It is an honour to the morality of the present age, that this most entertaining comedy is but seldom performed; and never, except some new pantomime, or other gaudy spectacle, be added, as an afterpiece, for the attraction of an audience.
The well drawn characters, happy incidents, and excellent dialogue, in "The Beaux Stratagem," are but poor atonement for that unrestrained contempt of principle which pervades every scene. Plays of this kind are far more mischievous than those, which preserve less appearance of delicacy. Every auditor and reader shrinks from those crimes, which are recommended in unseemly language, and from libertinism united with coarse manners; but in adorning vice with wit, and audacious rakes with the vivacity and elegance of men of fashion, youth, at least, will be decoyed into the snare of admiration.
Charmed with the spirit of Archer and Aimwell, the reader may not, perhaps, immediately perceive, that those two fine gentlemen are but arrant impostors; and that the lively, though pitiable Mrs. Sullen, is no other than a deliberate violator of her marriage vow. Highly delighted with every character, he will not, perhaps, at first observe, that all the wise and witty persons of this comedy are knaves, and all the honest people fools.
It is said, that this play was written in six weeks—it is more surprising still, that it was written by a dying man!
Farquhar was a gentleman of elegant person and bewitching address, who, having experienced the vicissitudes of life, as a man of fashion, an actor, a captain in the army, an author, a lover, and a husband; and having encountered bitter disappointment in some of his adventures—though amply gratified by others—He, at the age of twenty-nine, sunk into a dejection of spirits and decline of health; and in this state, he wrote the present drama.—It had only been acted a night or two, when the author, in the midst of those honours, which he derived from its brilliant reception—died.
As a proof that Farquhar was perfectly sensible of his dangerous state, and that he regained cheerfulness as his end approached, the following anecdote is told:—
The famed actress, Mrs. Oldfield, performed the part of Mrs. Sullen, when the comedy was first produced; and being highly interested in its success, from the esteem she bore the author; when it drew near the last rehearsal, she desired Wilkes, the actor, to go to him, and represent—that she advised him to make some alteration in the catastrophe of the piece; for that she was apprehensive, the free manner in which he had bestowed the hand of Mrs. Sullen upon Archer, without first procuring a divorce from her husband, would offend great part of the audience. "Oh," replied Farquhar, gaily, when this message was delivered to him, "tell her, I wish she was married to me instead of Sullen; for then, without the trouble of a divorce, I would give her my bond, that she should be a widow within a few days."
In this allusion he was prophetic;—and the apparent joy, with which he expected his dissolution, may be accounted for on the supposition—that the profligate characters, which he has pourtrayed in "The Beaux Stratagem," were such as he had uniformly met with in the world;—and he was rejoiced to leave them all behind.
| DRURY LANE. | COVENT GARDEN. | |
| Aimwell | Mr. Holland. | Mr. Brunton. |
| Sir Charles Freeman | Mr. Bartley. | Mr. Claremont. |
| Archer | Mr. Elliston. | Mr. Lewis. |
| Sullen | Mr. Powell. | Mr. Murray. |
| Foigard | Mr. Johnstone. | Mr. Rock. |
| Boniface | Mr. Palmer. | Mr. Davenport. |
| Gibbet | Mr. Wewitzer. | Mr. Emery. |
| Hounslow | Mr. Maddocks. | Mr. Atkins. |
| Bagshot | Mr. Webb. | Mr. Abbot. |
| Scrub | Mr. Bannister. | Mr. Munden. |
| Lady Bountiful | Mrs. Sparks. | Mrs. Emery. |
| Mrs. Sullen | Mrs. Jordan. | Mrs. Glover. |
| Dorinda | Miss Mellon. | Miss Brunton. |
| Cherry | Miss De Camp. | Mrs. Martyr. |
| Gipsey | Mrs. Scott. | Mrs. Beverly. |
| SCENE,—Litchfield. | ||
An Inn.
Enter Boniface, running.—Bar Bell rings.
Bon. Chamberlain! Maid! Cherry! Daughter Cherry! All asleep? all dead?
Enter Cherry, running.
Cher. Here! here! Why d'ye bawl so, father? d'ye think we have no ears?
Bon. You deserve to have none, you young minx:—The company of the Warrington coach has stood in the hall this hour, and nobody to show them to their chambers.
Cher. And let them wait, father;—there's neither red coat in the coach, nor footman behind it.
Bon. But they threaten to go to another inn to-night.
Cher. That they dare not, for fear the coachman should overturn them to-morrow—[Ringing.] Coming! coming!—Here's the London coach arrived.
Enter several People with Trunks, Bandboxes, and
other Luggage, and cross the Stage.
Bon. Welcome ladies.
Cher. Very welcome, gentlemen——Chamberlain, show the lion and the rose.
[Exit with the Company.
Enter Aimwell, in a Riding Habit, Archer as Footman,
carrying a Portmanteau.
Bon. This way, this way, gentlemen.
Aim. Set down the things; go to the stable, and see my horses well rubbed.
Arch. I shall, sir.[Exit.
Aim. You're my landlord, I suppose?
Bon. Yes, sir, I'm old Will Boniface, pretty well known upon this road, as the saying is.
Aim. O, Mr. Boniface, your servant.
Bon. O, sir,——what will your honour please to drink, as the saying is?
Aim. I have heard your town of Litchfield much famed for ale, I think: I'll taste that.
Bon. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tun of the best ale in Staffordshire; 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear as amber, and strong as brandy, and will be just fourteen years old the fifth day of next March.
Aim. You are very exact, I find, in the age of your ale.
Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of my children: I'll show you such ale——Here, tapster, broach number 1792, as the saying is:——Sir, you shall taste my Anno Domini——I have lived in Litchfield, man and boy, above eight and fifty years, and I believe have not consumed eight and fifty ounces of meat.
Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess your sense by your bulk.
Bon. Not in my life, sir; I have fed purely upon ale: I have eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep upon ale.
Enter Tapster, with a Tankard.
Now, sir, you shall see: your worship's health: ha! delicious, delicious——fancy it Burgundy, only fancy it, and 'tis worth ten shillings a quart.
Aim. [Drinks.] 'Tis confounded strong.
Bon. Strong! it must be so; or how would we be strong that drink it?
Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord?
Bon. Eight and fifty years, upon my credit, sir; but it killed my wife, poor woman, as the saying is.
Aim. How came that to pass?
Bon. I don't know how, sir; she would not let the ale take its natural course, sir: she was for qualifying it every now and then with a dram, as the saying is, and an honest gentleman, that came this way from Ireland, made her a present of a dozen bottles of Usquebaugh——but the poor woman was never well after; but, however, I was obliged to the gentleman, you know.
Aim. Why, was it the Usquebaugh that killed her?
Bon. My Lady Bountiful said so—she, good lady, did what could be done; she cured her of three tympanies, but the fourth carried her off; but she's happy, and I'm contented, as the saying is.
Aim. Who's that Lady Bountiful, you mentioned?
Bon. 'Ods my life, sir, we'll drink her health. [Drinks.] My Lady Bountiful is one of the best of women: her last husband, Sir Charles Bountiful, left her worth a thousand pounds a year; and I believe she lays out one half on't in charitable uses, for the good of her neighbours: she cures all disorders incidental to men, women and children; in short, she has cured more people in and about Litchfield within ten years, than the doctors have killed in twenty, and that's a bold word.
Aim. Has the lady been any other way useful in her generation?
Bon. Yes, sir, she has a daughter by Sir Charles, the finest woman in all our country, and the greatest fortune: she has a son too by her first husband, 'Squire Sullen, who married a fine lady from London t'other day; if you please, sir, we'll drink his health.
Aim. What sort of a man is he?
Bon. Why, sir, the man's well enough; says little, thinks less, and does—nothing at all, 'faith: but he's a man of great estate, and values nobody.
Aim. A sportsman, I suppose?
Bon. Yes, sir, he's a man of pleasure; he plays at whist, and smokes his pipe eight-and-forty hours together sometimes.
Aim. A fine sportsman truly! and married, you say?
Bon. Ay, and to a curious woman, sir—but he's a—— He wants it here, sir.
[Pointing to his Forehead.
Aim. He has it there, you mean.
Bon. That's none of my business; he's my landlord, and so a man, you know, would not——but I'cod he's no better than—sir, my humble service to you. [Drinks.] Though I value not a farthing what he can do to me; I pay him his rent at quarter day; I have a good running trade; I have but one daughter, and I can give her—but no matter for that.
Aim. You are very happy, Mr. Boniface; pray what other company have you in town?
Bon. A power of fine ladies; and then we have the French Officers.
Aim. O that's right, you have a good many of those gentlemen: pray how do you like their company?
Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish we had as many more of them; they are full of money, and pay double for every thing they have; they know, sir, that we paid good round taxes for the taking of them, and so they are willing to reimburse us a little; one of them lodges in my house.
Enter Archer.
Arch. Landlord, there are some French Gentlemen below, that ask for you.
Bon. I'll wait on them——Does your master stay long in town, as the saying is? [To Archer.
Arch. I can't tell, as the saying is.
Bon. Come from London?
Arch. No!
Bon. Going to London, mayhap?
Arch. No!
Bon. An odd fellow this; [Bar Bell rings.] I beg your worship's pardon, I'll wait on you in half a minute. [Exit.
Aim. The coast's clear, I see—Now, my dear Archer, welcome to Litchfield!
Arch. I thank thee, my dear brother in iniquity.
Aim. Iniquity! pr'ythee, leave canting; you need not change your style with your dress.
Arch. Don't mistake me, Aimwell, for 'tis still my maxim, that there's no scandal like rags, nor any crimes so shameful as poverty. Men must not be poor; idleness is the root of all evil; the world's wide enough, let them bustle; fortune has taken the weak under her protection, but men of sense are left to their industry.
Aim. Upon which topic we proceed, and, I think, luckily hitherto: would not any man swear now, that I am a man of quality, and you my servant, when, if our intrinsic value were known——
Arch. Come, come, we are the men of intrinsic value, who can strike our fortunes out of ourselves, whose worth is independent of accidents in life, or revolutions in government: we have heads to get money, and hearts to spend it.
Aim.