ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE.—The Park.
Enter Pounce, and Captain Clerimont with his arm in a scarf.
Pounce. You are now well enough instructed both in the aunt and niece to form your behaviour.
Cler. But to talk with her apart is the great matter.
Pounce. The antiquated virgin has a mighty affectation for youth, and is a great lover of men and money—One of these, at least, I am sure I can gratify her in, by turning her pence in the annuities, or the stocks of one of the companies; some way or other I'll find to entertain her, and engage you with the young lady.
Cler. Since that is her ladyship's turn, so busy and fine a gentleman as Mr. Pounce must needs be in her good graces.
Pounce. So shall you too—but you must not be seen with me at first meeting; I'll dog 'em, while you watch at a distance. [Exeunt.
Enter Aunt and Niece.
Niece. Was it not my gallant that whistled so charmingly in the parlour before he went out this morning? He's a most accomplished cavalier.
Aunt. Come, niece, come; you don't do well to make sport with your relations, especially with a young gentleman that has so much kindness for you.
Niece. Kindness for me! What a phrase is there to express the darts and flames, the sighs and languishings, of an expecting lover!
Aunt. Pray, niece, forbear this idle trash, and talk like other people. Your cousin Humphry will be true and hearty in what he says, and that's a great deal better than the talk and compliment of romances.
Niece. Good madam, don't wound my ears with such expressions; do you think I can ever love a man that's true and hearty? What a peasant-like amour do these coarse words import! True and hearty! Pray, aunt, endeavour a little at the embellishment of your style.
Aunt. Alack-a-day, cousin Biddy, these idle romances have quite turned your head.[86]
Niece. How often must I desire you, madam, to lay aside that familiar name, cousin Biddy? I never hear it without blushing—Did you ever meet with a heroine in those idle romances, as you call 'em, that was termed Biddy?
Aunt. Ah! cousin, cousin, these are mere vapours, indeed; nothing but vapours.
Niece. No, the heroine has always something soft and engaging in her name; something that gives us a notion of the sweetness of her beauty and behaviour; a name that glides through half-a-dozen tender syllables, as Elismonda, Clidamira, Deidamia, that runs upon vowels off the tongue; not hissing through one's teeth, or breaking them with consonants. 'Tis strange rudeness those familiar names they give us, when there is Aurelia, Sacharissa, Gloriana, for people of condition; and Celia, Chloris, Corinna, Mopsa, for their maids and those of lower rank.
Aunt. Look ye, Biddy, this is not to be supported. I know not where you learned this nicety; but I can tell you, forsooth, as much as you despise it, your mother was a Bridget afore you, and an excellent house-wife.
Niece. Good madam, don't upbraid me with my mother Bridget, and an excellent house-wife.
Aunt. Yes, I say she was; and spent her time in better learning than you ever did—not in reading of fights and battles of dwarfs and giants, but in writing out receipts for broths, possets, caudles, and surfeit-waters, as became a good country gentlewoman.
Niece. My mother, and a Bridget!
Aunt. Yes, niece, I say again, your mother, my sister, was a Bridget! the daughter of her mother Margery, of her mother Sisly, of her mother Alice.
Niece. Have you no mercy? Oh, the barbarous genealogy!
Aunt. Of her mother Winifred, of her mother Joan.
Niece. Since you will run on, then I must needs tell you I am not satisfied in the point of my nativity. Many an infant has been placed in a cottage with obscure parents, till by chance some ancient servant of the family has known it by its marks.
Aunt. Ay, you had best be searched—That's like your calling the winds the fanning gales, before I don't know how much company; and the tree that was blown by it had, forsooth, a spirit imprisoned in the trunk of it.
Niece. Ignorance!
Aunt. Then a cloud this morning had a flying dragon in it.
Niece. What eyes had you, that you could see nothing? For my part I look upon it to be a prodigy, and expect something extraordinary will happen to me before night.—But you have a gross relish of things. What noble descriptions in romances had been lost, if the writers had been persons of your goût?
Aunt. I wish the authors had been hanged, and their books burnt, before you had seen 'em.
Niece. Simplicity!
Aunt. A parcel of improbable lies.
Niece. Indeed, madam, your raillery is coarse——
Aunt. Fit only to corrupt young girls, and fill their heads with a thousand foolish dreams of I don't know what.
Niece. Nay, now, madam, you grow extravagant.
Aunt. What I say is not to vex, but advise you for your good.
Niece. What, to burn Philocles, Artaxeres, Oroondates, and the rest of the heroic lovers, and take my country booby, cousin Humphry, for a husband!
Aunt. Oh dear, oh dear, Biddy! Pray, good dear, learn to act and speak like the rest of the world; come, come, you shall marry your cousin and live comfortably.
Niece. Live comfortably! What kind of life is that? A great heiress live comfortably! Pray, aunt, learn to raise your ideas—What is, I wonder, to live comfortably?
Aunt. To live comfortably is to live with prudence and frugality, as we do in Lombard Street.
Niece. As we do! That's a fine life, indeed, with one servant of each sex. Let's see how many things our coachman is good for—He rubs down his horses, lays the cloth, whets the knives, and sometimes makes beds.
Aunt. A good servant should turn his hand to everything in a family.
Niece. Nay, there's not a creature in our family that has not two or three different duties. As John is butler, footman, and coachman, so Mary is cook, laundress, and chamber-maid.
Aunt. Well, and do you laugh at that?
Niece. No, not I; nor at the coach-horses, though one has an easy trot for my uncle's riding, and t'other an easy pace for your side-saddle.
Aunt. And so you jeer at the good management of your relations, do you?
Niece. No, I'm well satisfied that all the house are creatures of business; but, indeed, was in hopes that my poor little lap-dog might have lived with me upon my fortune without an employment; but my uncle threatens every day to make him a turn-spit, that he too, in his sphere, may help us to live comfortably.
Aunt. Hark ye, cousin Biddy.
Niece. I vow I'm out of countenance when our butler, with his careful face, drives us all stowed in a chariot drawn by one horse ambling and t'other trotting, with his provisions behind for the family, from Saturday night till Monday morning, bound for Hackney—then we make a comfortable figure, indeed.
Aunt. So we do, and so will you always, if you marry your cousin Humphry.
Niece. Name not the creature.
Aunt. Creature! What, your own cousin a creature!
Niece. Oh, let's be going. I see yonder another creature that does my uncle's law business, and has, I believe, made ready the deeds—those barbarous deeds!
Aunt. What, Mr. Pounce a creature too! Nay, now I'm sure you're ignorant. You shall stay, and you'll learn more wit from him in an hour, than in a thousand of your foolish books in an age——Your servant, Mr. Pounce.
Enter Pounce.
Pounce. Ladies, I hope I don't interrupt any private discourse.
Aunt. Not in the least, sir.
Pounce. I should be loth to be esteemed one of those who think they have a privilege of mixing in all companies, without any business but to bring forth a loud laugh or vain jest.
Niece. He talks with the mien and gravity of a Paladin. [Aside.
Pounce. Madam, I bought the other day at three and a-half, and sold at seven——
Aunt. Then pray sir, sell for me in time. Niece, mind him; he has an infinite deal of wit.
Pounce. This that I speak of was for you. I never neglect such opportunities to serve my friends.
Aunt. Indeed, Mr. Pounce, you are, I protest without flattery, the wittiest man in the world.
Pounce. I assure you, madam, I said last night, before an hundred head of citizens, that Mrs. Barsheba Tipkin was the most ingenious young lady in the Liberties.
Aunt. Well, Mr. Pounce, you are so facetious—But you are always among the great ones; 'tis no wonder you have it.
Niece. Idle! Idle!
Pounce. But, madam, you know Alderman Grey-Goose, he's a notable joking man. Well, says he, here's Mrs. Barsheba's health; she's my mistress.
Aunt. That man makes me split my sides with laughing, he's such a wag.—Mr. Pounce pretends Grey-Goose said all this, but I know 'tis his own wit, for he's in love with me. [Aside.
Pounce. But, madam, there's a certain affair I should communicate to you. [Apart.
Aunt. Ay, 'tis certainly so—he wants to break his mind to me. [Aside.]
[Captain Clerimont passing.
Pounce. Oh, Mr. Clerimont, Mr. Clerimont——Ladies, pray let me introduce this young gentleman; he's my friend, a youth of great virtue and goodness, for all he's in a red coat.
Aunt. If he's your friend we need not doubt his virtue.
Cler. Ladies, you are taking the cool breath of the morning.
Niece. A pretty phrase. [Aside.
Aunt. That's the pleasantest time this warm weather.
Cler. Oh, 'tis the season of the pearly dews and gentle zephyrs.
Niece. Ay! pray mind that again, aunt. [Aside.
Pounce. Shan't we repose ourselves on yonder seat? I love improving company, and to communicate.
Aunt. 'Tis certainly so. He's in love with me, and wants opportunity to tell me so [Aside.]—I don't care if we do—He's a most ingenious man. [Aside. [Exeunt Aunt and Pounce.
Cler. We enjoy here, madam, all the pretty landscapes of the country without the pains of going thither.
Niece. Art and nature are in a rivalry, or rather a confederacy, to adorn this beauteous park with all the agreeable variety of water, shade, walks, and air. What can be more charming than these flowery lawns?
Cler. Or these gloomy shades——
Niece. Or these embroidered valleys——
Cler. Or that transparent stream——
Niece. Or these bowing branches on the banks of it, that seem to admire their own beauty in the crystal mirror?
Cler. I am surprised, madam, at the delicacy of your phrase. Can such expressions come from Lombard Street?
Niece. Alas, sir! what can be expected from an innocent virgin that has been immured almost one-and-twenty years from the conversation of mankind, under the care of an Urganda[87] of an aunt?
Cler. Bless me, madam, how have you been abused! Many a lady before your age has had an hundred lances broken in her service, and as many dragons cut to pieces in honour of her.
Niece. Oh, the charming man! [Aside.
Cler. Do you believe Pamela was one-and-twenty before she knew Musidorus?[88]
Niece. I could hear him ever. [Aside.
Cler. A lady of your wit and beauty might have given occasion for a whole romance in folio before that age.
Niece. Oh, the powers! Who can he be?—Oh, youth unknown—But let me, in the first place, know whom I talk to, for, sir, I am wholly unacquainted both with your person and your history. You seem, indeed, by your deportment, and the distinguishing mark of your bravery which you bear, to have been in a conflict. May I not know what cruel beauty obliged you to such adventures till she pitied you?
Cler. Oh, the pretty coxcomb! [Aside.]—Oh, Blenheim, Blenheim! Oh, Cordelia, Cordelia!
Niece. You mention the place of battle. I would fain hear an exact description of it. Our public papers are so defective; they don't so much as tell us how the sun rose on that glorious day—Were there not a great many flights of vultures before the battle began?
Cler. Oh, madam, they have eaten up half my acquaintance.
Niece. Certainly never birds of prey were so feasted; by report, they might have lived half-a-year on the very legs and arms our troops left behind 'em.
Cler. Had we not fought near a wood we should never have got legs enough to have come home upon. The joiner of the Foot Guards has made his fortune by it.
Niece. I shall never forgive your General. He has put all my ancient heroes out of countenance; he has pulled down Cyrus and Alexander, as much as Louis-le-Grand—But your own part in that action?
Cler. Only that slight hurt, for the astrologer said at my nativity, nor fire, nor sword, nor pike, nor musket shall destroy this child, let him but avoid fair eyes——But, madam, mayn't I crave the name of her that has so captivated my heart?
Niece. I can't guess whom you mean by that description; but if you ask my name, I must confess you put me upon revealing what I always keep as the greatest secret I have—for would you believe it, they have called me—I don't know how to own it, but they have called me—Bridget.
Cler. Bridget?
Niece. Bridget.
Cler. Bridget?
Niece. Spare my confusion, I beseech you, sir; and if you have occasion to mention me, let it be by Parthenissa,[89] for that's the name I have assumed ever since I came to years of discretion.
Cler. The insupportable tyranny of parents, to fix names on helpless infants which they must blush at all their lives after! I don't think there's a surname in the world to match it.
Niece. No! What do you think of Tipkin?
Cler. Tipkin! Why, I think if I was a young lady that had it I'd part with it immediately.
Niece. Pray, how would you get rid of it?
Cler. I'd change it for another. I could recommend to you three very pretty syllables—What do you think of Clerimont?
Niece. Clerimont! Clerimont! Very well—but what right have I to it?
Cler. If you will give me leave, I'll put you in possession of it. By a very few words I can make it over to you, and your children after you.
Niece. O fie! Whither are you running? You know a lover should sigh in private, and languish whole years before he reveals his passion; he should retire into some solitary grove, and make the woods and wild beasts his confidants. You should have told it to the echo half-a-year before you had discovered it, even to my handmaid. And yet besides—to talk to me of children! Did you ever hear of a heroine with a big belly?
Cler. What can a lover do, madam, now the race of giants is extinct? Had I lived in those days there had not been a mortal six foot high, but should have owned Parthenissa for the paragon of beauty, or measured his length on the ground——Parthenissa should have been heard by the brooks and deserts at midnight, the echo's burden and the river's murmur.
Niece. That had been a golden age, indeed! But see, my aunt has left her grave companion and is coming toward us——I command you to leave me.
Cler. Thus Oroondates, when Statira[90] dismissed him her presence, threw himself at her feet, and implored permission but to live. [Offering to kneel.
Niece. And thus Statira raised him from the earth, permitting him to live and love. [Exit Cler.
Enter Aunt.
Aunt. Is not Mr. Pounce's conversation very improving, niece?
Niece. Is not Clerimont a very pretty name, aunt?
Aunt. He has so much prudence.
Niece. He has so much gallantry.
Aunt. So sententious in his expressions.
Niece. So polished in his language.
Aunt. All he says is, methinks, so like a sermon.
Niece. All he speaks savours of romance.
Aunt. Romance, niece? Mr. Pounce! what savours of romance?
Niece. No, I mean his friend, the accomplished Mr. Clerimont.
Aunt. Fie, for one of your years to commend a young fellow!
Niece. One of my years is mightily governed by example! You did not dislike Mr. Pounce.
Aunt. What, censorious too? I find there is no trusting you out of the house—A moment's fresh air does but make you still the more in love with strangers, and despise your own relations.
Niece. I am certainly by the power of an enchantment placed among you, but I hope I, this morning, employed one to seek adventures, and break the charm.
Aunt. Vapours, Biddy, indeed! Nothing but vapours. Cousin Humphry shall break the charm.
Niece. Name him not—Call me still Biddy rather than name that brute. [Exeunt Aunt and Niece.
Enter Captain Clerimont and Pounce.
Cler. A perfect Quixote in petticoats! I tell thee, Pounce, she governs herself wholly by romance—it has got into her very blood. She starts by rule, and blushes by example. Could I but have produced one instance of a lady's complying at first sight, I should have gained her promise on the spot. How am I bound to curse the cold constitutions of the Philocleas and Statiras? I am undone for want of precedents.
Pounce. I am sure I laboured hard to favour your conference, and plied the old woman all the while with something that tickled either her vanity or her covetousness; I considered all the stocks, Old and New Company, her own complexion and youth, partners for sword-blades, Chamber of London, banks for charity, and mine adventures, till she told me I had the repute of the most facetious man that ever came to Garraway's[91]—For you must know public knaves and stock-jobbers pass for wits at her end of the town, as common cheats and gamesters do at yours.
Cler. I pity the drudgery you have gone through; but what's next to be done towards getting my pretty heroine?
Pounce. What should next be done in ordinary method of things? You have seen her; the next regular approach is that you cannot subsist a moment without sending forth musical complaints of your misfortune by way of serenade.
Cler. I can nick you there, sir. I have a scribbling army friend that has writ a triumphant, rare, noisy song in honour of the late victory, that will hit the nymph's fantasque to a hair. I'll get everything ready as fast as possible.
Pounce. While you are playing upon the fort, I'll be within and observe what execution you do, and give you intelligence accordingly.
Cler. You must have an eye upon Mr. Humphry while I feed the vanity of Parthenissa; for I am so experienced in these matters that I know none but coxcombs think to win a woman by any desert of their own—No, it must be done rather by complying with some prevailing humour of your mistress, than exerting any good quality in yourself.
'Tis not the lover's merit wins the field,
But to themselves alone the beauteous yield.