THE IRISH WIDOW.
IN TWO ACTS. AS IT IS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE.
LONDON: Printed for T. BECKET in the Strand. MDCCLXXII. [Price One Shilling.]
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
[]- Sir PATRICK O'NEALE,
- Mr. MOODY.
- WHITTLE,
- Mr. PARSONS.
- NEPHEW,
- Mr. CAUTHERLY.
- BATES,
- Mr. BADDELEY.
- KECKSY,
- Mr. DODD.
- THOMAS,
- Mr. WESTON.
- FOOTMAN,
- Mr. GRIFFITH.
- WIDOW BRADY,
- Mrs. BARRY.
TO Mrs. BARRY.
[]AFTER returning my thanks to the performers of this Farce, for the great juſtice they have done me, I muſt beg leave to addreſs my⯑ſelf in particular to you.
As your wiſhes produced the piece, and your performance has raiſed it into ſome conſequence, to whom can it be ſo properly addreſs'd? You were before rank'd in the firſt claſs of our Theatrical Genuiſes, and now you have the additional merit of tranſ⯑forming the GRECIAN DAUGHTER into [vi] the IRISH WIDOW, that is, of ſinking to the loweſt note, from the top of the compaſs!
Permit me, Madam, like other Cox⯑combs, to boaſt ſome favours I have received—You perform the principal character, ſome news-papers have criticis'd the Farce, and the audiences have laugh'd heartily at it. Were not I as ſenſible as the ſevereſt Cri⯑tick of them all, that it is a triffle not worth the owning, I ſhould ſubſcribe my real name, inſtead of,
[]THE IRISH WIDOW.
ACT I.
SCENE I. Whittle's Houſe.
IS he gone out? his card tells me to come di⯑rectly—I did but lock up ſome papers, take my hat and cane, and away I hurried.
My maſter deſires you will ſit down, he will return immediately,—he had ſome Buſineſs with his lawyer, and went out in great haſte, leaving the meſſage I have deliver'd. Here is my young maſter.
What lively BILLY!—hold I beg your pardon—melancholy WILLIAM I think—here's fine revolu⯑tion—I hear your Uncle who was laſt month all gravity, and you all mirth, have chang'd charac⯑ters; [2] he is now all ſpirit, and you are in the dumps young man.
And for the ſame reaſon—This journey to Scar⯑borough will unfold the riddle.
Come, come, in plain Engliſh, and before your Uncle comes—explain the matter.
In the firſt place I am undone.
In love I know—I hope your Uncle is not un⯑done too—that would be the devil!
He has taken poſſeſſion of him in every ſenſe. In ſhort he came to Scarborough to ſee the lady I had fallen in love with—
And fell in love himſelf?
Yes, and with the ſame lady:
That is the devil indeed!
O Mr. BATES! when I thought my happineſs compleat, and wanted only my Uncle's conſent, to give me the independance he ſo often has promis'd me, he came to Scarborough for that purpoſe, and wiſh'd me joy of my choice; but in leſs than a week, his approbation turned into a paſſion for her; he now hates the ſight of me, and is reſolv'd with the conſent of the father to make her his wife directly.
So he keeps you out of your fortune, won't give his conſent, which his Brother's fooliſh will requires, and he would marry himſelf the ſame wo⯑man, becauſe right, title, conſcience, nature, juſ⯑tice, and every law divine and human, are againſt it.
Thus he tricks me at once both of wife and for⯑tune, without the leaſt want of either.
Well ſaid friend WHITTLE! but it can't be, it ſhan't be, and it muſt not be—this is murder and robbery in the ſtrongeſt ſenſe, and he ſhan't be hang'd in chains to be laugh'd at by the whole town if I can help it.
I am diſtracted, the widow is diſtreſs'd, and we both ſhall run mad.
A widow too!—'gad a mercy three ſcore and five!
But ſuch a widow! ſhe is now in town with her father, who wants to get her off his hands; 'tis equal to him who has her, ſo ſhe is provided for—I hear ſomebody coming—I muſt away to her lodgings, where ſhe waits for me to execute a ſcheme directly for our delivery.
What is her name BILLY?
BRADY.
BRADY! is not ſhe Daughter to Sir PATRICK O NEALE?
The ſame. She was ſacrific'd to the moſt ſenſe⯑leſs, drunken profligate in the whole country: He lived to run out his fortune, and the only advantage ſhe got from the union was he broke that and his neck, before he had broke her heart.
The affair of marriage is in this country put upon the eaſieſt footing; there is neither love or hate in the matter; neceſſity brings them together; they are united at firſt for their mutual conveni⯑ence, and ſeperated ever after for their particular pleaſures.—O rare matrimony!—Where does ſhe lodge?
In Pall-Mall, near the Hotel.
I'll call in my way, and aſſiſt at the conſultation; I am for a bold ſtroke, if gentle methods ſhould fail.
We have a plan, and a ſpirited one, if my ſweet widow is able to go through it—pray let us have your friendly aſſiſtance—ours is the cauſe of love and reaſon.
Get you gone, with your love and reaſon, they ſeldom pull together now-a-days—I'll give your Uncle a doſe firſt, and then I'll meet you at the widow's—what ſays your Uncle's privy counſeller Mr. THOMAS to this?
He is greatly our friend, and will enter ſincerely into our ſervice—he is honeſt, ſenſible, ignorant [5] and particular,—a kind of half coxcomb, with a thorough good heart—but he's here.
Do you go about your buſineſs, and leave the reſt to me.
Mr. THOMAS, I am glad to ſee you; upon my word you look charmingly—you wear well, Mr. Thomas.
Which is a wonder, conſidering how the times go, Mr. BATES,—they'll wear and tear me too, if I don't take care of my ſelf—my old maſter has taken the neareſt way to wear himſelf out, and all that be⯑long to him.
Why ſurely this ſtrange ſtory about town is not true, that the old gentleman is fall'n in love.
Ten times worſe than that!
The devil!
And his horns—going to be married!
Not if I can help it.
You never ſaw ſuch an alter'd man in your born days!—he's grown young again; he friſks, and prances, and runs about, as if he had a new pair of legs—he has left off his brown camlet ſurtout, which he wore all ſummer, and now with his hat under his arm, he goes open breaſted, and he dreſſes, and powders, and ſmirks ſo, that you would take [6] him for the mad Frenchman in Bedlam—ſome⯑thing wrong in his upper ſtory—would you think it?—he wants me to have a pig-tail!
Than he is far gone indeed!
As ſure as you are there, Mr. BATES, a pig-tail!—we have had ſad work about it—I made a com-promiſe with him, to wear theſe ruffled ſhirts which he gave me—but they ſtand in my way—I am not ſo liſtleſs with them—tho' I have ty'd up my hands for him, I won't tie up my head, that I am reſolute.
This it is to be in love THOMAS?
He may make free with himſelf, he ſhan't make a fool of me,—he has got his head into a bag but I won't have a pig-tail tack'd to mine—and ſo I told him—
What did you tell him?
That as I, and my father, and his father before me, had wore their own hair as heaven had ſent it, I thought myſelf rather too old to ſet up for a monkey at my time of life, and wear a pig-tail—he! he! he!—he took it.
With a wry face, for it was wormwood:
Yes he was frump'd, and call'd me old block⯑head, and would not ſpeak to me the reſt of the [7] day—but the next day he was at it again—he then put me into a paſſion—and I could not help telling him, that I was an Engliſhman born and had my prerogative as well as he, and that as long as I had breath in my body, I was for liberty, and a ſtrait head of hair!
Well ſaid, THOMAS—he could not anſwer that.
The pooreſt man in England is a match for the greateſt, if he will but ſtick to the laws of the land, and the ſtatue books, as they are deliver'd down from us to our fore fathers.
You are right—we muſt lay our wits together, and drive the widow out of your old maſter's head, and put her into your young maſter's hands.
With all my heart—nothing can be more meri⯑torious—marry at his years! what a terrible ac⯑count would he make of it, Mr. BATES?—let me ſee—on the debtor ſide 65—and per contra creditor a buxom widow of 23.—He'll be a bankrupt in a fortnight—he! he! he!
And ſo he would, Mr. THOMAS—what have you got in your hand?
A pamphlet my old gentleman takes in—he has left off buying hiſtories and religious pieces by numbers, as he us'd to do, and ſince he has got this widow in his head he reads nothing but the [8] Amorous Repoſitory, Cupid's Revels, Call to Marriage, Hymen's Delights, Love lies a Bleed⯑ing, Love in the Suds, and ſuch like tender com⯑poſitions.—
Here he comes with all his folly about him.—
Yes, and the firſt fool from vanity-fair—Heav'n help us!—love turns man and woman topſy-turvy!
Where is he? where is my good friend?
Ha! here he is—give me your hand.
I am glad to ſee you in ſuch ſpirits, my old gentleman.
Not ſo old neither—no man ought to be called old, friend BATES, if he is in health, ſpirits, and—
In his ſenſes—which I ſhould rather doubt, as I never ſaw you half ſo frolickſome in my life.
Never too old to learn friend, and if I don't make uſe of my philoſophy now, I may wear it out in twenty years—I have been always banter'd as of too grave a caſt—you know when I ſtudy'd at Lincoln's-Inn, they uſed to call me Young Wiſdom.
And if they ſhould now call you Old Folly, it will be a much worſe name.
No young jackanapes dares call me ſo, while I have this friend at my ſide—
A hero too! what in the name of common ſenſe is come to you, my friend?—high ſpirits, quick honour, a long ſword and a bag;—you want no⯑thing but to be terribly in love, and ſally forth knight of the Woeful Countenance, ha! ha! ha!
Mr. BATES—the ladies who are the beſt judges of countenances, are not of your opinion; and unleſs you'll be a little ſerious, I muſt beg pardon for giving you this trouble, and I'll open my mind to ſome more attentive friend.
Well, come unlock then, you wild, handſome, vigorous young dog you—I will pleaſe you if I can.
I believe you never ſaw me look better FRANK, did you?
O yes, rather better forty years ago.
What when I was at Merchant Taylor's School?
At Lincoln's-Inn, TOM.
It can't be—I never diſguiſe my age, and next February, I ſhall be fifty-four.
Fifty-four! why I am ſixty, and you always lick'd me at ſchool—tho' I believe I could do as much for you now, and ecod I believe you deſerve it too.
I tell you I am in my 55th year.
O, you are—let me ſee—we were together at Cambridge, Anno Domini 25, which is near fifty years ago—you came to the college indeed ſurprizingly young, and what is more ſurprizing, by this calculation you went to ſchool before you was born—you was always a forward child.
I ſee there is no talking or conſulting with you in this humour, and ſo, Mr. BATES, when you are in temper to ſhew leſs of your wit, and more of your friendſhip, I ſhall conſult with you.
Fare you well my old boy—young fellow, I mean—when you have done ſowing your wild oats, and have been bliſter'd into your right ſenſes; when you have half kill'd yourſelf with being a beau, and return to your woollen caps, flannel waiſtcoats, worſted ſtockings, cork ſoles, and gal⯑lochys, I am at your ſervice again, ſo bon jour to you Monſieur Fifty-four, ha! ha!
He has certainly heard of my affair—but he is old and peeviſh—he wants ſpirit, and ſtrength of conſtitution to conceive my happineſs—I am in love with the widow, and muſt have her: Every man knows his own wants—let the world laugh, and my friends ſtare; let 'em call me imprudent, and [11] mad if they pleaſe. I live in good times, and among people of faſhon, ſo none of my neigh⯑bours, thank heaven, can have the aſſurance to laugh at me.
What, my friend WHITTLE; joy! joy to you old boy—you are going, a going! a going! a fine wi⯑dow has bid for you, and will have you—hah, friend? all for the beſt—there is nothing like it—hugh! hugh! hugh!—a good wife is a good thing, and a young one is a better—hah—who's afraid? If I had not lately married one, I ſhould have been at death's door by this time—hugh! hugh! hugh!
Thank, thank you friend!—I was coming to adviſe with you—I am got into the pound again—in love up to the ears—a fine woman, faith—and there's no love loſt between us—am I right friend?
Right! ay, right as my leg, TOM! Life's nothing without love—hugh! hugh!—I'm happy as the day's long! my wife loves gadding, and I can't ſtay at home, ſo we are both of a mind—ſhe's every night at one or other of the garden places; but among friends, I am a little afraid of the damp; hugh! hugh! hugh! ſhe has got an Iriſh gentle⯑man, a kind of couſin of hers, to take care of her; a fine fellow; and ſo good-natur'd—It is a vaſt com⯑fort to have ſuch a friend in a family! Hugh! hugh! hugh!
You are a bold man, couſin KECKSEY.
Bold! ay to be ſure; none but the brave deſerve the fair—Hugh! hugh! hugh! who's afraid!
Why your wife is five feet ten.
Without her ſhoes. I hate your little ſhrimps; none of your lean meagre French frogs for me; I was always fond of the majeſtic; give me a ſlice of a good Engliſh ſurloin; out and come again; hugh! hugh! hugh! that's my taſte!
I'm glad you have ſo good a ſtomach—and ſo you would adviſe me to marry the widow di⯑rectly?
To be ſure—you have not a moment to loſe: I always mind what the poet ſays,
Hugh! hugh! hugh!
You have an ugly cough, couſin
Marriage is the beſt lozenge for it.
You have rais'd me from the dead—I am glad you came—FRANK BATES had almoſt killed me with his jokes—but you have comforted me, and we will walk thro' the Park; and I will carry you to the widow in Pall-mall.
With all my heart—I'll raiſe her ſpirits, and your's too—courage, TOM—come along—who's afraid?
SCENE, the WIDOW's Lodgings.
Indeed, madam, there is no other way but to caſt off your real character, and aſſume a feign'd one; it is an extraordinary occaſion, and requires extraordinary meaſures; pluck up a ſpirit, and do it for the honour of your ſex.
Only conſider, my ſweet Widow, that our all is at ſtake!
Could I bring my heart to act contrary to its feelings, would not you hate me for being a hypo⯑crite, tho' it is done for your ſake?
Could I think myſelf incapable of ſuch ingra⯑titude—
Don't make fine ſpeeches; you men are ſtrange creatures, you turn our heads to your purpoſes, and then deſpiſe us for the folly you teach us; 'tis hard to aſſume a character contrary to my diſpoſi⯑tion; I cannot get rid of my unfaſhionable preju⯑dices, till I have been married in England ſome time, and liv'd among my betters.
Thou charming adorable woman! what ſhall we [14] do then? I never wiſh'd for a fortune till this mo⯑ment.
Could we live upon affection, I would give your fortune to your Uncle, and thank him for taking it; and then,—
What then? my ſweet Widow?
I would deſire you to run away with me as faſt as you can; what a pity it is, that this money, which my heart deſpiſes, ſhould hinder its happi⯑neſs, or that for want of a few dirty acres, a poor woman muſt be made miſerable, and ſacrificed twice to thoſe who have them.
Heaven forbid! theſe exquiſite ſentiments en⯑dear you more to me, and diſtract me with the dread of loſing you.
Young folks; let an old man who is not quite in love, and yet will admire a fine woman to the day of his death, throw in a little advice among your flames and darts.
Tho' a woman, a widow, and in love too—I can hear reaſon, Mr. BATES.
And that's a wonder—you have no time to loſe; for want of a jointure you are ſtill your father's ſlave; he is obſtinate, and has promis'd you to the old man: Now, madam, if you will not riſe ſu⯑perior to your ſexes weakneſs, to ſecure a young fellow inſtead of an old one, your eyes are a cou⯑ple of hypocrites.
They are a eouple of traytors I'm ſure, and have led their miſtreſs into a toil, from which all her wit cannot releaſe her.
But it can, if you will but exert it; my Uncle ador'd and fell in love with you, for your beauty, ſoftneſs, and almoſt ſpeechleſs reſerve. Now, if amidſt all his rapturous ideas of your delicacy, you would bounce upon him a wild, ranting buxom wi⯑dow; he will grow ſick of his bargain, and give me a fortune to take you off his hands.
I ſhall make a very bad actreſs,
You are an excellent mimic; aſſume but the character of your Iriſh female neighbour in the country, with which you aſtoniſh'd us ſo agreeably at Scarborough; you will frighten my Uncle into terms, and do that for us, which neither my love, nor your virtue, can accompliſh without it.
Now for a trial—
—fait and trot, if you will be after bringing me before the old Gontleman, if he loves muſick, I will trate his ears with a little of the brogue, and ſome dancing too into the bargain, if he loves ca⯑pering—O bleſs me! my heart fails me, and I am frighten'd out of my wits; I can never go thro' it.
O 'tis admirable! love himſelf inſpires you, and we ſhall conquer; what ſay you, Mr. BATES?
I'll inſure you ſucceſs; I can ſcarce believe my own cars; ſuch a tongue and a brogue would make Hercules tremble at five-and-twenty; but away, away, and give him the firſt broadſide in the Park; there you'll find him hobbling with that old cuckold, KECKSY.
But will my dreſs ſuit the character I play?
The very thing; is your retinue ready, and your part got by heart?
All is ready; 'tis an act of deſpair to puniſh folly, and reward merit: 'tis the laſt effort of pure honourable love; and if every woman would exert the ſame ſpirit for the ſame out-of-faſhion rarity, there would be leſs buſineſs for Doctors Commons: Now let the criticks laugh at me if they dare.
Brava! braviſſima! ſweet Widow!
Huzza! huzza!
SCENE, the Park.
Yes, yes, ſhe is Iriſh, but ſo modeſt, ſo mild, and ſo tender, and juſt enough of the accent to give a peculiar ſweetneſs to her words, which drop from her in monaſyllables, with ſuch a delicate re⯑ſerve, that I ſhall have all the comfort, without the impertinence of a wife.
There our taſte differs, friend; I am for a lively ſmart girl in my houſe, hugh! hugh! to keep up my ſpirits, and make me merry; I don't admire dumb waiters, not I, no ſtill-life for me; I love their prittle prattle, it ſets me to ſleep, and I can take a ſound nap while my ſally and her couſin, are running and playing about the houſe like young cats.
I am for no cats in my houſe; I cannot ſleep with a noiſe; the widow was made on purpoſe for me; ſhe is ſo baſhful, has no acquaintance, and ſhe never would ſtir out of doors, if her friends were not afraid of a conſumption, and ſo force her into the air: Such a delicate creature! you ſhall ſee her; you were always for a tall chattering, friſky, wench; now for my part I am with the old ſaying,
I don't care for your ſayings—who's afraid?
There goes BATES, let us avoid him, he will only be joking with us; when I have taken a ſe⯑rious thing into my head, I can't bear to have it laugh'd out again. This way, friend KECKSY—what have we got here?
Some fine prancing wench, with her lovers and footman about her; ſhe's a gay one by her motions.
Were ſhe not ſo flaunting, I ſhould take it for— [18] No, it is impoſſible; and yet is not that my Ne⯑phew with her? I forbad him ſpeaking to her; it can't be the widow; I hope it is not.
Don't bother me, young man, with your darts, your cupids, and your pangs; if you had half of 'em about you, that you ſwear you have, they would have cur'd you, by killing you long ago. Would you have me faitleſs to your Uncle, hah! young man? Was not I faitful to you, 'till I was or⯑der'd to be faitful to him? but I muſt know more of your Engliſh ways, and live more among the Eng⯑liſh Ladies, to learn how to be faitful to two at a time—and ſo there's my anſwer for you.
Then I know my relief, for I cannot live with⯑out you.
Take what relief you plaſe, young Jontleman, what have I to do with dat? He is certainly mad, or out of his ſinſes, for he ſwears he can't live without me, and yet he talks of killing himſelf; how does he make out dat? If a countryman of mine had made ſuch a blunder, they would have put it into all the news-papers, and Falkner's Jour⯑nal beſide; but an Engliſhman may look over the hedge, while an Iriſhman muſt not ſtale a horſe.
Is this the Widow, friend WHITTLE?
I don't know
it is, and it is not.
Your ſervant, Mr. WHITTOL; I wiſh you would [19] ſpake to your Nephew not to be whining and dang⯑ling after me all day in his green coat like a parrot: It is not for my reputation that he ſhould follow me about like a beggar-man, and aſk me for what I had given him long ago, but have ſince beſtow'd upon you, Mr. WHITTOL:
He is an impudent beggar, and ſhall be really ſo, for his diſobedience.
As he can't live without me, you know, it will be charity to ſtarve him: I wiſh the poor young man dead with all my heart, as he thinks it will do him a grate dale of good.
She is tender, indeed! and I think ſhe has the brogue a little—hugh! hugh!
'Tis ſtronger to day than ever I heard it.
And are you now talking of my brogue? It is always the moſt fulleſt when the wind is aeſterly; it has the ſame effect upon me, as upon ſtammer⯑ing people—they can't ſpake for their impediment, and my tongue is fix'd ſo looſe in my mouth, I can't ſtop it for the life of me.
What a terrible misfortune, friend KECKSY!
Not at all; the more tongue the better, ſay I.
When the wind changes I have no brogue at all, at all. But come, Mr. WHITTOL, don't let us be vulgar, and talk of our poor relations. It is im⯑poſſible [20] to be in this metropolis of London, and have any thought but of Operas, Plays, Maſque⯑rades, and Pantaons, to keep up one's ſpirits in the winter; and Ranelagh, Vauxhall, and Mary⯑bone fireworks to cool and refreſh one in the ſum⯑mer. La! la! la!
I proteſt ſhe puts me into a ſweat; we ſhall have a mob about us.
The more the merrier, I ſay—who's afraid?
How the people ſtare! as if they never ſaw a woman's voice before; but my vivacity has got the better of my good manners. This, I ſuppoſe, this ſtrange gentleman, is a near friend and relation, and as ſuch, notwithſtanding his apparance, I ſhall always trate him, though I might diſlike him upon a nearer acquaintance.
Madam, you do me honour; I like your frank⯑neſs, and I like your perſon, and I envy my friend WHITTLE, and if you were not engaged, and I were not married, I would endeavour to make myſelf agreeable to you, that I would—hugh! hugh!
And indeed, Sir, it would be very agraable to me; for if I ſhould hate you as much as I did my firſt dare huſband; I ſhould always have the comfort, that in all human probability, my torments would not laſt long.
She utters ſomething more than monoſyllables, friend; this is better than bargain: She has a fine bold way of talking.
More bold than welcome! I am ſtruck all of a heap!
What are you low ſpirited, my dare Mr. WITTOL? When you were at Scarborough, and winning my affections, you were all mirth and gaiety; and now you have won me, you are as thoughtful about it as if we had been married ſome time.
Indeed, Madam, I can't but ſay I am a little thoughtful—we take it by turns; you were very ſorrowful a month ago for the loſs of your huſband, and that you could dry up your tears ſo ſoon, na⯑turally makes me a little thoughtful.
Indeed, I could dry up my tears for a dozen huſbands, when I were ſure of having a tirteenth like Mr. WITTOL; that's very natural ſure both in England and Dublin too.
She won't die of a conſumption; ſhe has a fine full-ton'd voice, and you'll be very happy, TOM.—Hugh! hugh!
O yes, very happy.
But come don't let us be melancholy before the time: I am ſure I have been mop'd up for a year and a half, I was oblig'd to mourn for my firſt huſband, that I might be ſure of a ſecond; and my father kept my ſpirits in ſubjection, as the beſt receipt (he ſaid) for changing a widow into a wife. But now I have my arms and legs at liberty, I muſt and will have my ſwing; now I am out of [22] my cage I could dance two nights togeder, and a day too, like any ſinging bird; and I'm in ſuch ſpirits that I have got rid of my father, I could fly over the moon without wings, and back again, be⯑fore dinner. Bleſs my eyes, and don't I ſee there Miſs Nancy O'Flarty, and her brother, Captain O'Flarty? He was one of my dying Strephons at Scarborough. I have a very grate regard for him, and muſt make him a little miſerable with my hap⯑pineſs
Come along Skips,
don't you be goſtring there; ſhew your liveries, and bow to your maſter that is to be, and to his friend, and hold up your heads, and trip after me as lightly as if you had no legs to your feet. I ſhall be with you again, Jontlemen, in the crack of a fan—O, I'll have a huſband, ay marry.
A fine buxom widow, faith! no acquaintance—delicate reſerve—mopes at home—forc'd into the air—inclin'd to a conſumption—What a deſcription you gave of your wife! why ſhe beats my Sally, TOM.
Yes, and ſhe'll beat me if I don't take care! What a change is here! I muſt turn about, or this will turn my head: Dance for two nights together, and leap over the moon! you ſhall dance and leap by yourſelf that I'm reſolv'd.
Here ſhe comes again; it does my heart good to ſee her. You are in luck, TOM.
I'd give a finger to be out of ſuch luck.
Ha! ha! ha! the poor captain is marched off [23] in a fury. He can't bear to hear that the town has capitulated to you, Mr. WHITTOL. I have promiſed to introduce him to you: He will make one of my danglers to take a little exerciſe with me, when you take your nap in the afternoon.
You ſhan't catch me napping, I aſſure you. What a diſcovery and eſcape I have made! I am in a ſweat with the thoughts of my danger!
I proteſt, Couſin, there goes my wife, and her friend Mr. Mac Brawn. What a fine ſtately couple they are! I muſt after 'em, and have a laugh with them—now they giggle, and walk quick, that I mayn't overtake 'em. Madam, your ſervant. You're a happy man, TOM. Keep up your ſpirits, old boy. Hugh! hugh! who's afraid!
I know Mr. Mac Brawn extremely well—He was very intimate at our houſe, in my firſt huſ⯑band's time; a great comfort he was to me to be ſure! He would very often leave his claret and companions for a little converſation with me. He was bred at the Dublin Univarſity, and being a very deep ſcholar, has fine talents for a tate a tate.
She knows him too! I ſhall have my houſe over⯑run with the Mac Brawns, O'Shoulders, and the blood of the Backwells; lord have mercy upon me!
Pray, Mr. WHITTOL, is that poor ſpindle legg'd crater of a couſin of your's, lately married? ha! ha! ha! I don't pity the poor crater his wife, for that agraable cough of his will ſoon reward her for all her ſufferings.
What a delivery! a reprieve before the knot was tied.
Are you unwell, Mr. WITTOL? I ſhould be ſorry you would fall ſick before the happy day. Your being in danger afterwards would be a great con⯑ſolation to me, becauſe I ſhould have the pleaſure of nurſing you myſelf.
I hope never to give you that trouble, madam.
No trouble at all, at all; I aſſure, Sir, from my ſoul, that I ſhall take great delight in the occaſion.
Indeed, madam, I believe it.
I don't care how ſoon, the ſooner the better; and the more danger the more honour; I ſpake from my heart.
And ſo do I from mine, madam.
But don't let us think of future pleaſure, and neglect the preſent ſatisfaction. My mantua-maker is waiting for me to chuſe my clothes, in which I ſhall forget the ſorrows of Mrs. Brady, in the joys of Mrs. Wittol. Tho' I have a fortune myſelf, I ſhall bring a tolerable one to you, in debts, Mr. WITTOL, and which I will pay you tinfold in tinderneſs; your deep purſe, and my open heart, will make us the envy of the little grate ones, and the grate little ones; the people of quality with no ſouls, and grate ſouls with no caſh at all. I hope you'll meet me at the Panteon this evening. [25] Lady Rantiton, and her daughter, Miſs Nettle⯑down, and Nancy Tittup, with half a dozen Mac⯑caroonics, and two ſavoury vivers, are to take me there, and we propoſe a grate dale of chat and mer⯑riment, and dancing all night, and all other kind of recreations. I am quite another kind of a cra⯑ter, now I am a bird in the fields; I can junket about for a week together; I have a fine conſtitu⯑tion, and am never moleſted with your naſty va⯑pours; are you ever troubled with vapours, Mr. WHITTOL?
A little now and then, madam.
I'll rattle 'em away like ſmoke! there are no vapours where I come; I hate your dumps, and your nerves, and your megrims; and I had much rather break your reſt with a little racketting, than let any thing get into your head that ſhould not be there, Mr. WHITTOL?
I will take care that nothing ſhall be in my head, but what ought to be there: What a deliverance?
Bleſs me! how the hours of the clock creep away when we are plas'd with our company: but I muſt lave you, for there are half a hundred peo⯑ple waiting for me to pick your pocket, Mr. WIT⯑TOL; and there is my own brother, lieutenant O Neale, is to arrive this morning, and he is ſo like me, you would not know us aſunder when we are together; you will be very fond of him, poor lad! he lives by his wits, as you do by your fortune, and ſo you may aſſiſt one another. Mr. [26] WITTOL, your obadient, 'till we meet at the Pan⯑taon. Follow me Pompey; and Skips do you follow him.
The Baccararo whiteman no let blacky boy go firſt after you miſſis, they pull and pinch me.
It is a ſhame, your ladyſhip, that a black negro ſhould take place of Engliſh chriſtians—we can't follow him indeed.
Then you may follow one another out of my ſarvice; if you follow me, you ſhall follow him, for he ſhall go before me; can't I make him your ſuperior, as the laws of the land have made him your aqual? therefore reſign as faſt as you plaſe, you ſhan't oppoſe government and keep your places too, that is not good politicks in England or Ireland either, ſo come along Pompay, be after going before me—Mr. WHITTOL, moſt tinderly your's.
Moſt tinderly your's!
'Ecod I believe you are, and any body's elſe; O what an eſcape have I had! But how ſhall I clear myſelf of this bu⯑ſineſs? I'll ſerve her as I would bad money, put her off into other hands: My NEPHEW is fool enough to be in love with her, and if I give him a fortune he'll take the good and the bad together—he ſhall do ſo or ſtarve. I'll ſend for BATES directly, confeſs my folly, aſk his pardon, ſend him to my NEPHEW, write and declare off with the WIDOW, and ſo get rid of her tinderneſs as faſt as I can.
ACT II. A Room in WHITTLE's Houſe.
[27]WE are bound to you for ever, Mr. BATES; I can ſay no more; words but ill expreſs the real feelings of the heart.
I know you are a good lad, or I would not have meddled in the matter, but the buſineſs is not yet compleated till Signatum & Sigillatum.
Let me fly to the WIDOW, and tell her how proſperouſly we go on.
Don't be in a hurry young man; ſhe is not in the dark I aſſure you, nor has ſhe yet finiſh'd her part; ſo capital an actreſs, ſhould not be idle in the laſt act.
I could wiſh that you would let me come into my Uncle's propoſal at once, without vexing him far⯑ther.
Then I declare off; thou ſilly young man, are you to be dup'd by your own weak good nature, and his worldly craft; this does not ariſe from his love and juſtice to you, but from his own miſer⯑able ſituation; he muſt be tortur'd into juſtice; he ſhall not only give up your whole eſtate, which he [28] is loth to part with, but you muſt now have a pre⯑mium for agreeing to your own happineſs; what ſhall your widow, with wit and ſpirit, that would do the greateſt honour to our ſex, go thro' her taſk chearfully, and ſhall your courage give way, and be outdone by a woman's?—fie for ſhame!
I beg your pardon, Mr. BATES; I will follow your directions; be as hard hearted as my Uncle, and vex his body and mind for the good of his ſoul.
That's a good child, and remember that your own and the Widow's future happineſs depends upon your both going through this buſineſs with ſpirit; make your Uncle feel for himſelf, that he may do juſtice to other people. Is the Widow ready for the laſt experiment?
She is; but think what anxiety I ſhall feel, while ſhe is in danger?
Ha! ha! ha! ſhe'll be in no danger; beſides, ſhan't we be at hand to aſſiſt her; hark! I hear him coming; I'll probe his callous heart to the quick; and if we are not paid for our trouble, ſay I am no politician; fly—now we ſhall do!
Well, Mr. BATES, have you talk'd with my NEPHEW, is not he overjoy'd at the propoſal?
The demon of diſcord has been among you, and has untun'd the whole family; you have ſcrew'd him too high; the young man is out of his ſenſes, [29] I think, he ſtares and mopes about, and ſighs; looks at me indeed, but gives very abſurd anſwers; I don't like him.
What is the matter think you?
What I have always expected; there is a crack in your family, and you take it by turns! you have had it, and now transfer it to your Nephew, which, to your ſhame be it ſpoken, is the only tranſ⯑fer you have ever made him.
But am not I going to do him more than juſtice?
As you have done him much leſs than juſtice hi⯑therto, you can't begin too ſoon.
Am not I going to give him the lady he likes, and which I was going to marry myfelf?
Yes, that is, your are taking a perpetual bliſter off your own back, to clap it upon his; what a tender Uncle you are?
But you don't conſider the eſtate which I ſhall give him.
Reſtore to him you mean—'tis his own, and you ſhould have given it up long ago; you muſt do more, or old nick will have you; your Nephew won't take the Widow off your hands without a fortune; throw him ten thouſand into the bargain,
Indeed but I ſhan't; he ſhall run mad, and I'll marry her myſelf, rather than do that; Mr. BATES, be a true friend, and ſooth my Nephew to conſent to my propoſal.
You have rais'd the fiend, and ought to lay him; however, I'll do my beſt for you; when the head is turn'd, nothing can bring it right again, ſo ſoon as ten thouſand pounds; ſhall I promiſe for you?
I'll ſooner go to Bedlam myſelf.
Why I am in a worſe condition than I was be⯑fore! If this Widow's father will not let me be off without providing for his daughter, I may loſe a great ſum of money, and none of us be the better for it: My Nephew half mad; myſelf half mar⯑ried; and no remedy for either of us.
Sir Patrick O' Neale is come to wait upon you, would you pleaſe to ſee him?
By all means, the very perſon I wanted, don't let him wait.
I wonder if he has ſeen my letter to the Widow; I will ſound him by degrees, that I may be ſure of my mark, before I ſtrike the blow.
Mr. WHIZZLE, your humble ſarvant; it gives me grate pleaſure, that an old Jontleman of your property, will have the honour of being united with the family of the O' Neale's; we have been too much Jontlemen, not to ſpend our eſtate, as [31] you have made yourſelf a kind of Jontleman by getting one; one runs out one way, and t'other runs in another, which makes them both meet at laſt, and keeps up the ballance of Europe.
I am much oblig'd to you, Sir PATRICK; I am an old gentleman, you ſay true; and I was thinking—
And I was thinking if you were ever ſo old, my daughter can't make you young again; ſhe has as fine rich tick blood in her veins, as any in all Ire⯑land. I wiſh you had a ſwate crater of a daugh⯑ter like mine, that we might make a double croſs of it.
That would be a double croſs indeed!
Tho' I was miſerable enough with my firſt wife, who had the devil of a ſpirit, and the very moddel of her daughter, yet a brave man never ſhrinks from danger, and I may have better luck another time.
Yes, but I am no brave man, Sir PATRICK, and I begin to ſhrink already.
I have bred her up in great ſubjiction; ſhe is as tame as a young colt, and as tinder as a ſucking chicken; you will find her a true Jontlewoman, and ſo knowing, that you can tache her nothing; ſhe brings every thing but money, and you have enough of that, if you have nothing elſe, and that is what I call the ballance of things.
But I have been conſidering your daughter's great deſerts, and my great age—
She is a charming crater; I would venture to ſay that, if I was not her father.
I ſay, Sir, as I have been conſidering your daughter's great deſerts, and as I own I have great demerits—
To be ſure you have, but you can't help that; and if my daughter was to mention any thing of a fleering at your age, or your ſtingineſs, by the ballance of power but I would make her repate it a hundred times to your face, to make her aſham'd of it; but mum, old gentleman, the devil a word of your infirmities will ſhe touch upon; I have brought her up to ſoftneſs, and to gentleneſs, as a kitten to new milk; ſhe will ſpake nothing but no, and yes, as if ſhe were dumb; and no tame rabbit or pigeon will keep houſe, or be more inga⯑nious with her needle and tambourine.
She is vaſtly altered then, ſince I ſaw her laſt, or I have loſt my ſenſes, and in either caſe, we had much better, ſince I muſt ſpeak plain, not come together—
'Till you are married, you mean—with all my heart, it is the more gentale for that, and like our family: I never ſaw lady O'Nale, your mother-in-law, who poor crater is dead, and can never be a mother-in-law again, 'till the week before I married her, and I did not care if I had never ſeen her [33] then, which is a comfort too in caſe of death, or other accidents in life.
But you don't underſtand me, Sir PATRICK I ſay—
I ſay, how can that be, when we both ſpake Engliſh.
But you miſtake my meaning, and don't com⯑prehend me.
Then you don't comprehend yourſelf, Mr. WHIZZLE, and I have not the gift of prophecy, to find out after you have ſpoke, what never was in you.
Let me intreat you to attend to me a little.
I do attend, man; I don't interrupt you—out with it.
Your daughter—
Your wife that is to be. Go on—
My wife that is not to be—Zounds! will you hear me?
To be, or not to be, is that the queſtion? I can ſwear too, if it wants a little of that.
Dear Sir Patrick hear me. I confeſs myſelf un⯑worthy of her; I have the greateſt regard for you, Sir PATRICK; I ſhould think myſelf honour'd by being in your family, but there are many reaſons—
To be ſure there are many reaſons, why an old man ſhould not marry a young woman; but as that was your buſineſs and not mine.
I have wrote a letter to your daughter, which I was in hopes you had ſeen, and had brought me an anſwer to it.
What the devil, Mr. WIZZLE, do you make a letter-porter of me? Do you imagine, you dirty fellow with your caſh, that Sir PATRICK O NALE would carry your letters; I would have you know that I deſpiſe letters and all that belong to 'em, nor would I carry a letter to the King, Heaven bleſs him, unleſs it came from myſelf.
But, dear Sir PATRICK, don't be in a paſſion for nothing.
What is it nothing to make a penny poſt-man of me? But I'll go to my daughter directly, for I have not ſeen her to day, and if I find that you have written any thing that I won't underſtand, I ſhall take it an affront to my family, and you ſhall either let out the noble blood of the O'NALES, or we will ſpill the laſt drop of the red puddle of the WIZZELS.
Harkee, old Mr. WIZZLE, WHEEZLE, WHISTLE, what's your name? You muſt not ſtir till I come back; if you offer to ate, drink, or ſleep, till my honour is ſatiſ⯑fy'd, 'twill be the worſt male you ever took in your life. You had better faſt a year, and die at the end of ſix months, than dare to lave your houſe. So now, Mr. WEEZLE, you are to do as you plaſe.
Now the devil is at work indeed! If ſome miracle [35] don't ſave me, I ſhall run mad like my Nephew, and have a long Iriſh ſword through me into the bargain. While I am in my ſenſes I won't have the woman; and therefore he that is out of them ſhall have her, if I give half my fortune to make the match. THOMAS!
Sad work, THOMAS!
Sad work, indeed! why would you think of marrying? I knew what it would come to.
Why, what is it come to?
It is in all the papers.
So much the better; then no body will be⯑lieve it.
But they come to me to enquire.
And you contradict it.
What ſignifies that; I was telling Lady Gabble's footman at the door juſt now, that it was all a lye, and your Nephew looks out of the two-pair-of-ſtairs window, with eyes all on fire, and tells the whole ſtory; upon that, there gather'd ſuch a mob!
I ſhall be murder'd, and have my houſe pull'd down into the bargain!
It is all quiet again; I told them the young man was out of his ſenſes, and that you were out of [36] town, ſo they went away quietly, and ſaid they would come and mob you another time.
THOMAS, what ſhall I do?
Nothing you have done, if you will have mat⯑ters mend.
I am out of my depth, and you won't lend me your hand to draw me out.
You were out of your depth to fall in love; ſwim away as faſt as you can, you'll be drown'd if you marry.
I'm frighten'd out of my wits; yes, yes, 'tis all over with me, I muſt not ſtir out of my houſe; but am order'd to ſtay to be murder'd in it for aught I know; what are you muttering, THOMAS? prithee ſpeak out, and comfort me.
It is all a judgement upon you; becauſe your brother's fooliſh will ſays, the young man muſt have your conſent; vou won't let him have her, but will marry the Widow yourſelf; that's the dog in the manger; you can't eat the oats, and won't let thoſe who can.
But I conſent that he ſhall have both the Wi⯑dow and the fortune, if we can get him into his right ſenſes.
For fear I ſhould loſe mine, I'll get out of Bed⯑lam as ſoon as poſſible; you muſt provide your⯑ſelf with another ſervant.
The whole earth conſpires againſt me! you ſhall [37] ſtay with me till I die, and then you ſhall have a good legacy, and I won't live long I promiſe you.
Here are the undertakers already.
What ſhall I do? my head can't bear it; I will hang myſelf for fear of being run thro' the body.
Half a ſcore people I never ſaw before with theſe bills, and draughts upon you, for payment, ſign'd Martha Brady.
I wiſh Martha Brady was at the bottom of the Thames; what an impudent extravagant baggage to begin her tricks already; ſend them to the devil, and ſay I won't pay a farthing.
You'll have another mob about the door.
Stay, ſtay, THOMAS; tell them I am very buſy, and they muſt come to-morrow morning; ſtay, ſtay, that is promiſing payment; no, no, no,—tell 'em they muſt ſtay till I am married, and ſo they will be ſatisfied, and trick'd into the bargain.
When you are trick'd, we ſhall all be ſatisfied.
That of all dreadful things I ſhould think of a woman, and that woman ſhould be a Widow, and that Widow ſhould be an Iriſh one; quem Deus vult perdere—Who have we here? another of the family I ſuppoſe.
I hope you are not hurt, Captain.
O not at all, at all; 'tis well they run away, or I ſhould have made them run faſter; I ſhall teach them how to ſnigger, and look thro' glaſſes at their betters; theſe are your Maccaroons, as they call themſelves; by my ſoul but I would frighten'd their hair out of buckle, if they wou'd have ſtood ſtill, till I had overtaken them; theſe whipper-ſnappers look ſo much more like girls in breeches, than thoſe I ſee in petticoats, that fait and trot, it is a pity to hurt 'em; the fair ſex in London here ſeem the moſt maſculine of the two; but to buſineſs; friend, where is your maſter?
There Captain; I hope he has not offended you.
If you are impartinent, Sir, you will offend me; lave the room.
I value my life too much not to do that—what a raw-bon'd tartar! I wiſh he had not been caught and ſent here.
Her brother by all that's terrible! and as like her as two tygers? I ſweat at the ſight of him; I'm ſorry THOMAS is gone; he has been quarrel⯑ling already.
Is your name WITTOL?
My name is WHITTLE, not WITTOL.
We ſhan't ſtand for trifles—and you were born and chriſten'd by the name of Thomas?
So they told me, Sir.
Then they told no lies, fait; ſo far, ſo good;
Do you know that hand-writing?
As well as I know this good friend of mine, who helps me upon ſuch occaſions.
You had better not ſhew your teeth, Sir, 'till we come to the jokes; the hand-writing is yours.
Yes, Sir, it is mine.
Death and powder! what do you ſigh for? are you aſham'd, or ſorry, for your handy works?
Partly one, partly t'other.
Will you be plas'd, Sir, to rade it aloud, that you may know it again, when you hare it.
Madam—
Would you be plas'd to let us know what madam you mean? for women of quality, and [40] women of no quality, and women of all qualities, are ſo mixt together, that you don't know one from t'other, and are all call'd madams; you ſhould always rade the ſubſcription before you open the letter.
I beg your pardon, Sir; I don't like this cere⯑mony.
To Mrs. Brady, in Pall-Mall.
Now proſade—fire and powder but I would—!
Sir!—what's the matter?
Nothing at all, Sir; pray go on.
Madam—as I prefer your happineſs to the indul⯑gence of my own paſſions—
I will not prefer your happineſs to the indul⯑gence of my paſſions—Mr. WITTOL, rade on.
I muſt confeſs that I am unworthy of your charms and virtues—
Very unworthy indeed; rade on, Sir.
I have, for ſome days, had a ſevere ſtruggle, be⯑tween my juſtice and my paſſion—
I have had no ſtruggle at all: My juſtice and paſſion are agreed.
The former has prevail'd, and I beg leave to reſigs you, with all your accompliſhments, to ſome more de⯑ſerving, [41] tho' not more admiring ſervant than your moſt miſerable and devoted, THOMAS WHITTLE.
And miſerable and devoted you ſhall be to the Poſtſcript; rade on.
Poſtſcript: Let me have your pity, but not your anger.
In anſwer to this Love Epiſtle, you pitiful fel⯑low, my ſiſter preſents you with her tindereſt wiſhes, and aſſures you that you have as you deſire, her pity, and ſhe generouſly throws her contempt too into the bargain.
I'm infinitely oblig'd to her.
I muſt beg lave in the name of all our family to preſent the ſame to you.
I am ditto to all the family.
But as a brache of promiſe to any of our family was never ſuffer'd without a brache into ſome body's body, I have fix'd upon myſelf to be your operator; and I believe that you will find that I have as fine a hand at this work, and will give you as little pain, as any in the three kingdoms.
For heaven's ſake, Captain, what are you about?
I always looſen my Garters for the advantage of lunging; it is for your ſake as well as my own, [42] for I will be twice thro' your body, before you ſhall feel me once.
What a bloody fellow it is? I wiſh THOMAS would come in.
Come, Sir, prepare yourſelf, you are not the firſt by half a ſcore, that I have run thro' and thro' the heart, before they knew what was the matter with them.
But, Captain, ſuppoſe I will marry your ſiſter.
I have not the laſte objection if you recover of your wounds; Callagon O' Conner lives very happy with my great aunt, Mrs. Deborah O' Nale, in the county of Galloway; except a ſmall Aſtma he got by my running him thro' the Lungs, at the Cur⯑rough; he would have forſaken her, if I had not ſtopp'd his perfidy, by a famous family kiptic I have here; Oho! my little old boy, but you ſhall get it.
What ſhall I do!—well, Sir, if I muſt—I muſt; I'll meet you to-morrow morning in Hyde-Park, let the conſequence be what it will.
For fear you might forget that favour, I muſt beg to be indulged with a little puſhing now; I have ſet my heart upon it, and two birds in hand, is worth one in the buſhes, Mr. WITTOL—come, Sir.
But I have not ſettled my matters.
O we'll ſettle 'em in a trice, I warrant you.
But I don't underſtand the ſword; I had rather fight with piſtols.
I am very happy it is in my power to oblige you; there, Sir, take your choice; I will plaſe you if I can.
Out of the pan into the fire! there's no putting him off; if I had choſen poiſon, I dare ſwear he had arſenick in his pocket; lookee, young gentle⯑man, I am an old man, and you'll get no credit by killing me; but I have a Nephew as young as yourſelf, and you'll get more honour in facing him.
Ay, and more pleaſure too—I expect ample ſa⯑tisfaction from him, after I have done your buſineſs; prepare, Sir.
What the devil! won't one ſerve your turn; I can't fight; and I won't fight; I'll do any thing rather than fight; I'll marry your ſiſter; my Ne⯑phew ſhall marry her, I'll give him all my fortune, what would the fellow have? here Nephew! Tho⯑mas! murder! murder!
What's the matter, Uncle?
Murder, that's all; that Ruffian there, would kill me, and eat me afterwards.
I'll find a way to cool him; come out, Sir, I am as mad as yourſelf; I'll match you, I warrant you.
I'll follow you all the world over.
Stay, ſtay Nephew; you ſhan't fight, we ſhall be expos'd all over the town, and you may loſe your life, and I ſhall be curs'd from morning to night; do, Nephew; make yourſelf and me happy; be the olive-branch, and bring peace into my family; re⯑turn to the Widow; I will give you my conſent, and your fortune, and a fortune for the Widow, five thouſand pounds! do perſuade him Mr. BATES.
Do, Sir, this is the very critical point of your life; I know you love her; 'tis the only method to reſtore us all to our ſenſes.
I muſt talk in private firſt, with this hot young gentleman.
As private as you plaſe, Sir.
Take their weapons away, Mr. BATES, and do you follow me to my ſtudy to witneſs my propoſal; it is all ready, and only wants ſigning; come along come along.
Victoria! victoria! give me your ſwords and piſtols; and now do your worſt; you ſpirited loving young couple; I could leap out of my ſkin!
Joy, joy to you, ye fond charming pair! the fox is caught, and the young lambs may ſkip and play; I leave you to your tranſports!
O my charming Widow! what a day have we gone thro'?
I would go thro' ten times as much, to deceive an old amorous rogue, like your Uncle, to pur⯑chaſe a young one, like his Nephew.
I liſten'd at the door all this laſt ſcene; my heart was agitated with ten thouſand fears; ſuppoſe my Uncle had been ſtout, and drawn his ſword.
I ſhould have run away as he did; when two cowards meet, the ſtruggle is who ſhall run firſt; and ſure I can bate an old man at any thing.
Permit me thus to ſeal my happineſs,
and be aſſur'd that I am as ſenſible, as I think myſelf undeſerving of it.
I'll tell you what, Mr. WITTOL, were I not ſure you deſerv'd ſome pains, I would not have taken any pains for you; and don't imagine now, becauſe I have gone a little too far for the man I love, that I ſhall go a little too far when I'm your wife; in⯑deed I ſhan't: I have done more than I ſhould be⯑fore I am your wife, becauſe I was in deſpair; but I won't do as much as I may, when I am your wife, tho' every Iriſh woman is fond of imitating her Engliſh betters.
Thou divine, adorable woman!
Confuſion!
Hey day! I am afraid his head is not right yet! he was kneeling and kiſſing the Captain's hand.
Take no notice, all will come about.
I find, Mr. WHITTOL, your family loves kiſſing better than fighting; he ſwears I am as like my ſiſter, as two pigeons: I could excuſe his raptures, for I had rather fight the beſt friend I have, than ſlobber and ſalute him a la francoiſe.
I hope, Mr. Whizzle, you'll excuſe my coming back to give you an anſwer, without having any to give; I hear a grate dale of news about myſelf, and came to know if it be true; they ſay my ſon is in London, when he tells me himſelf by letter here, that he's at Limerick; and I have been with my daughter to tell her the news, but ſhe would not ſtay at home to receave it, ſo I am come—O gra ma chree my little din ouſil craw, what have we got here? a piece of mummery! here is my ſon and daughter too, fait; what are you waring the breeches, PAT, to ſee how they become you when you are Mrs. Weezel.
I beg your pardon for that, Sir! I wear them be⯑fore marriage, becauſe, I think they become a woman better than after.
What, is not this your ſon?
No, but it is my daughter, and that is the ſame thing.
And your Niece, Sir, which is ſtill better than either.
Mighty well! and, I ſuppoſe you have not loſt your wits, young man!
I ſimpathize with you, Sir; we loſt 'em together, and found 'em at the ſame time.
Here's villainy! Mr. BATES, give me the paper; not a farthing ſhall they have 'till the law gives it 'em.
We'll cheat the law and give it them now.
He may take his own, but he ſhan't have a ſix⯑pence of the five thouſand pounds I promis'd him.
Witneſs, good folks, he owns to the promiſe.
Fait I'll witneſs dat, or any think elſe in a good cauſe.
What, am I chous'd again!
Why ſhould not my friend be chous'd out of a little juſtice for the firſt time? Your hard uſage has ſharpen'd your Nephew's wits, therefore beware, don't play with edge-tools—you'll only cut your fingers.
And your trote too, which is all one; therefore, to make all aſy, marry my daughter firſt, and then quarrel with her afterwards; that will be in the natural courſe of things.
Here! THOMAS! where are you?
Here are fine doings! I am deceiv'd, trick'd, and cheated!
I wiſh you joy, Sir; the beſt think could have happen'd to you; and as a faithful ſervant I have done my beſt to check you.
To check me!
You were galloping full ſpeed and down hill too, and if we had not laid hold of the bridle, being a bad jockey, you would have hung by the horns in the ſtirrup, to the great joy of the whole town.
What have you help'd to trick me?
Into happineſs: You have been fooliſh a long while, turn about and be wiſe; he has got the woman and his eſtate, give them your bleſſing, which is not worth much, and live like a chriſtian for the future.
I will if I can; but I can't look at 'em; I can't bear the ſound of my voice, nor the ſight of my face: Look ye, I am diſtreſs'd, and diſtracted! and can't come to yet; I will be reconcil'd if poſſible; but don't let me ſee or hear from you, if you would have me forget and forgive you—I ſhall never lift up my head again!
I hope, Sir PATRICK, that my preferring the Nephew to the Uncle will meet with your approba⯑tion; though we have not ſo much money, we ſhall have more love; one mind and half a purſe, in marriage, are much better than two minds and [49] two purſes. I did not come to England, nor keep good company, till it was too late to get rid of my country prejudices.
You are out of my hands, PAT, ſo if you won't trouble me with your afflictions, I ſhall ſincerely rejoice at your felicity.
It would be a great abatement of my preſent joy, could I believe that this lady ſhould be aſſiſted in her happineſs, or be ſupported in her afflictions by any one but her lover and her huſband.
Fine notions are fine tings, but a fine eſtate gives every ting but idaas, and them too, if you'll appale to thoſe who help you to ſpend it—what ſay you, Widow?
By your, and their permiſſion, I will tell them to this good company; and for fear my words ſhould want ideas too, I will add an Iriſh tune to 'em, that may carry off a bad voice, and bad matter.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4005 The Irish widow In two acts As it is performed at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5D00-C