THE RIVALS. A Comedy. PREFACE. A PREFACE to a play seems generally to be considered as a kind of closet-prologue, in which-if his piece has been successful-the author solicits that indulgence from the reader which he had before experienced from the audience: but as the scope and immediate object of a play is to please a mixed assembly in representation (whose judgment in the theatre at least is decisive), its degree of reputation is usually as determined as public, before it can be prepared for the cooler tribunal of the study. Thus any farther solicitude on the part of the writer becomes unnecessary at least, if not an intrusion: and if the piece has been condemned in the performance, I fear an address to the closet, like an appeal to posterity, is constantly regarded as the procrastination of a suit, from a consciousness of the weakness of the cause. From these considerations, the following comedy would certainly have been submitted to the reader, without any farther introduction than what it had in the representation, but that its success has probably been founded on a circumstance which the author is informed has not before attended a theatrical trial, and which consequently ought not to pass unnoticed. I need scarcely add, that the circumstance alluded to was the withdrawing of the piece, to remove those imperfections in the first representation which were too obvious to escape reprehension, and too numerous to admit of a hasty correction. There are few writers, I believe, who, even in the fullest consciousness of error, do not wish to palliate the faults which they acknowledge; and, however trifling the performance, to second their confession of its deficiencies, by whatever plea seems least disgraceful to their ability. In the present instance, it cannot be said to amount either to candour or modesty in me, to acknowledge an extreme inexperience and want of judgment on matters, in which, without guidance from practice, or spur from success, a young man should scarcely boast of being an adept. If it be said, that under such disadvantages no one should attempt to write a play, I must beg leave to dissent from the position, while the first point of experience that I have gained on the subject is, a knowledge of the candour and judgment with which an impartial public distinguishes between the errors of inexperience and incapacity, and the indulgence which it shows even to a disposition to remedy the defects of either. It were unnecessary to enter into any farther extenuation of what was thought exceptionable in this play, but that it has been said, that the managers should have prevented some of the defects before its appearance to the public-and in particular the uncommon length of the piece as represented the first night. It were an ill return for the most liberal and gentlemanly conduct on their side, to suffer any censure to rest where none was deserved. Hurry in writing has long been exploded as an excuse for an author ;-however, in the dramatic line, it may happen, that both an author and a manager may wish to fill a chasm in the entertainment of the public with a hastiness not altogether culpable. The season was advanced when I first put the play into Mr. Harris's hands:-it was at that time at least double the length of any acting comedy. I profited by his judgment and experience in the curtailing of it-till, I believe, his feeling for the vanity of a young author got the better of his desire for correctness, and he left many excrescences remaining, because he had assisted in pruning so many more. Hence, though I was not uninformed that the acts were still too long, I flattered myself that, after the first trial, I might with safer judgment proceed to remove what should appear to have been most dissatisfactory. Many other errors there were, which might in part have arisen from my being by no means conversant with plays in general, either in reading or at the theatre. Yet I own that, in one respect, I did not regret my ignorance: for as my first wish in attempting a play was to avoid every appearance of plagiary, I thought I should stand a better chance of effecting this from being in a walk which I had not frequented, and where, consequently, the progress of invention was less likely to be interrupted by starts of recollection: for on subjects on which the mind has been much informed, invention is slow of exerting itself. Faded ideas float in the fancy like half-forgotten dreams; and the imagination in its fullest enjoyments becomes suspicious of its offspring, and doubts whether it has created or adopted. With regard to some particular passages which on the first night's representation seemed generally disliked, I confess, that if I felt any emotion of surprise at the disapprobation, it was not that they were disapproved of, but that I had not before perceived that they deserved it. As some part of the attack on the piece was begun too early to pass for the sentence of judgment, which is ever tardy in condemning, it has been suggested to me, that much of the disapprobation must have arisen from virulence of malice, rather than severity of criticism: but as I was more apprehensive of there being just grounds to excite the latter than conscious of having deserved the former, I continue not to believe that probable, which I am sure must have been unprovoked. However, if it was so, and I could even mark the quarter from whence it came, it would be ungenerous to retort; for no passion suffers more than malice from disappointment. For my own part, I see no reason why the author of a play should not regard a first night's audience as a candid and judicious friend attending, in behalf of the public, at his last rehearsal. If he can dispense with flattery, he is sure at least of sincerity, and even though the annotation be rude, he may rely upon the justness of the comment. Considered in this light, that audience, whose fiat is essential to the poet's claim, whether his object be fame or profit, has surely a right to expect some deference to its opinion, from principles of politeness at least, if not from gratitude. As for the little puny critics, who scatter their peevish strictures in private circles, and scribble at every author who has the eminence of being unconnected with them, as they are usually spleen-swoln from a vain idea of increasing their R consequence, there will always be found a petulance and illiberality in their remarks, which should place them as far beneath the notice of a gentleman, as their original dulness had sunk them from the level of the most unsuccessful author. It is not without pleasure that I catch at an opportunity of justifying myself from the charge of intending any national reflection in the character of Sir Lucius O'Trigger. If any gentlemen opposed the piece from that idea, I thank them sincerely for their opposition; and if the condemnation of this comedy (however misconceived the provocation) could have added one spark to the decaying flame of national attachment to the country supposed to be reflected on, I should have been happy in its fate; and might with truth have boasted, that it had done more real service in its failure, than the successful morality of a thousand stage-novels will ever effect. It is usual, I believe, to thank the performers in a new play, for the exertion of their several abilities. But where (as in this instance) their merit has been so striking and uncontroverted, as to call for the warmest and truest applause from a number of judicious audiences, the poet's after-praise comes like the feeble acclamation of a child to close the shouts of a multitude. The conduct, however, of the principals in a theatre cannot be so apparent to the public. I think it therefore but justice to declare, that from this theatre (the only one I can speak of from experience) those writers who wish to try the dramatic line will meet with that candour and liberal attention, which are generally allowed to be better calculated to lead genius into excellence, than either the precepts of judgment, or the guidance of experience. Nay, Mr. Serjeant, good sir, try again. [Gives money. Serj. The scrawl improves! [more] O come, 'tis pretty plain. Hey! how's this? Dibble!-sure it cannot be ! Att. Yes, sir! though you without reward, I know, Serj. So !-so! Att. And if the fee offends, your wrath should fall On me. Serj. Dear Dibble, no offence at all. Att. Some sons of Phoebus in the courts we meet, Serj. And fifty sons of Phoebus in the Fleet! Att. Nor pleads he worse, who with a decent sprig Of bays adorns his legal waste of wig. Att. Do you, then, sir, my client's place supply, Profuse of robe, and prodigal of tie Do you, with all those blushing powers of face, show it, [Exit. Me, serjeant Woodward,-counsel for the poet. No tricking here, to blunt the edge of law, Yet when so kind you seem, 'tis past dispute Sad else our plight! where frowns are transportation, Serj. Full-bottom'd heroes thus, on signs, Nor wit nor critic we scratch off the list; unfurl A leaf of laurel in a grove of curl! Yet tell your client, that, in adverse days, His faults can never hurt another's ease, PROLOGUE, BY THE AUTHOR. SPOKEN ON THE TENTH NIGHT, BY MRS. BULKLEY. GRANTED our cause, our suit and trial o'er, Look on this form *,-where humour, quaint and sly, Dimples the cheek, and points the beaming eye; Yet thus adorn'd with every graceful art * Pointing to the figure of Comedy. The sentimental Muse !-Her emblems view, Such dire encroachments to prevent in time, severe And sad, claims youth's respect, and pity's tear; SCENE I.-A Street. ACT I. Enter THOMAS; he crosses the stage: FAG follows, looking after him. Fag. What! Thomas !-sure 'tis he?-What! Thomas! Thomas! Thos. Hey!-Odd's life! Mr. Fag!-give us your hand, my old fellow-servant. Fag. Excuse my glove, Thomas :-I'm devilish glad to see you, my lad. Why, my prince of charioteers, you look as hearty!-but who the deuse thought of seeing you in Bath? Thos. Sure, master, madam Julia, Harry, Mrs. Kate, and the postilion, be all come. Fag. Indeed! Thos. Ay, master thought another fit of the gout was coming to make him a visit ;-so he'd a mind to gi't the slip, and whip! we were all off at an hour's warning. Fag. Ay, ay, hasty in everything, or it would not be sir Anthony Absolute ! Thos. But tell us, Mr. Fag, how does young master? Odd, sir Anthony will stare to see the captain here! Fag. I do not serve captain Absolute now. Fag. At present I am employed by ensign Beverley. Thos. I doubt, Mr. Fag, you ha'n't changed for the better. Fag. I have not changed, Thomas. Thos. No! why didn't you say you had left young master? Fag. No.-Well, honest Thomas, I must puzzle you no farther :-briefly then-captain Absolute and ensign Beverley are one and the same person. Thos. The devil they are! Fag. So it is indeed, Thomas; and the ensign half of my master being on guard at present-the captain has nothing to do with me. Thos. So, so!-what, this is some freak, I warrant!-Do tell us, Mr. Fag, the meaning o't-you know I ha' trusted you. Fag. You'll be secret, Thomas ? Fag. Why then the cause of all this is-Love, -Love, Thomas, who (as you may get read to you) has been a masquerader ever since the days of Jupiter. Thos. Ay, ay;-I guessed there was a lady in the case :-but pray, why does your master pass only for ensign ?-now if he had shammed general indeed Fag. Ah! Thomas, there lies the mystery o'the matter. Hark'ee, Thomas, my master is in love with a lady of a very singular taste: a lady who likes him better as a half-pay ensign than if she knew he was son and heir to sir Anthony Absolute, a baronet of three thousand a year. Thos. That is an odd taste indeed!-But has she got the stuff, Mr. Fag? is she rich, hey? Fag. Rich!-why, I believe she owns half the stocks! Zounds! Thomas, she could pay the national debt as easily as I could my washerwoman ! She has a lapdog that eats out of gold,— she feeds her parrot with small pearls,—and all her thread-papers are made of bank-notes! Thos. Bravo, faith!-Odd! I warrant she has a set of thousands at least :-but does she draw kindly with the captain? Fag. As fond as pigeons. Thos. May one hear her name? Fag. Miss Lydia Languish.—But there is an old tough aunt in the way ;-though, by the by, she has never seen my master-for we got acquainted with miss while on a visit in Gloucestershire. Thos. Well I wish they were once harnessed together in matrimony.-But pray, Mr. Fag, what kind of a place is this Bath?—I ha' heard a deal of it-here's a mort o'merry-making, hey? Fag. Pretty well, Thomas, pretty well-'tis a good lounge; in the morning we go to the pumproom (though neither my master nor I drink the waters); after breakfast we saunter on the parades, or play a game at billiards; at night we dance; but damn the place, I'm tired of it: their regular hours stupify me-not a fiddle nor a card after eleven! However, Mr. Faulkland's gentleman and I keep it up a little in private parties;-I'll introduce you there, Thomas-you'll like him much. Thos. Sure I know Mr. Du-Peigne-you know his master is to marry madam Julia. Fag. I had forgot.-But, Thomas, you must polish a little-indeed you must.-Here nowthis wig!-what the devil do you do with a wig, Thomas?-none of the London whips of any degree of ton wear wigs now. Thos. More's the pity! more's the pity! I say. -Odd's life! when I heard how the lawyers and doctors had took to their own hair, I thought how 'twould go next :- odd rabbit it! when the fashion had got foot on the bar, I guessed 'twould mount to the box!-but 'tis all out of character, believe me, Mr. Fag and look'ee, I'll never gi' up mine -the lawyers and doctors may do as they will. Fag. Well, Thomas, we'll not quarrel about that. Thos. Why, bless you, the gentlemen of the professions ben't all of a mind-for in our village now, thoff Jack Gauge the exciseman has ta'en to his carrots, there's little Dick the farrier swears he'll never forsake his bob, though all the college should appear with their own heads! Fag. Indeed! well said, Dick!-But holdmark! mark! Thomas. Thos. Zooks! 'tis the captain.-Is that the lady with him? Fag. No, no, that is madam Lucy-my master's mistress's maid. They lodge at that house-but I must after him to tell him the news. Thos. Odd! he's giving her money!—well, Mr. Fag Fag. Good-bye, Thomas. I have an appointment in Gyde's Porch this evening at eight; meet me there, and we'll make a little party. [Exeunt severally. SCENE II-A Dressing-room in Mrs. LYDIA sitting on a sofa, with a book in her hand. Lucy, as just returned from a message. Lucy. Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it: I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at. Lyd. And could not you get The Reward of Constancy? Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am. Lyd. Nor The Fatal Connexion? Lyd. Nor The Mistakes of the Heart? Lucy. Ma'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away. Lyd. Heigh-ho!-Did you inquire for The Delicate Distress? Lucy. Or, The Memoirs of Lady Woodford? Yes, indeed, ma'am. I asked everywhere for it; and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, but lady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to read. Lyd. Heigh-ho!-Yes, I always know when lady Slattern has been before me. She has a most observing thumb; and, I believe, cherishes her nails for the convenience of making marginal notes. -Well, child, what have you brought me ? Lucy. Oh! here, ma'am.-[Taking books from under her cloak, and from her pockets.] This is, The Gordian Knot,-and this Peregrine Pickle. Here are The Tears of Sensibility, and Humphrey Clinker. This is The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written by herself, and here the second volume of The Sentimental Journey. Lyd. Heigh-ho!-What are those books by the glass? Lucy. The great one is only The Whole Duty of Man, where I press a few blonds, ma'am. Lyd. Very well-give me the sal volatile. Lucy. Is it in a blue cover, ma'am? Lyd. My smelling-bottle, you simpleton ! Lucy. Oh, the drops !-here, ma'am. Lyd. Hold !-here's some one coming-quick, see who it is [Exit Lucy.] Surely I heard my cousin Julia's voice! Jul. True, Lydia-and our pleasure is the greater.—But what has been the matter?—you were denied to me at first! Lyd. Ah, Julia, I have a thousand things to tell you!-But first inform me what has conjured you to Bath?-is sir Anthony here? Jul. He is we are arrived within this hourand I suppose he will be here to wait on Mrs. Malaprop as soon as he is dressed. Lyd. Then before we are interrupted, let me impart to you some of my distress!-I know your gentle nature will sympathise with me, though your prudence may condemn me!-My letters have informed you of my whole connexion with Beverley ;-but I have lost him, Julia !—my aunt has discovered our intercourse by a note she intercepted, and has confined me ever since!-Yet, would you believe it? she has fallen absolutely in love with a tall Irish baronet she met one night since we have been here, at lady Macshuffle's rout. Jul. You jest, Lydia ! Lyd. No, upon my word.-She really carries on a kind of correspondence with him, under a feigned name though, till she chooses to be known to him ;-but it is a Delia or a Celia, I assure you. Jul. Then, surely, she is now more indulgent to her niece. Lyd. Quite the contrary. Since she has discovered her own frailty, she is become more suspicious of mine. Then I must inform you of another plague!-That_odious Acres is to be in Bath to-day; so that I protest I shall be teased out of all spirits! Jul. Come, come, Lydia, hope for the best sir Anthony shall use his interest with Mrs. Malaprop. Lyd. But you have not heard the worst. Unfortunately I had quarrelled with my poor Beverley, just before my aunt made the discovery, and I have not seen him since, to make it up. Jul. What was his offence? Lyd. Nothing at all!-But, I don't know how it was, as often as we had been together, we had never had a quarrel, and, somehow, I was afraid he would never give me an opportunity. So, last Thursday, I wrote a letter to myself, to inform myself that Beverley was at that time paying his addresses to another woman. I signed it your friend unknown, showed it to Beverley, charged him with his falsehood, put myself in a violent passion, and vowed I'd never see him more. Jul. And you let him depart so, and have not seen him since? Lyd. 'Twas the next day my aunt found the matter out. I intended only to have teased him three days and a half, and now I've lost him for ever. Jul. If he is as deserving and sincere as you have represented him to me, he will never give you up so. Yet consider, Lydia, you tell me he is but an ensign, and you have thirty thousand pounds! Lyd. But you know I lose most of my fortune if I marry without my aunt's consent, till of age; and that is what I have determined to do, ever since I knew the penalty. Nor could I love the man, who would wish to wait a day for the alternative. Jul. Nay, this is caprice! Lyd. What, does Julia tax me with caprice ?I thought her lover Faulkland had inured her to it. Jul. I do not love even his faults. Lyd. But apropos-you have sent to him, I suppose? Jul. Not yet, upon my word-nor has he the least idea of my being in Bath. Sir Anthony's resolution was so sudden, I could not inform him of it. Lyd. Well, Julia, you are your own mistress, (though under the protection of sir Anthony), yet have you, for this long year, been a slave to the caprice, the whim, the jealousy of this ungrateful Faulkland, who will ever delay assuming the right of a husband, while you suffer him to be equally imperious as a lover. Jul. Nay, you are wrong entirely. We were contracted before my father's death. That, and some consequent embarrassments, have delayed what I know to be my Faulkland's most ardent wish. He is too generous to trifle on such a point-and for his character, you wrong him there too. No, Lydia, he is too proud, too noble to be jealous; if he is captious, 'tis without dissembling; if fretful, without rudeness. Unused to the fopperies of love, he is negligent of the little duties expected from a lover-but being unhackneyed in the passion, his affection is ardent and sincere; and as it engrosses his whole soul, he expects every thought and emotion of his mistress. to move in unison with his. Yet, though his pride calls for this full return, his humility makes him undervalue those qualities in him which would entitle him to it; and not feeling why he should be loved to the degree he wishes, he still suspects that he is not loved enough. This temper, I must own, has cost me many unhappy hours; but I have learned to think myself his debtor, for those imperfections which arise from the ardour of his attachment. Lyd. Well, I cannot blame you for defending him. But tell me candidly, Julia, had he never saved your life, do you think you should have been attached to him as you are?-Believe me, the rude blast that overset your boat was a prosperous gale of love to him. Jul. Gratitude may have strengthened my attachment to Mr. Faulkland, but I loved him before he had preserved me; yet surely that alone were an obligation sufficient. Lyd. Obligation! why a water-spaniel would have done as much!-Well, I should never think of giving my heart to a man because he could swim. Jul. Come, Lydia, you are too inconsiderate. Lyd. Nay, I do but jest.-What's here? Re-enter Lucy in a hurry Lucy. O ma'am, here is sir Anthony Absolute just come home with your aunt. Lyd. They'll not come here.-Lucy, do you watch. [Exit Lucy. Jul. Yet I must go. Sir Anthony does not know I am here, and if we meet, he'll detain me, to show me the town. I'll take another opportunity of paying my respects to Mrs. Malaprop, when she shall treat me, as long as she chooses, with her select words so ingeniously misapplied, without being mispronounced. Re-enter LUCY. Lucy. O Lud! ma'am, they are both coming up stairs. Lyd. Well, I'll not detain you, coz.-Adieu, my dear Julia, I'm sure you are in haste to send to Faulkland. There-through my room you'll find another staircase. Jul. Adieu ! [Embraces LYDIA, and exit. Lyd. Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick.-Fling Peregrine Pickle under the toilet-throw Roderick Random into the closetput The Innocent Adultery into The Whole Duty of Man-thrust Lord Aimworth under the sofa |