the utterance, believe the touch of my lips. Kisses her. There's no contradicting you. How closely you argue, Tom. And will closer and do time. But I must hasten with this letter to hasten towards the possession of you. Then, Phyllis, consider how I must be revenged. Look to it of all your skittishness, shy looks, and at best but coy compliances. Oh, Tom, you grow wanton and sensual as my lady calls it. I must not endure it. Oh, foe, you are a man, an odious filthy male creature. You should behave if you had a right sense over a man of sense, like Mr. Simberton, with distance and indifference, or, let me see, some other becoming hard word, with seeming in inadvertency. And not rush on one as if you were seizing a prey. But, hush, the ladies are coming. Good Tom, don't kiss me above once and be gone. Lord, we have been fooling and toying, and not considered the main business of our masters and mistresses. Why, they are businesses to be fooling and toying as soon as the parchment's already. Well remembered, parchment's. My lady, to my knowledge, is preparing writings between her coxcomb cousin Simberton and my mistress. Though my master has an eye to the parchment's already prepared between your master, Mr. Bevel, and my mistress, and I believe my mistress herself has signed and sealed in her heart to Mr. Myrtle. Did I not bid you to kiss me but once and be gone? But I know you won't be satisfied. No, you smooth creature. How should I? Kissing her hand. Well, since you are so humble or so cool as to ravish my hand only, I'll take my leave of you like a great lady and you a man of quality. They salute formally. Pocks of all this state. Offers to kiss her more closely. No, prithee. Tom, mind your business. We must follow that interest which we'll take, but endeavour at that which will be most for us, and we like most. Oh, here's my young mistress. Tom taps her neck behind and kisses his fingers. Go ye liquorish fool. Exit, Tom. Enter Lucinda. Who was that you were hurrying away? One that I had no mind to part with. Why did you turn him away, then? For your ladyship's service. To carry your ladyship's letter to his master. I could hardly get the rogue away. Why, has he so little love for his master? No, but yes, so much love for his mistress. But I thought I heard him kiss you. Why did you suffer that? Why, madam, we vulgar take it to be a sign of love. We servants, we poor people, that have nothing but our persons to bestow or treat for, are forced to deal and bargain by way of sample, and therefore, as we have no parchment or wax necessary in our agreements, we squeeze with our hands, and seal with our lips, to ratify vows and promises. But can't you trust one another without such earnest down? We don't think it's safe any more than you gentry to come together without deeds executed. Thou art a pert merry hussy. I wish, madam, that your lover and you were as happy as Tom and your servant are. You grow impertinent. I have done, madam, and I won't ask you what you intend to do with Mr. Myrtle, what your father will do with Mr. Bevel, nor what you all, especially my lady, mean by admitting Mr. Simberton as particularly here as if he were married to you already. Nay, you are married, actually. As far as people of quality are. How was that? You have different beds in the same house. Shaw, I have a very great value for Mr. Bevel, but have absolutely put an end to his pretensions in the letter I gave you for him. But my father in his heart still has a mind to him, were it not for this woman they talk of, and I am apt to imagine he is married to her, or never designs to marry at all. Then, Mr. Myrtle? He had my parents leave to apply to me, and by that he has won me and my affections. Who is to have this body of mine without them, it seems, is nothing to me. My mother says to his indecent for me to let my thoughts stray about the person of my husband. Nay, she says a maid rigidly virtuous, though she may have been where her lover was a thousand times, should not have made observations enough to know him from another man when she sees him in a third place. That is more than the severity of a nun. For not to see when one may is hardly possible, and not to see when one can't is very easy. At this rate, madam, there are a great many who you have not seen who. Mama says the first time you see your husband should be at the instant he is made so. When your father with the help of the minister gives you to him, then you are to see him, then you are to observe and take notice of him, because then you are to obey him. But does not my lady remember you are to love as well as obey? To love is a passion, it is a desire, and we must have no desires. Oh, I cannot endure the reflection. With what insensibility on my part, with what more than patience have I been exposed and offered to some awkward booby or other in every county of Great Britain? Indeed, madam. I wonder I never heard you speak of it before with this indignation. Every corner of the land has presented me with a wealthy coxcomb. As fast as one treaty has gone off another has come on, till my name and person have been the tittle-tattle of the whole town. What has this world come to? No shame left, to be bartered for like the beasts of the field, and that in such an instance as coming together to an entire familiarity and union of soul and body. Oh, and this without being so much as well-wishers to each other, but for increase of fortune. But, madam, all these vexations will end very soon in one for all. Mr. Simburton is your mother's kinsman, and three hundred years an older gentleman than any lover you ever had. For which reason, with that of his prodigious largest state, she is resolved on him, and has sent to consult the lawyers accordingly. Nay has, whether you know it or know, been in treaty with Sir Geoffrey, who, to join in the settlement, has accepted of a sum to do it, and is every moment expected in town for that purpose. How do you get all this intelligence? By an art I have, I think my stars, beyond all the weighty maids in Great Britain. The art of listening, madam, for your lady's service. I shall soon know as much as you do. Leave me, leave me, Phyllis, begone. Here, here, I'll turn you out. My mother says I must not converse with my servants, though I must converse with no one else. Exit, Phyllis. How unhappy are we who are born to great fortunes. No one looks at us with indifference, or acts towards us on the foot of plain dealing. Yet, by all I have been here to fore offered to or treated for, I have been used with the most agreeable of all abuses, flattery. But now by this phlegmatic fool I'm used as nothing, or a mere thing. He, forsooth, is too wise, too learned to have any regard for desires, and I know not what the learned oath calls sentiments of love and passion. Here he comes with my mother. It's much if he looks at me, or if he does, takes no more notice of me than of any other movable in the room. Enter Mrs. Sealand, a Mr. Simburton. How do I admire this noble, this learned taste of yours, and the worthy regard you have to our own ancient and honourable house in consulting a means to keep the blood as pure and as regularly descended as may be? Why, really, ma'am, the young women of this age are treated with discourses of such a tendency, and their imaginations so bewildered in flesh and blood, that a man of reason can't talk to be understood. They have no ideas of happiness, but what are more gross than the gratification of hunger and thirst. Lucinda, aside. With how much reflection he is a coxcomb. And in truth, ma'am, I have considered it a most brutal custom that persons of the first character in the world should go as ordinarily and with as little shame to bed as to dinner with one another. They proceed to the propagation of the species as openly as to the preservation of the individual. Lucinda, aside. She that willingly goes to bed to thee must have no shame, I'm sure. O cousin Simburton, cousin Simburton, how abstract it, how refined is your sense of things. But, indeed, it is too true there is nothing so ordinary as to say, in the best governed families, my master and lady have gone to bed. One does not know, but it might have been said of oneself. Lysurgis, ma'am, instituted otherwise. Among the Lachydamians the whole female world was pregnant, but none but the mothers themselves knew by whom. Their meetings were secret, and the amorous congress always by stealth. And no such professed doings between the sexes as are tolerated among us under the audacious word marriage. O had I lived in those days, and been a matron of Sparta, one might with less indecency have had ten children, according to that modest institution, than one under the confusion of our modern, barefaced manner. Lucinda, aside. And yet, poor woman, she has gone through the whole ceremony, and here I stand, a melancholy proof of it. We will talk, then, of business. That girl walking about the room there is to be your wife. She has, I confess, no ideas, no sentiments, that speak her born of a thinking mother. I have observed her. Her lively look, free air, and disengaged countenance speak her very... Very what? If you please, ma'am, to set her a little that way. Lucinda, say nothing to him. You are not a match for him. When you are married, you may speak to such a husband when you're spoken to, but I am disposing of you above yourself every way. Ma'am, you cannot but observe the inconveniences I expose myself to in hopes that your ladyship will be the consort of my better part. As for the young woman, she is rather an impediment than a help to a man of letters and speculation. Ma'am, there is no reflection, no philosophy, can at all times subdue the sensitive life, but the animal shall sometimes carry away the man. Ha! I, the vermillion of her lips. Pray, don't talk of me thus. The pretty enough pant of her bosom? Sir, madam, don't you hear him? Her forward chest? Intolerable. High health? The grave easy impudence of him. Proud heart? Stupid cockscomb. I say, madam, her impatience while we are looking at her throws out all attractions. Her arms, her neck, what a spring in her step. Don't you run me over thus, you strange unaccountable. What an elasticity in her veins and arteries. I have no veins, no arteries. O child, hear him. He talks finely. He's a scholar. He knows what you have. The speaking invitation of her shape, the gathering of herself up, and the indignation you see in the pretty little thing. Now, I am considering her on this occasion, but as one that is to be pregnant. And pregnant undoubtedly she will be yearly. I fear I shan't for many years have discretion enough to give her one fallow season. Monster! There's no bearing it. The hidee is sought. There's no enduring it to be thus surveyed like a steed at sail. At sail. She's very illiterate, but she's very well-limbed too. Turn her in. I see what she is. Oof! Exit Lucinda in a rage. Go, you creature! I am ashamed of you. No harm done. You know, ma'am, the better sort of people, as I observed you, treat by their lawyers of weddings. Adjusting himself at the glass. And the woman in the bargain, like the mansion house in the save of the estate, is thrown in. And what that is, whether good or bad, is not at all considered. I grant it, and therefore make no demand for a youth and beauty, and every other accomplishment as the common word think'em, because she's not polite. Ma'am, I know your exalted understanding, abstracted as it is from vulgar prejudices, will not be offended when I declare to you, I marry to have an heir to my estate, and not to beget a colony or a plantation. This young woman's beauty and constitution will demand provision for a tenth child at least. Mrs. Thieland, aside. With all that wit and learning, how considerate! What an economist! Sir, I cannot make her any other than she is, or say she is much better than the other young women of this age, or fit for much besides being a mother. But I have given directions for the marriage settlements, and Sir Geoffrey Simburton's council is to meet ours here, at this hour, concerning disjoining in the deed, which, when executed, makes you capable of settling what is due to Lucinda's fortune. Herself, as I told you, I say nothing of. No, no indeed, ma'am, it is not usual, and I must depend upon my own reflection and philosophy not to overstock my family. I cannot help her, cousin Simburton, but she is, for odd I see, as well as the daughter of anybody else. That is very true, ma'am. Enter a servant who whispers Mrs. Thieland. The lawyers are come, and now we are to hear what they have resolved as to the point whether it is necessary that Sir Geoffrey should join in the settlement, as being what they call in the remainder. But, good cousin, you must have patience with them. These lawyers, I am told, are of a different kind. One is what they call a chamber council, the other a pleader. The conveyancer is slow, from an imperfection in his speech, and therefore shun the bar, but extremely passionate and impatient of contradiction. The other is as warm as he, but has a tongue so voluble, and a head so conceited, he will suffer nobody to speak but himself. You mean old Sergeant Target and Councillor Bramble? I have heard of them. The same. Show in the gentlemen. Exit Servant. Re-enter Servant, introducing Merkel and Tom disguised as Bramble and Target. Gentlemen, this is the party concerned, Mr. Simbaton, and I hope you have considered of the matter. Yes, madam, we have agreed that it must be by indent, dent, dent, dent. Yes, madam, Mr. Sargent and myself have agreed, as he is pleased to inform you, that it must be an indenture tripartite, and tripartite, let it be. For Sir Geoffrey must needs be a party. Old Simbaton in the year 1619 says in that the ancient roll in Mr. Sargent's hands, as recourse there to being had, will more at large appear. Yes, and by the deeds in your hands, it appears that... Mr. Sargent, I beg of you to make no inferences upon what is in our custody, but speak to the titles in your own deeds. I shall not show that deed to my clienties in town. You know best your own methods. The single question is whether the entail is such that my cousin, Sir Geoffrey, is necessary in this affair. Yes, as to the lordship of Tritriplet, but not as to the mess-wage of Grimgribber. I say that Grimgribber is enough, that is to say the remainder thereof, as well as that of Tritriplet. You go upon the deed of Sir Ralph, made in the middle of the last century, preceded to that which old Simburton made over the remainder, and made it to pass to the heirs in general, by which your client comes in, and I question whether the remainder, even of Tritriplet, is in him. But we are willing to waive that, and give him a valuable consideration. But we shall not purchase what is in us forever, as Grimgribber is at the rate, as we guard against the contingent of Mr. Simburton having no son. Then we know Sir Geoffrey is the first of the collateral male line in this family yet. Sir Grimgribber is... I apprehend you very well, and your argument might be a force, and we would be inclined to hear that in all its parts. But sir, I see very plainly what you are going into. I tell you, it is as probable a contingent that Sir Geoffrey may die before Mr. Simburton, as that he may outlive him. Sir, we are not ripe for that yet, but I must say... Sir, I allow you the whole extent of that argument. But that will go no farther than as to the claimants under old Simburton. I am of the opinion that, according to the instruction of Sir Ralph, he could not dock the entail, and then create a new estate for the heirs general. Sir, I have not patience to be told that when... I will allow at you, Mr. Sergeant, but there must be the word heirs forever to make such an estate as you pretend. I must be impartial, though you are counsel from my side of the question. Were it not that you are so good as to allow him what he has not said, I should think it very hard you should answer him without hearing him. But, gentlemen, I believe you have both considered this matter, and are firm in your different opinions. To a better, therefore, you proceeded according to the particular sense of each of you, and gave your thoughts distinctly in writing. And do you see, sirs, pray let me have a copy of what you say in English. Why, what is it all we have been saying? In English, oh, but I forget myself, you're a wit. But, however it to please you, sir, you shall have it, in as plain terms as the law will admit of. I would have it, sir, without delay. That, sir, the law will not admit of. The courts are sitting in Westminster, and I am this moment obliged to be at every one of them, and would be wrong if I should not be in the hall to attend one of them at least. The rest would take it ill else. Therefore, I must leave what I have said to Mr. Sargeant's consideration, and I will adjust his arguments on my part, and you shall hear from me again, sir. Exit Bramble. Agreed. Agreed. Mr. Bramble is very quick. He parted a little abruptly. He could not bear my argument. I pinched him to the quick about that. Grr. Grr. I saw that, for he does not so much as hear you. I shall send to you, Mr. Sargeant, as soon as sir Jeffrey comes to town, and then I hope all may be adjusted. I shall be at my chambers, at my usual hours. Exit. Mom, if you please, I'll now attend you to the tea table, where I shall hear from your ladyship reason and good sense, after all this law and gibberish. This a wonderful thing, sir, that men of professions do not study to talk the substance of what they have to say in the language of the rest of the world. Sure, they'd find their account in it. They might, perhaps, Mom, with people of your good sense, but with the generality, it would never do. The vulgar would have no respect for truth and knowledge if they were exposed to naked view. Truth is too simple, of all art bereaved. Since the world will, why let it be deceived. Exit. End of Act 3.